The Bottle That Changed Me

There are wines you drink and forget.
There are wines you love and share.
There are wines that change you.

I was working in Napa Valley, when my mornings started in cellars and ended on hillsides. I’d become friends with our winemaker’s older brother—Greg, a tall, lanky guy with a firm voice, big opinions, and a bigger heart. He was the kind of person you didn’t always agree with, but you always wanted to have at the table. We shared a deep love for great wine, and a willingness seek it out.

On Mondays, we’d choose a mountain, bring a friend or two, and head off to explore.

One morning we went off to Howell Mountain, stopping at vineyards where we sourced fruit for our own wines. We visited a handful of classic producers, snacked on strawberries and cheese from the cooler, and soaked in the early summer sun. There was no cell service. Only long gravel roads, phenomenal views, and the kind of relaxed excitement that builds when you're just out there, in the country, with friends.

Our last stop was O'Shaughnessy Estate, tucked quietly into the hillside. We were led to a tasting table inside the central wine room, surrounded by bottles and enclosed by beautiful glass walls—a kind of quiet, glowing inner sanctum.

We started with the Sauvignon Blanc. It was bright, fleshy, and well-made. We chatted politely, pleased with what we tasted. But we were really there for the Cabernet. That’s what Howell Mountain is known for and that’s what we came to find.

The 2015 Howell Mountain Cabernet was serious and classic, a wine built for ageing, structured with acid and tannin meant to carry it through the next decade or more. Everyone approved. It was the kind of wine that deserves respect.

Then came the 2015 Mount Veeder.

We all took a sip. No one said a word.

I glanced up and caught Greg’s eye across the table.
That moment said everything.
We both knew.

This wasn’t just good. This was what Napa used to be.

This was the kind of deep, dense fruit, layered, and rich, that Greg had grown up with before Napa became luxury real estate.

This was the kind of wine that earned devotion and created cults.

Fermented, fulfilling, and unforgettable.

We both joined the wine club and took home our cases nearly $2,000 later.

I still have three bottles from that vintage; every time I see them, I hesitate.

Do I open one now, and chase that moment again?
Or do I wait, just a little longer, to see what it becomes?

It’s a tough decision.

These bottles aren’t just wine to me.

They’re memory.
They’re Greg’s laugh and my muddy shoes.
They’re the smell of the strawberries, the crunch of the gravel, the feeling of discovering something real.

I don’t want to pour them for a crowd.
I don’t want to open them for the beef.
These bottles are mine.

They're mine to remember and mine to keep.

Because the wine that changed me also reminded me: great wine doesn’t need to shout.
It meets you where you are and leaves a mark.

And all it takes is a taste.