Hello, my name is Curtis and I'll be your website wing-man. Actually, I'll be Danny's journalistic wing-man as we resume our Spirited Gotham Adventures series next week.

That's right, fellow imbibers. Starting sometime Sunday, the tag-team investigative unit of The Imbiber will be blogging words and images in real time from the Big Apple, pursuing the Great Truth of Italian wines at Vino 2011. I've watched the entire "Rome" HBO series and those great History Channel shows while drinking only Italian vino, so I'm more than prepared.

You may recall The I-Team's work from previous East Coast adventures, including the Todd English tribute video and of course several of those final chapters in Dan's last book. We've matured since then, though. Really. Expect the resumption of the Spirited Places blog and other milestones of intoxicating literature.

Vino 2011 is actually one of the bigger wine trade shows, and this year it's Jan. 24 to 27 at the Waldorf-Astoria in NYC. So you New York readers should avoid that entire section of the city – you know how the crowds get when Dan appears in public without the mask. Otherwise, we're going to get the bottom of this Soave craze, believe you me.

No public D.D. appearances are planned (there's a NYC signing for the new book on Feb. 15th, but more on that later) but don't worry. I'll be letting you know how it goes until, you know, we go dark for any variety of reasons. And if Mr. English happens to read this, let me just say Danny's much better now. Next round is on us...

Brace yourself, we're about to talk a bit out of school here. Because we're going to talk about the art of the second bottle of wine.

Volumes have been written about best-wine this and best-taste that, but always the focus on the first bottle. It's as though we're gonna drink a single bottle and that's that, off to drive Buffy home and laugh our way through that spot-check DUI enforcement roadblock. But some of us ain't going home. Or we drink at home. And  we're going to have that second bottle of wine, oh yeah, and maybe more. Thus the desperate need for our new occasional feature: The Tao of the Second Bottle.

It should be a serious study. Who among us had not noticed the guzzle-reflex as we pour the later rounds of the good stuff ... who among us has not wondered, in passing, what would happen if we just poured that under-sink magnum of Woodbridge (for cooking!) into the sweet little Cotes du Rhone bottle?

But it's not just a financial call. It's about stepping it up. It's about layering flavors.

Personally, as an example, I like to follow some decent Pino Noir with a moderately decadent Rioja, finding the intensity of the Spanish can ignore the fact that I've sipped something else earlier in the evening, if you follow my analogy.

There's more, but we have gone on too long for a simple introduction. We'll soon be discussing layering with a zeal usually reserved for mid-winter Aspen backcountry skiing. And, frankly, there might be some Woodbridge in the mix.

As alcohol trends go, I'm ready to ramble along any old road more-or-less taken. New designer vodka? Okay -- hey, I remember when infusion seemed crazy, but it was only kinky the first time. The whole Family-O-Bourbon small-batch collection? Nice. Family values are important.

As a frequent contributor to the Imbiber website, it's important that I remain afloat in the lush culture of the American lush. But, with all due respect, I'm just not jumping onto the Blue Ribbon fad-o-rama bandwagon. Because -- what's up with that?

Portland, where I live in Maine, is famously a beer town. We have a half-dozen world class offerings and seasonal brews galore. We're even starting to get into the micro-distilled spirits and you can buy Maine vodka, but our alcohol of record is beer (it was once rum, but that's another story).

And Portland, alcohol-wise, has a special obligation to the rest of civilization. As the city where national prohibition first found favor, we carry a certain unique burden in the alcohol community -- at the very least, we should show a degree of originality. Thus, in a town where tasty locally created beer is easier to find than a parking spot -- actually, much easier -- the big trend is ... Blue Ribbon?

Well, just when I'd figured the Internet was one of Al Gore's more over-rated inventions, certainly not the job-creating juggernaut that global climate change has become, along comes good news for my in-box.

It's comforting this time of year to learn we were right about beer not only being the Zenith of civilization, but actually causing civilization.

This was a pet theory of mine since at least high school. It makes sense that, in the thousands of years we evolved before books or cable TV, things were boring and there was precious little reason to sit around in groups.

Oh, sure, there was the campfire and the wild beasts and all that -- but the invention of the couch was virtually unthinkable in that situation.    

