The Only Wine God Will Forgive You For Being Early To

Listen, I know what you’re thinking. Another Barolo blog post. Do I look like the kind of guy who wastes your time with another tedious, over-hyped bottle? Please. I'm Dionysus, but even I have better things to do than peddle mediocrity—like, you know, inspiring beautiful madness and inventing new ways to ferment things. This isn't just Barolo; this is the Giacomo Conterno Barolo Monfortino Riserva 2019, and if you don't get a little twitch in your ancient wine-loving soul just seeing those words, you and I need to have a serious talk about your life choices. This is the unicorn you thought only existed in musty old auction catalogs. It’s the return of the king after a brutal four-year exile, a vintage that forces you to re-evaluate every '100-point' bottle you've ever tasted. Forget what you think you know about Nebbiolo's iron fist; this is the velvet glove that's also carrying a brick.

The Auric Hues Of Mount Olympus

To call the color "garnet" is like calling a Michelangelo "a nice sketch." It’s a jeweled, luminescent ruby, shimmering at the edge with the faintest whisper of orange—the sunset over Serralunga d'Alba captured in glass. It’s dense, not cloudy, but there is a profound depth to the heart of the glass, like staring down into the dark, fertile earth of the Langhe itself. The aromas? Oh, the aromas. This is not a polite wine that whispers; it’s an orchestra tuning up, a cacophony of glorious noise that somehow resolves into perfect harmony. Initially, it's that tight, high-toned red fruit: tart wild cherry, dried cranberry, a hint of restrained orange peel. But give it air, let the myth unfold, and suddenly you get a geological cross-section of flavor. Black tea, crushed granite, savory black truffle just hinting at its presence, and a bouquet of dried violets so intense it feels like you’ve been slapped with a velvet gauntlet. It’s coiled, it’s intense, and it smells like a masterpiece that hasn't finished painting itself yet.

The Palate's Divine Comedy

And then, you take the plunge. This is where the 2019 vintage proves it’s a celestial body in the Barolo firmament. The power is there, make no mistake—this wine is built on a monumental frame. But what Conterno has achieved here is nothing short of alchemy. It’s a paradox of extreme finesse. The tannins are massive, yes, but they aren't gritty; they are impossibly fine, like highly polished river stones, forming a wall of structure that nonetheless feels exquisitely woven. The acidity is a lightning bolt of energy, keeping the concentrated dark fruit—a core of plum and rich cherry—vibrant and alive, preventing it from ever getting bogged down in its own intensity. It’s pure, compact richness that somehow manages to be light on its feet. The finish is endless; it’s not a conclusion, it’s an echo chamber of flavor that just keeps ringing out: licorice root, sweet spice, and that distinct, savory, almost ferrous minerality. You’re not just tasting a wine, you’re tasting a lineage, a history, a piece of liquid geological time. It’s an intellectual exercise that gets you drunk, and I approve.

The Genesis Of A Legend

Now, let's talk about the man and the myth. Roberto Conterno is a perfectionist. A fanatic. He hasn't made Monfortino since 2015, intentionally skipping celebrated vintages like '16, '17, and '18 because the fruit didn't meet his impossible standard. His heart finally settled on the 2019, a year that, for him, married the tension and energy of a legendary vintage like 2013 with a unique concentration. Here’s your insider detail: this is a transitional Monfortino. Historically, it was a pure selection from the hallowed Cascina Francia vineyard. But in 2019, Conterno blended in 27% of the total production from his relatively newer, adjacent Arione cru. This isn’t a lesser Monfortino; it’s a more complete one. Francia gives it the spine, the power, the age-worthy, stubborn tannins; Arione grants it that extra layer of floral elegance, lift, and finesse. It’s a marriage made in Serralunga d'Alba, an absolute mic-drop moment from a producer who has few peers. When the maestro decides a vintage is worthy, after four years of silence, you don’t question the sermon.

The Ritual Of Consumption

This is not your Tuesday night pasta pour, you philistine. This is a wine that demands respect, and frankly, some patience. If you're cracking one now—which, fine, I’ve done worse—you must decant it, and for not less than three hours. The tannins are too imposing for a casual splash. Serve it at a slightly warmer cellar temp, in the biggest, most beautiful glasses you own. Food-wise, this calls for something with soul. A ridiculously marbled, dry-aged Fiorentina steak, simply kissed by the grill. Or lean into the Piedmontese trifecta: a slow-braised brasato al Barolo, or a massive bowl of tajarin showered with shaved white truffle. The earthiness of the truffle and the sheer power of the Monfortino are a pairing I would gladly destroy a city for.

The Treasury Of The Gods

Let's drop the poetic nonsense for a second and talk brass tacks: this is an investment. It’s a blue-chip wine. It's a 'perfect' wine from a producer who has already proven his mettle in the secondary market. The last Monfortino release was 2015—a four-year gap alone adds a mythical scarcity. The 2019, with the added production from Arione, might offer a slightly higher volume, but the demand for this first-of-its-kind blend is going to vaporize those bottles faster than I can drain an amphora. It’s built for decades; the tasting notes say it will be great in 2060. Think of it as putting away liquid gold for your great-grandchildren.

A Regrettable Silence

Look, I’ve been around since the first grape was crushed, and I’m telling you: this is a spiritual experience masquerading as a beverage. To pass on the Monfortino 2019 is not just missing out on a wine; it’s rejecting a piece of vinous history, a foundational text of what Nebbiolo is capable of. It’s a benchmark, a monument, and a goddamn masterpiece. Buy it. Cellar it. Fight for it. Because in a few years, all you'll be left with is the deafening silence of a missed opportunity, and trust me, that silence is a harsher punishment than any I can conjure.