The day I dreaded for years dawned Friday, in the middle of a late spring heat wave. I recall nightmares that had me gallivanting about some foreign capital, or through some distant vineyard, on the day we lost the standard-bearer for New World wine, Robert Mondavi, the man who put America’s wine on the world map. Thank goodness my dreamscape was fiction to its core.

For me and many others, Robert Mondavi was indeed king of America’s wine world. He truly believed the United States — especially California and primarily Napa Valley — could produce wine that belonged in the company of the world’s fine wines. He told me that — and anyone else who’d listen. And often. His mission in life, it seems, was to prove it.

It didn’t take long for this eldest son of working class Italian immigrants to make his point. He’d been making his own wine but for a decade when one of the Old World’s best known wine barons approached him about a joint venture.

A blind tasting in Paris had catapulted Napa Valley wines to the front page of wine journals, even made headlines in revered Time magazine. Now, a partnership between Robert Mondavi and Baron Philippe de Rothschild proved the earnest, proselytizing vintner from Oakville knew what he was talking about. The world was about to discover just how good Napa Valley wine really was.

But that didn’t stop Robert Mondavi. No one would ever accuse him of settling for the status quo. Whether it was a home-cooked meal or the bottle of wine he poured to accompany it, the promise of both being even better tomorrow was Robert Mondavi’s mantra.

Auspicious start

I don’t recall the details of my first encounter with this energetic new vintner, who, when I met him, was still in the stages of building a winery on a choice midvalley site just west of Highway 29. What I do remember was his determination, his desire to pour you a glass of wine that’d make you sit up and take notice.

I guess one of my earliest impressions of Bob Mondavi was of a man who repeatedly invited comparison, who got a kick out of someone suggesting there might be a flaw in one of his wines. It seemed to rev him up, eliciting a promise there’d not be a flaw in the next bottle you’d pop the cork on. He’d see to that.

And we believed him. We listened to Bob Mondavi talk about the potential of the Napa Valley, that he knew even greater vintages were ahead of us — that we could trust in the hard work of Napa Valley winemakers for they knew how to process choice fruit into exceptional wine.

By the time his 1969 cabernet sauvignon was released, wine writers from all over were singing Bob Mondavi’s praises. Mondavi wines, new as they were, were earning top awards and earning this wineman with rolled-up sleeves more and more trust from a growing pool of consumers.

With the help of Margrit Biever, a one-woman public relations department, the winery built with spunk and ambition soon began to host wine-friendly events — art exhibits, concerts, cooking classes, even a film festival — in a new space designed for greeting the public.

After hearing vintner Mondavi talk about wine and Napa Valley’s potential at one of the evenings of short films staged more than three decades ago, a colleague turned to me and confided his observation about Mondavi, “He’s such a peasant.” It was his impression of a guileless man leading the charge for Napa Valley’s place on the world wine stage. For a man without pretense, it was the supreme compliment.

Fond memories

I broke bread with Bob Mondavi countless times over the years. On many occasions, it was a sunny luncheon in the winery’s Vineyard Room; on others, it was an amazing dinner prepared by an exalted chef from, at first, star-anointed restaurants in France, and later, from the hands of creative American cooks.

Still relatively new to wine country, I got to see the vintner at private dinner parties, such as the wonderful meals prepared by Nellie Fay, paired with some of husband Nathan’s amazing wines from Stags Leap vineyards.

He came to my Napa home on several occasions, most notably for a tasting of wines held on the occasion of my 20th year in the newspaper business. We had a number of wines opened and ready for tasting, from various valley vintages. There was a trio of cabs from 1967, the year I first pounded a Royal typewriter in the new Register newsroom. The pièce de résistance was a 1965 Charles Krug cabernet sauvignon, the last wine Bob had anything to do with before a well-known rift with his brother saw him exit the Krug operation.

There were stories that summer evening about the wines, to be sure. But there were other tales, reminiscences, a sharing of information, for Bob Mondavi did indeed believe a life without sharing wasn’t a life worth living. We all knew how he openly shared information with others in the industry, regularly encouraging those in his employ to strike out on their own, to advance his program of collegiality.

The small group on my back patio that evening shared in a wonderful wine tasting experience. I recall Bob wouldn’t let me open the ’67s, noting that we already had too many corks pulled for one occasion, encouraging me to share those treasures with others not present that evening.

On another memorable day, Bob and Margrit Mondavi canceled an East Coast trip in order to host a spectacular celebration at the winery. A few close friends, including a winery chef, had convinced them to host a party that honored this writer on the occasion of my 30th anniversary with the Register. Several dozen chefs showed up, food at the ready, and an equal number of wineries were represented, thanks to Margrit, Bob and friend Roberta Quick. Bob was quick with advice that night, too. He told me not to even think about retiring.

Later

Over the years, intimate dinner parties hosted by Robert Mondavi, with a menu prepared by Margrit, remain firmly in mind as very special, joyous occasions.

A decade ago, and before, it was Bob Mondavi pulling the corks on outstanding vintages to be shared with this guest and friends. A few months ago, my good friend, winemaker Boris Champy, had the privilege of serving Bob a wine he’d made at Dominus, poured alongside a choice vintage from Bob and Margrit’s cellar of exceptional Mondavi wines.

While Bob’s health didn’t allow him to pull those corks, the sheer enjoyment of great wine registered in his eyes, in the remarkable smile that forever lingers in this memory. We were living the good life that Bob Mondavi promised.

Those were some thoughts that came to mind as a good friend and I drove to a concert in the South Bay Friday night. Even as modern-day Colombian troubadour Juanes musically preached his message of world peace and brotherhood, I couldn’t help but think about the wine industry’s great loss.

I choked up a bit when Juanes reminded the receptive crowd, “La Vida ... Es un Ratico” (Life is but a moment).

On this very hot day in the land that Bob Mondavi believed in, I was glad I was not off gallivanting somewhere; that I was at home when we learned our king was dead; that I could celebrate his life in listening to another man’s dreams for a world without war — for the good life.

Il re e morto... Lunga vita al re.