Gravel and Grace: Château Figeac 2016

The first pour gleams garnet, limpid and alive, the color glowing as if dusk had pooled in the glass. Aromas of cedar, graphite, and blackcurrant drift upward, joined by a whisper of violet and tobacco. Let it breathe—this is not a wine for haste. An hour in a decanter unknots its structure, revealing texture like silk brushed against stone. Serve at 17 °C in a tulip-bowled Bordeaux glass and you will find each inhalation more generous than the last. I remember Provence, when a simple pour at a wooden table stretched into an entire afternoon, a reminder that wine asks us to live at its pace, not our own.

Where Médoc Meets Saint-Émilion

On Bordeaux’s Right Bank lies Château Figeac, though its spirit nods toward the Left. Most of Saint-Émilion leans on Merlot, yet here vines are planted in an uncommon balance: one-third Merlot, one-third Cabernet Sauvignon, one-third Cabernet Franc. Their roots reach deep into Günzian gravel mounds layered over clay and sand. The gravel drains swiftly yet holds warmth, pushing ripeness even in cooler years, while the subsoil gifts freshness. I once walked these vineyards in February. The vines were bare, twisted skeletons against a grey sky, but beneath the stones was life waiting, patient as scripture carved into clay. You could feel history humming in the soil.

The Voice of 2016

The 2016 season unfolded with generosity: a steady summer, cool nights, and a luminous September. Figeac speaks this year in both power and poise. On the palate, cassis and plum form the core, edged with mulberry, graphite, and wet stone. The tannins are finely grained, velvet stretched taut, while the acidity remains bright, pulling each flavor into focus. French oak ageing adds a quiet undertone of spice—clove, cedar, smoke—never loud, always supportive. Its finish lingers long, like a line of poetry carried on the wind. It is compelling already, yet destined to gain depth with decades. Wines such as this remind me of my own cycle of descent and return: joy and sorrow braided together, both necessary for the story to be whole.

Fire and Pasture

Figeac 2016 feels at home beside fire and flesh. Roast lamb, pink at its heart, lets fat and protein soften the wine’s tannic grip; rosemary in the jus bridges seamlessly to its herbal core. Charred beef rib, seared black yet tender within, echoes its dark fruit and cedar while turning firmness to silk. I have eaten lamb in fields and temples, by hearths and funeral pyres, always with the vine as companion. Each bite has reminded me that flame and soil, flesh and grape, are ancient allies.

Silk Across Continents

But the wine’s story is not bound to Bordeaux alone. Its acidity, that vital current, travels easily across cuisines. With Peking duck, crisp skin and five-spice sauce resonate with its spice-flecked finish. A Moroccan tagine of lamb, prunes, and almonds sets sweetness against structure, each part held in balance by tannin. I have interpreted dreams for kings where opposing signs—water and fire, lion and gazelle—were revealed to be one truth. So it is here: sweetness and structure converse until they become inseparable.

Earthbound Elegance

Vegetarian tables, too, find the wine generous. Mushroom and truffle risotto pulls forward its forest-floor depth, while butter and Parmigiano soften edges. Grilled aubergine layered with goat cheese makes a dialogue of smoke and tang, acidity and flesh. In such pairings the wine grows contemplative, like my own stylus once pressed into clay tablets—tracing memory, turning ephemeral moments into permanence. Each sip feels written, not spoken.

Echoes of the Cellar

Even accompaniments create symphony. Pommes Anna, golden and layered, mirrors the wine’s graphite tension. Creamy polenta, absorbing a dark jus, frames cassis at the core. Roasted root vegetables—parsnip, carrot, beet—draw out its plum and cedar tones, earth answering earth. To finish, aged Comté or firm sheep’s cheese proves more fitting than dessert: sweetness would silence the song. The nutty tang and saline echo sustain the finish, carrying it further. In long winters I have known comfort in only bread, cheese, and wine—solace enough to mark the passing of the season.

Time’s Long Harvest

The rhythm of descent and return is my inheritance, as it is Figeac’s. Patience here is not punishment but promise. Decant gently, serve in a steady glass, hold it cool, and it will open like an incantation etched into stone. Drink today and discover brightness, or cellar until 2038 and witness fruit transformed into leather, spice, and autumn leaf. Each year of waiting is like my half-year in the underworld: silence that prepares the soul for its next song. To share it at table—whether lamb or aubergine, beef or Comté—is to honor vine and vintner together. Wines like this are more than nourishment; they are memory, they are return.