From the moment I requested a copy of The Accidental Vineyard, I had a feeling reading it would be a tug-of-war between my curiosity about wine making and my limited ability to swallow the amount of wealth and privilege necessary for Moran to take on such a project. This initial impression was entirely correct. This book was a war in a wineglass.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There are many places in his memoir where Moran comes off as quite likable. It’s clear he loves his family – though his wife is not the only one who thinks he’s being real weird about his daughter’s future wedding while she’s still in the single digits. And facing down a chimneyfull of bats is not only amusing to read about but proves to be a great equalizer. Rich or poor, there’s only so many bat drive-bys your sanity can take.
But then there’s the anecdote where Moran pats himself on the back for the job cuts his advice to a company resulted in. That guy is so much happier working with his hands in construction rather than sitting at a desk. Granted, contractor work can, in fact, pay decently—because it's frequently unionized. It can also be physically grueling, especially if you’re not used to it. Even giving Moran the benefit of the doubt and assuming that conversation really happened, I can’t help but think the guy laid off must have received a helluva golden parachute, to be content with his life being upended that way.
The valorizing of ‘simple’ physical labor over office and executive work haunts nigh-every page of this book. Instead of cozy, it comes off as Luddite to a reactionary point. I can’t help but think of Marie Antoinette playing shepherdess in her specially constructed royal garden, or Lev Tolstoy, a landed noble whose wife edited and copied all his writing, waxing poetic about the purity of a ploughman’s work. While I appreciate Moran giving credit where credit is due and admitting that most of the hard, specialized labor on his home restoration and vineyard was done by professionals, his characterization of those workers as happy, simple, and totally not being exploited for their underpaid, backbreaking labor leaves a bit to be desired. I’m also unimpressed by his specifically pausing to mention the superstition of the Latino workers in particular. It might have helped if he knew/mentioned any of those workers by name, instead of lumping them all together. In contrast, other landowners from the region, the ones he actually makes friends with, sure do get named. Moreover, since Moran couldn’t get hands on with a lot of the work being done, the reader therefore misses much of the visceral, entertaining detail on that work.
I’m sure the Moran Manor wine’s delicious. I’ll even admit I’m tempted to try it. And as I mentioned previously, Moran picked a tricky tightrope to walk. I badly needed him to have a bit more self-awareness of his privilege, but let’s be real, if this book was self-flagellation all the way down, I would have rolled my eyes at that too. I’m not entirely unsympathetic to this rock-and-a-hard-place. But I would also need more wine, less smug, to give this book anything above two stars.
Thank you to NetGalley and Ben Bella Books for the free ARC in exchange for an honest review. All opinions within are my own.