On last November’s third Monday, I facetiously told my friend Pete Fraser that he owed me lifelong gratitude. I’d driven three hours to taste 15 vintages of his High Sands Grenache, eat a quick lunch, and drive three more home. I joked there are very few wines—and even fewer winemakers—worthy of that kind of effort, and he would live out his days in my debt. It turns out I undersold that debt. Ten days later, he was dead. When I left that day, I…
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