Underworld Fire, Valley Stone: Dominus Napanook 2016

The glass holds a garnet flame, dense and youthful, as if it had captured the glow of late September sunsets over the Mayacamas. At 16 °C, aromas first curl inward, coiled like dreams yet unspoken, then slowly unfurl after an hour’s decant: graphite easing into black cherry, cedar loosening into violets and sage, hints of sandalwood and bay rising like smoke. In a broad Bordeaux bowl, the wine stretches its frame. Tannins—those silken yet insistent strands that dry the cheeks—demand both patience and food. This is a wine already singing, yet with a songbook that will deepen well into the 2030s and beyond, its verses shifting with age from fruit to forest, from fire to ash.

From Stone and Wind, a Voice of Napa

The Napanook vineyard, in Yountville, is Dominus Estate’s historic heart. Christian Moueix, son of Bordeaux yet rooted in Napa since the 1980s, tends it with a sensibility that marries California sun to Médoc restraint. Cabernet Sauvignon leads, supported by Merlot and Cabernet Franc. The gravelly, quick-draining soils collect heat by day and release it at night, while marine breezes sweep inland from San Pablo Bay, keeping freshness alive. This terroir births wines of precision: fruit-ripened but not swollen, firm yet lyrical. Each vine grows as though on a threshold—between drought and abundance, heat and cool, shadow and light—and the wine itself becomes an interpreter of this liminal space.

In ancient Sumer, I was named Geštin-anna, the Heavenly Vine. I too am an interpreter, of dreams, of seasons, of the hidden language of the soil. Napanook feels like kin: a vineyard that translates stone and sun into liquid meaning.

Fire and Resin in the Vintage

2016 gave Napa an almost classical season—neither too hot nor too cool—ripening grapes with patience, the vines unhurried. In the glass, the wine shows clarity: cassis, mulberry, tobacco leaf, and a trace of resinous pine, as though oak and forest whispered together. The palate is full but not heavy, acidity lifting fruit like wind through a canopy. Oak lends a subtle line of spice—clove, a brush of vanilla—while the finish lingers with a mineral echo, as though the vineyard’s stones themselves were speaking. This is a vintage that will be remembered for its composure: a balance of power and grace, like a warrior laying aside his sword to dance.

Lamb Smoke and Laurel Oils

In my long watch over vines, I have seen tannin bridled by fat as grief is softened by love. Roast lamb shoulder, slow-basted with laurel and thyme until the skin crackles, makes the wine pliant, drawing out its inner sweetness and lengthening its finish. Equally compelling is smoked duck breast, its rosy flesh carrying the wine’s darker cherry notes, its charred edge mirroring the cedar and graphite within. These are not mere meals but rituals: meat, fire, herb, and wine completing each other in ancient harmony.

When Earth Meets Spice

Some dishes summon the wine’s fire rather than soften it. A barbacoa of beef cheek, cooked underground until threads yield to the hand, calls forth the wine’s earthy bass tones, while ancho chile sings against its fruit, sweet heat dancing with cassis. Closer to the forests of Europe, wild boar braised with chestnuts and bay plays in harmony with Napanook’s herbal spine, each bite an autumnal chord. Even Moroccan lamb tagine with prunes and ras el hanout could find its match here: the spices echoing cedar, the dried fruit finding resonance with mulberry’s depth.

Vegetal Depth, Ancient Echo

The vine goddess in me delights when earth’s humblest gifts are raised to grandeur. Consider wood-roasted maitake mushrooms, their fronds smoky and umami-rich, binding seamlessly with the wine’s savory grip. Or a truffle-studded polenta, where butter’s richness tempers tannin and the truffle’s musk mirrors the wine’s lengthening tertiary whisper. A charred leek tart with pecorino can be equally striking—the sweetness of the leek gliding into the wine’s fruit, the cheese anchoring it with salt and fat. Even a black lentil stew with rosemary and a slow-cooked egg can rise to meet the wine’s gravitas.

Quiet Companions at the Table

Even small indulgences may weave into this wine’s story. A gratin of sunchoke and Comté, golden-edged and nutty, aligns texture with tannin, salt with fruit. Braised carrots glazed with pomegranate and star anise create a high-toned bridge, the spice glinting like a fleeting dream. And there are moments when even a simple loaf of crusted bread, torn warm and dipped into olive oil, can become a sacrament beside this wine: wheat, oil, and vine in sacred triad, the oldest companions of the table.

My Descent, the Wine’s Patience

Each year I descend into silence, six months in the underworld beside my brother Dumuzi. The vines too fall quiet, roots drinking darkness, branches bare under the winter moon. When spring returns, life rises again—sap flows, buds break, shoots unfurl. Napanook holds that same rhythm: its youth is bright, but time in the cellar will coax velvet from iron, perfume from stone. To drink it now is to taste vigor, urgency, light. To wait is to sip memory itself, a wine that will tell new stories with each passing year, as I have sung new laments each cycle of descent and return.

Ledger of Service and Time

Pour it into a wide decanter, give it an hour to breathe so its stern edges soften into song. Serve at 16–18 °C in generous Bordeaux bowls, where aromas can rise like incense. Tonight it will shine beside lamb or mushroom, duck or boar, truffle or chestnut. By 2032, its fruit will have mellowed into cedar, its tannins into silk, its fire into quiet embers. Honor it not as a trophy but as a companion: a voice of Napa that carries both sunlight and shadow, fire and stone, myth and memory. For in wine, as in story, we preserve what time would otherwise erase.