Over the years I’ve heard different stories about a certain field of grapevines in Cutchogue. Some of the stories are beguiling: that the vines were planted by mistake and were slated to be destroyed and replaced, but somehow evaded the trash bin of agriculture for a white grape version of a red carpet comeback. Some are strange: that the vines, sphinx-like and inscrutable, were reluctant to give up the secrets of their lineage.