But one bright day we discovered beer. Granted, some late-night History Channel watchers will contend that ancient astronauts gave us the secret of fermentation, but it was probably just an accident of fate. That fermented stump-water was centuries away from a pint of Allagash Black's 2-row barley nirvana. So what if it tasted like warm PBR you found in your college roommates dirty sock hamper?

Felice Wine Bar
400 E. 64th Street
New York, NY 10065
(212) 593-2223
www.felicewinebar.com

Anyone's New York City dining landscape needs to have a few classic items, the same way wardrobes need (depending on your gender) a nice navy-blue blazer or perfect black dress. For as long as anyone's cared, this included a really great little Italian place "not far from here" and, these days, a hipper-than-thou neighborhood place in Williamsburg where your car won't get tagged. And the key to these places on your mental map is that they MUST be a little bit more than you expect -- just better examples of what they are, via execution. And of course, by simply knowing about them you will impress people with your coolness and intimate knowledge of every corner of a city of between 15 and 20 million people.

Your LTP (little Italian place) list might already include multiple entries, but on the Upper East Side let us turn you on to Felice, which is also sometimes AKA Felice Wine Bar but is actually a small restaurant run by clearly vino-obsessed foodies. Resist the urge to ask them for an ID and settle in. It's one of those cool on-the-corner places with the outdoor sidewalk seats pressed close to the building, usually crowded with people clearly enjoying conversation and auto exhaust with their meal. For the wary, the challenge with such places is this: Do they suck?

And you wonder if the interior is cool, or really just a 'hood pub with new lamps that's gonna charge you $35 for the same pasta you could microwave at home if your roomate hasn't Bogarted the left-overs again. Rest easy. Inside at Felice you find the sort of in-a-movie decor you were hoping for -- just a bit more than you really truly expected. The small room is dominated by a large center table, and intimate two-human tables circle the room, and on each wall are floor-to-ceiling-ish wine racks. An intricate light sculpture hangs in the middle of it all, adding an odd intimacy to the space.

It's like you're eating in the wine cellar of the World's Most Interesting Man's Tuscan villa.

This is the kind of place where you can hear two guys at the next table discussing their boyfriends and mutual distaste for overcooked squash. You think it's going to be fun watching these picky guys deal with dinner, but in reality Felice doesn't seem to make many mistakes. Plus there's wine

The theme is Tuscan, and several dishes like the pappardelle al pesto ($16) have become a bit legendary. Said TimeOut magazine, the dish "... is a revelation of almost Proustian proportions. It doesn’t so much engage the palate as transport it to a mythical time and place when life was good and simple and smelled only of fresh basil. The pesto’s pungent, earthy flavor, says Felice’s general manager, Matt Harding, owes its power to those five simple ingredients, which are ably cushioned by the fat, tender ribbons of pappardelle made in chef Simone Parisotto’s kitchen."

Gosh. What the hell kind of mushrooms did you say they use?

And of course there's the wine list: More than 100 Italian wines, and 15 of those offered by the glass. Prices on the per-glass range from $8 to $18.

But it's not the wonderful food or the fantastic wines that set Felice apart. It's -- and it hurts to say this, since who knows what another night might bring -- the service. And it wasn't just us. At table after table, the waitstaff seemed stalker-like in their devotion to helping diners. Wondering what wine to have? They ask questions, make recommendations, bring samples, try again. Your food selections? Well, how hungry are you? It's an intricate menu, especially when wine is being served and conversation abounds, so guides are welcomed. For the record, twice in one meal they recommended less expensive items, not that they seemed to worry about that much.

The food was nearly perfect, although if we did it again we'd suggest stressing al dente -- but it's really a quibble. Costs were all over the board -- how many courses, wine selection, how many "samples" you can get from the waiter. You could have a really reasonable classic meal by teaming a risotto with a nice wine and leave under $40. Good luck resisting that second glass of wine. You could also run up the sort of tab reserved for corporate outings to strip clubs, circa 2006, the difference being you'd get something for your money.

An Imbiber tip: This is a great place to come to alone, with a notebook, and brush up on your Italian wines. Word on the street is that some of the really great wines here get opened "by the glass" some nights, and there's always something to learn. It's a good addition to your mental food map.


