He nodded to the huge tanks. “These twelve stainless steel storage tanks hold over a hundred thousand gallons of just-pressed oil. We maintain and monitor the storage tanks in a strictly regulated, climate-controlled environment to preserve the fresh taste and integrity of the natural oil. To be called an ‘estate-grown’ olive oil, the final product has to be grown, harvested and processed on the same farm or estate.”
“Remember, I said that we’re one of the few olive oil producers that grow all our own olives?” Tara reminded Joe. He nodded.
“We’re always in total control of our olive oil from the first bud on a tree branch to the last bottle on the processing line,” Blair continued. “We have strict quality control. We constantly do product testing and periodic tastings to ensure the highest quality of our oils.” He pointed to some highly technical equipment where a staff person in a lab coat and gloves was removing a sample of oil.
“There are standards established by the International Olive Oil Council,” Tara explained. “In order for an oil to be labeled extra virgin, it has to have an oleic acid content of below one percent. Then we have our own standards…the organoleptic properties.”
“Huh?” Joe grinned.
“The taste, the aroma, the feel of the oil on the tongue…those are organoleptic properties. We’ll taste some oils and I’ll tell you more about that.”
“We also do canning and curing here,” Blair explained. They went on a quick tour of that part of the building too, a large manufacturing enterprise where mostly black olives were canned.
“Would you like to go for a drive through the groves or would you like to taste some oils?” Tara asked.
Joe smiled and shrugged. “Let’s go for a drive.”
Back outside, they climbed into a dusty old jeep, with Juan driving. The wind blowing over them was only slightly cooling in the hot afternoon sun.
Tara let out a sigh as they drove through the quiet groves shifting with shadow and light. The trees were so old, growing in neat rows, the small leaves shimmering as the slight breeze teased them in the sunshine, changing them from green to gray to silver and silvery-green. There was an intimate atmosphere in a grove of mature olives, the twisted trunks and branches hanging with heavy, still-green fruit giving a feeling of peace, strength and anticipation. It always brought to Tara’s mind all the stories of olives in mythology and literature she’d read.
Today, though, the only feeling the groves brought to her was irritation at having to do this with Joe Scaletta.
“There are over seven hundred olive cultivars in the world. We grow seven here at Santa Ynez,” Juan said. “These ones here are Mission olives.”
“Your mainstay,” Joe murmured.
Blair glanced sideways at him and nodded. “Right. Up ahead are Manzanillas and Luccas. There are olives grown for eating and olives grown for pressing. Kind of like grapes…some are grown for eating, some for wine. But unlike grapes, you can’t just pick a drupe and eat it. They’re bitter as hell.”
“They have to be cured.”
“Yes. They have to be picked at the right stage of ripeness. And flavor depends on many other things—rains, pests, the pressing process, how the oil is stored.”
They continued driving through the groves. “These are Sevallano olives. We grow these for eating.”
“The stuffed Sevallanos are very popular,” Tara put in. “We make some stuffed with California almonds—another local partnership—and some with garlic.”
When they returned to the mill and the offices awhile later, Tara felt dusty and windblown and only slightly less irritable than she had when they’d arrived. Usually she enjoyed a chance to get outside and into the olive groves, but Joe’s huge presence was distracting and unsettling.
They went inside and she led the way to a back room where they would do the tasting.
“One day,” she told Joe as she assembled oil and cups, “I’d like to do tours of the farm, like they do with so many wineries now. And have tastings here. We do tastings at the store sometimes, but not here. It could be really awesome.”
He nodded and she could see he was thinking more about that. Dammit. Why did she keep spilling her guts to this guy?
She poured a small amount of olive oil into a plastic cup. “Place it in the palm of your hand and cover it with your fingers to warm it,” she instructed Joe, showing him with a small cup of her own. “After a minute or two, hold the cup under your nose to appreciate the bouquet of the oil.”
They lifted the cups to their noses.
“Remember earlier I said the organoleptic properties were taste, aroma, feel?”
He nodded. “It smells like olive oil,” he said, wrinkling his nose and flashing those appealing dimples.
She laughed. “Okay. Now place a small amount of oil on your lower lip, and with the tip of your tongue, taste the oil for its degree of sweetness.”
Oh God. This might have been a big mistake. Watching his tongue come out and lick his full bottom lip was so sexy. She cleared her throat. “Now, sip the oil and taste for spiciness, using the sides of your tongue.”
She waited.
“First, what do you feel?” she asked him, watching his face.
“Mmm…” His dark brows drew down. “It feels smooth…oily.”
“How about thick? Sticky? Cooling?”
He shook his head. “Yes. It’s thick and smooth but…not cooling, it’s…warmer.”
Huh. How about that. “Good. And what do you taste?”
“I would say this is…kind of peppery.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. Here, try it with some bread.” She ripped a hunk off a crusty loaf and handed it to him. He dipped it in the oil and chewed on it thoughtfully.
“It’s peppery and warm, but not really biting.”
“It’s not making you feel like you have to cough? Not burning in the back of the throat?”
“I do feel it in the back of my throat, but not like I’m going to cough.”
“Good. It mellows over time. This is our Arbosana. It’s a perfect complement to traditional, rustic dishes such as bruschetta with garlic, pasta and beans, panzanella.”
Joe grinned. “Sounds like home. And it’s not pasta and beans—it’s pasta e fagioli.”
He said it with an Italian roll to the words that was so freakin’ sexy she felt herself melt deep inside. Drawing in a deep breath, she poured more oil into a clean cup and they continued their tasting. Watching Joe savor the tastes, closing his eyes to get a deeper appreciation of the aromas and tastes and feel of the oils was a disconcertingly arousing experience. He was a sensual man, obviously enjoying the sensory pleasures of the olive oils. Her lower abdomen grew warm and achy and she squeezed her thighs together.
“This one tastes buttery,” he told her.
“That’s right. It’s nice with broiled fish, steamed vegetables and some cheeses. Now try this one.” She poured yellowish oil into a cup and handed it to him. He performed the ritual and tasted it, then made a face. “It tastes like alcohol. Bitter.”
She grinned. “That’s cheap olive oil from a supermarket. It demonstrates the four enemies of oil—time, oxygen, temperature and light. Freshly milled olive oil is green, but if it’s bottled in clear glass, it will turn yellow. To avoid that, we bottle ours in colored bottles.
“The polyphenols are the first to go,” she explained. “Polyphenols are light-sensitive antioxidants that give the peppery taste to the olive oil. Temperature is important too. Olive oil always should be stored between sixty and seventy degrees.”
They tasted a couple more, and by the time they were done, she had a warm flutter low in her tummy. Dammit.
She glanced at her watch. “It’s after five. We should start back to the city. Grandpa said he wanted to meet with you at the end of the day.” One corner of her mouth turned down.