During a few days off recently, I headed to the beach and took with me Neal Rosenthal's new book, Reflections of a Wine Merchant.

Working predominately with an all-Italian wine list, there are certain sayings from guests that I am accostomed to hearing, mainly the phrase "I know French, but know nothing about Italian" and the runner-up "I think we'd like something really big and hearty like a Barolo". More often than not, guests come and ask for either a Barolo, Brunello, or Barbaresco because those are the Italian wines they are most familiar with. A common misconception people have is while their palates may lean towards more modern, New World styles, thinking that a Barolo is the wine for them. Sometimes, yes, but if Harlan is what they prefer to drink, then perhaps earthy, acidic Nebbiolo isn't quite for them. This is the chance I have to excitedly introduce someone to a new wine.

There are many places in Manhattan that are cash only. This is something which one becomes accustomed to when living in New York: one happens upon this at coffee shops, dumpling houses, and corner markets; the bill comes, and somebody at the table (usually me) runs to the closest corner deli and uses their ATM (or conveniently, at the establishment that does not accept anything but cash). The other night, on our way home from work we stopped at Lil' Frankie's on First Avenue in the East Village for some dinner. We like it here: the kitchen is open late enough to accomodate diners like us who eat at 1:30am, there is a vibrant scene, it's cozy with dark lighting and exposed-brick walls, the music is loud but fantastic, and the food is consistently good, super affordable, simple Italian. Lil' Frankie's is cash-only, however what astounds me is their wine list.

I am so predictable.  Working in a restaurant, I am fortunate enough to eat most of my meals here at Babbo.  Before service is Family Meal, where everybody sits down around 4:00 and eats together before the night begins, I always drink water.  Towards the end of service (usually around midnight) a few nights a week I sit down either at the bar or at a table, and eat what we call "Officer Meal", where I am able to have something off the menu.  This gives me a chance to try new dishes and find pairings.  Time and time again, I turn to my trusty friend,

It all started innocently enough, with a warm bottle of Six Sigma and a Penske truck. Last summer my fiance (then-boyfriend) and I were moving from Napa to Manhattan and before I left my job in St. Helena, my boss gave me a parting gift of more than a few bottles of Six Sigma Rose. Hailing from Lake County and made of Tempranillo, it was darkly hued, plush with red fruits, full of zingy lemon, and best of all, we had almost a case to spare: I had met my summer match.