Barolo 2019

On the old road into Annunziata, that small, hushed hamlet of La Morra, the fog doesn’t roll in so much as arrive—like a curtain drawn for a private performance. This is monk country. These slopes once belonged to a Benedictine convent; the land has been tended for centuries with the kind of patience modern life has forgotten. 

And here, in a working farmhouse that still feels more like a vow than a business, Giuseppe Grasso and his family make Barolo the old way: quietly, steadily, and with the conviction that time is an ingredient.

Cascina del Monastero Barolo 2019 — Single Vineyard, La Morra (Piedmont)
A classic year—rated five out of five stars by the Barolo Consortium—built on structure, balance, and the kind of fruit that doesn’t fade… it deepens. 

In the glass, it starts the way great Nebbiolo always does: rose and violet, then that unmistakable Langhe signature—tobacco leaf, forest floor, and truffle-dark intrigue—as if the hillside is speaking in low tones. The tannins don’t shout. They shake your hand, firmly, and then linger like an old friend who refuses to leave before the story is finished.

Here’s the move: buy it now—not because it’s fragile, but because it isn’t. This is a cellar wine with a long future; the kind that will gently unfold over decades, especially as it continues to rest in a temperature-controlled warehouse while quantities inevitably thin out.

My favorite advice? Buy a case.
Not to stockpile.
But to accompany.

Open one now, when the wine still speaks in perfume and red fruit—roses pressed into old books, cherries just beginning to darken. Open another months later, as structure asserts itself, as leather and earth enter the conversation. Then wait again. Let time do what only time can do.

Because as the wine evolves, so do you.

Your palate sharpens.
Your patience deepens.
Your sense of what matters quietly rearranges itself.

This Barolo becomes a marker—not just of vintage, but of moments lived. A glass poured after a long week. One shared at a table where the conversation runs late. Another opened years from now, when you realize you’re tasting memory as much as wine.

Some bottles are finished.
This one walks alongside you.