Why don't I like you?
Because you think I'm an arsehole. And I'm not, really. I'm just British and, well... you're not.
[voice-over during a vineyard pan] It wasn't always like this. Before Paris, people didn't drink our wine. I mean, my friends did. But you could hardly consider their palates discerning...
Hell, we were farmers... sort of...
[pan to empty bottles of Montelena label and several early twenties/late teens smoking hookah]
You people, you think you can just buy your way into this. You cannot do it that way.
You have to have it in your blood, you have to grow up with the soil underneath your nails, the smell of the grapes in the air that you breathe. The cultivation of the vine was an art form. The refinement of the vine is a religion that requires pain and desire and sacrifice.
She liked my wine... a lot.
To Gustavo Brambila, renegade, who worships the sanctity of the vine.
And can't afford a full tank of gas.
No offense, but I don't foresee the imminent cultivation of the Chicago vine.
It's oaky... Oh, yeah, and smoky. I detect... bacon fat... laced with honey melon.
[on a Britisher saying Californians make wine in unorthodox ways] Where I'm from, they call it a left-handed compliment. They don't have a name for it in England: it's too ingrained in their culture.
"Wine is sunlight, held together by water." The poetic wisdom of the Italian physicist, philosopher, and stargazer, Galileo Galilei. It all begins with the soil, the vine, the grape. The smell of the vineyard - like inhaling birth. And it wakens some ancestral sun. Primordial. Anyway, some deeply imprinted, probably subconscious place.