Chapter 85: Leisurely Days

The winery had already completed its expansion, and next door, construction was underway on a juice factory. Although he wasn’t short on money, he still took out a twenty-million-dollar loan from the bank. The state government offered interest subsidies—he wasn’t some naive landlord’s son; since they needed the publicity, he was happy to cooperate.

With a juice factory, the surrounding grapes would no longer go to waste, making it an excellent project for local farmers. In fact, White Wine was selling quite well now, at least in the Los Angeles area. Previously, Texas wine was considered strictly regional, while upscale venues still favored Bordeaux. Things hadn’t changed dramatically, but some people were now willing to give it a try.

Trends were always influenced by celebrity endorsements. Observant viewers would notice that the wines featured in William White’s films, without exception, came from White’s own estate. There might not be obvious results in the short term, but William White believed that, given time, more and more people would come to appreciate his wine.

A sommelier could distinguish between quality, but to the average person, all that was just nonsense. The kind of wine that suited Americans certainly wasn’t Bordeaux—Australia and Texas were far better suited, thanks to the local cuisine. The American diet, after all, was dominated by steak—so much so it could make one sick.

You might mention hamburgers?

At its core, that’s still steak—just not served with a knife. The more refined burgers were made from freshly grilled steak, not those processed patties.

Texas wine was known for its richness, almost like a concentrated red, which paired perfectly with American tastes. Americans were strong supporters of their own agricultural products; officials even took on the role of salesmen.

This year had been disastrous for farms, so a reliable new project deserved every bit of support. William White’s marketing was straightforward: celebrity effect plus patriotism.

Texas wine merchants were delighted, since sales had actually risen slightly despite such a tough environment. Of course, when some are happy, others are displeased. The distributors of French wine, for example, were far from satisfied—their sales had dropped, and in their view, Texas wine was simply trash, not even in the same league.

Well, you could complain privately, but to challenge him openly would be sheer madness. They were just agents—why would William White care about them? Even the French wineries weren’t making any statements. To be honest, the French didn’t care whether Americans drank their wine or not. The pride of the Gallic rooster was no joke; as far as they were concerned, no one else in the world knew how to make or appreciate wine, and selling it to Americans was a waste.

The capital markets were confused—why on earth was he getting into agriculture? From their perspective, wine and beverages were dead ends—if Coca-Cola was struggling, what did he think he could possibly achieve?

Whenever William White saw Coca-Cola’s share price, he practically drooled. At such a bargain, it was almost a giveaway; if only he had more spare cash, he would have built a position long ago.

The current CEO was a spendthrift, him and his wife flying around the world on the company’s dime—no wonder the company was floundering. Why would a soda company even try to diversify?

Fortunately, William White had plenty of time—he intended to add this to the family trust, and would quietly accumulate shares over time. The economy was terrible this year and would only get worse next year. With their own self-destructive choices, Coca-Cola’s shares were sure to drop below ten dollars.

But time was running short. William White remembered clearly—Coca-Cola would get a new boss next year, which would be the best opportunity. Buffett didn’t buy in until 1989, by which time the stock had already risen almost fivefold. He invested $1.3 billion and eventually made over $15 billion—a legendary investment, though after 2000, the performance was lackluster.

With rising living standards, demand for fizzy drinks was falling. Though Coca-Cola tried to reinvent itself, it didn’t seem particularly successful; making easy money was getting harder. The popularity of natural fruit juices actually began in the 2000s, so William White was a bit ahead of his time—the market wasn’t ready for it yet.

Still, better to plan ahead. Without heritage, a new brand wouldn’t stand a chance; these early years would simply serve as groundwork. He would first claim the high-end market—wealthy Americans cared about such things, after all.

“Sir, it’s about time for dinner,” Uncle Fook said with a smile.

“I really am hungry. What’s on the menu today?” William White had been walking around the winery all day, burning off plenty of energy—he felt he could eat a whole cow.

“Sir, they’ve brought in a few Australian lobsters—should be much tastier than Boston ones.”

“Sigh, Uncle Fook, we should set up an aquarium and keep some on hand—I really am quite fond of them.”

“Of course, sir, I’ll have it arranged right away.”

Seafood in this era was always cooked, much to William White’s frustration. He really didn’t understand these fishermen—why steam everything right away?

He couldn’t help but judge things by modern standards. Prices back then weren’t high, and lobsters weren’t considered rare—they were actually hard to keep alive, so unless there was a special need, this was the standard practice.

Westerners knew perfectly well that seafood lost its flavor once dead. Steaming it and then chilling it was the best way to preserve the taste.

He’d have to chop down a tree that afternoon—there wouldn’t be snow, but a Christmas tree was a must. That was the advantage of having a farm: you could cut down as many trees as you liked, and they weren’t worth much anyway.

William White was feasting heartily, and the husky was also devouring its food. On the farm, the dog was completely wild, sticking its nose into everything. It only calmed down after being beaten up by a flock of turkeys.

American turkeys were huge, and these fellows knew their days were numbered—bold enough to bully even the boss’s dog. Turkey wasn’t just for Thanksgiving; it was a staple of Christmas feasts too.

The second week’s box office for Home Alone was still impressive; the final total depended on the last two days, but twenty million was practically a certainty.

That meant a massive donation, which the mainstream media naturally reported in detail. William White had always attended various charity galas—though the events looked lively, his donations were relatively modest, perhaps not even matching the change from this latest sum.

His previous good deeds had already earned him a solid reputation, and this latest gesture took it a step further. If anyone still dared to call him a country bumpkin, they’d face public outrage.

Americans didn’t value modesty. If you earned your money legally, no level of ostentation was too much.

Had he been just an heir living off his father’s fortune, he would never have earned social standing—at most, people would envy him, or talk behind his back. If he dared to be as extravagant as he was now, he would never shake off the label of wastrel.