Adventures in the Vin Trade

Bottomland soil and a garbage dump next door cannot deter Hollywood's foremost vanity vintners

On the big screen, Steven Seagal pounds terrorists into pulp with merciless precision. In little Los Olivos, he's found it isn't as easy pulverizing grapes into wine.

Some two years ago, Seagal purchased a medium-size, 30-acre vineyard called Arroyo Perdido in this sylvan stretch of the Santa Ynez Valley, one of the few places in Southern California where you can grow grapes and be within driving distance of Michael Ovitz. On Arroyo Perdido's northwestern side lies a much larger vineyard owned by television actor Fess Parker, of Daniel Boone fame. Parker's place is in turn abutted by producer Doug Cramer's vineyard.

These titans of entertainment appear not to mind that their spreads occupy some of the worst grape-growing soil in the valley: cold, badly drained, nitrogen-packed bottomland. You can hope for a decent Grenache, but cabernets made from bottom-grown grapes are politely called "vegetal." This means that those rich notes of blackberry and chocolate you expect from classic California cabernets are replaced by somewhat less desirable whiffs of broccoli and cabbage. Bottomland grapes are usually sold to larger vineyards and used in blends— unless, that is, the owner is a celebrity who likes to make his own wine, design his own label, and inflict the latest vintage on his friends.

Into this proud new tradition stalked the idol of millions.

If Seagal seems not to have known that his land was best suited for growing lima beans, no less surprising, apparently, was its proximity to the county dump. Soon after taking up residence, Seagal began objecting to the proposed expansion of the dump and accusing unnamed Los Olij vians of illegal waste disposal. I Toxic fumes, he claimed, were \ drifting across his property to poison him, his consort, Kelly LeBrock, their two children, and his grapes. Seagal amused the natives by turning up in black leather at a town meeting to discuss the matter. "I'm Steven Seagal," he declared. "I'm a local horse rancher." Considerable pressure was brought to bear to close the dump and spare the Seagals from certain death.

No doubt all this distracted Mr. Seagal from the making of fine wine, so his harvest, vendange dix-neuf cent quatre-vingt onze, was taken to nearby Edna Valley Vineyards, where it was crushed (though not, as some conjectured, by the would-be winemaker karate-chopping the grapes), fermented, and transferred to barrel.

Then fate dealt the superstar's local image a nasty blow: half a million dollars' worth of taxpayer-sponsored study turned up no evidence of toxic dumping, waste, or fumes. Unconvinced, the noble horseman apparently chose not to submit bibulous friends and fans to any further risk, for no 1992 grapes have been delivered to Edna from Chez Seagal.

About his harvest, Seagal has kept a strongman's silence with the press. Still, the vinous public has a right to know that the wine remains at Edna Valley, where vineyardists say they're "pleasantly surprised" by its quality. The bouquet of Brussels sprouts you might expect has been replaced by that of, yes, blackberry.

Locals say Mr. Seagal has also been uncharacteristically coy about putting his name on the wine. Why, we cannot say. Perhaps the stuff is what Monty Python once called "a good fighting wine." Perhaps it's liquid radon.

But it remains unnamed. Readers are invited to propose appellations. Some suggestions: Chianti Macho, Steve's Leap Cabernet, Cotes de Black Leather.

TONY HENDRA