Pete's Candy Store
709 Lorimer Street
Williamsburg, Brooklyn 11211
(718) 302-3770
www.petescandystore.com

Okay, yeah, dudes, the scene moved to Greenpoint.

Well, for the BQE savvy, fun lingers here. Pete's Candy Store in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, is what the entire hep world would be doing if we'd won the cluture wars. Original live music nightly in an area separate from the bar, a great back-garden area and a surprisingly strong little menu. Try the grilled sandwiches, especially the Black Forest Ham, swiss gruyere, onion and mustard. It's $8 and is about twice as good as you would think possible with current technologies.

This is a neighborhood spot. Readings, lecture series ... and a great pub feeling. I once left a good winter coat there with certain very personal holistic remedies in the pocket and returned to find it the next day, remedies intact. See, some gentrification is a good thing.

And the drink menu contains the likes of Kentucky Rootbeer, which is Wild Turkey 101 and root beer soda for $9. The Cloud Cutter is Tanqueray gin, amaretto, splash bitters and splash sour. They even have drinks with honey vodka -- the "Honey Cider Martini" is honey vodka, fresh apple cider and lemon juice. Not to be missed -- if you find yourself on the third one, remember that overnight parking is allowed and it's a fairly safe street to abandon your car.

Check out the events at petescandystore.com -- but remember, the events are separate from the front bar, so don't skip stopping in for a pint just because you don't want to listen to poetry right exactly now. The place is friendly, and like Felice is just a really honest example of what it is.

Okay, you live in a beer town you gotta take the good with the bad.Part of the good is that if you live in Portland, Maine, like me, you can always taste home. A cold Allagash white atop a roof in the Adams-Morgan district in Washington D.C. can even make that odd city a bit more sane.

And in my world of Cool Places journalism, where geographic one-upsmanship is practiced with the intensity usually reserved for Dick Cheney bird hunting weekends, even my colleagues who live in places like Aspen, Boulder, Napa, London and Seattle concede we're a top-notch brew-and-grub city. But, well, how to say it ... well, I thought I knew the down sides.

I have long understood the dark side of my good friend alcohol, but tend to agree with Ben Franklin's observation that "beer is proof that God love us and wants us to be happy."
It started in another era, where Busch was considered an exotic departure from a diet of Bud and Miller. Frankly, even as I embrace the cnfines of beer snobbery, I still like the occassional Budweiser and a PBR can hit the spot, if that spot is Awful Annie's on a Friday afternoon. I think they shold come with asprin taped to the side of the can, but that's perhaps just me.
Now, well, I have to admit being shaken to my beer-loving core.

Because now along with alcohol abuse, beer bellies and the occasional unpublishable Bob Higgins column, we see a new downside to beer: seasonal interruptus.

In about two weeks and a few days the otherwise sane folks at Gritty McDuff's Brewing Company will begin selling ... wait for it ... HALLOWEEN ALE. It launches August 4.

“Halloween Ale is our most popular seasonal beer at Gritty’s,” said the company's Vice President and Master Brewer Ed Stebbins in a press release.  “August is not too early to start thinking about fall – especially in New England – and enjoying this robust Ale.”

Ed, with all the respect a hard-drinking society usually reserves for zen-master master brewers: Have you lost your mind? Have you been sniffing the hops? Are you making a suds jest?
Because it is actually soooo too early to start thinking about fall. Maybe you've been out of town -- but Maine just exited the most rain-infested June in 138 years. Just two weeks ago, animals started standing two-by-two on the pier, moved by some instinct we don't fully understand. The freakin' color is washing out of our lobsters, Ed, and the formerly "one-in-30-millon" yellow lobsters are showing up like out-of-state plates.

We were expecting to hear that your yummy summer ales were being replaced with Swamp Monster Amber or Cloudy Day Mini Kegs.
But this ... on the other hand, you have to hand it to your marketing geniuses: Start thinking about fall already, and you're gonna need a drink. Here's your new marketing slogan: "It's a good year to be here, summer's on a weekend."

Maybe we'll feel differently August 4. Maybe the glories of the glorious sounding hops -- Whitbread Goldings, East Kent Goldings, B.C. Kent -- and that 1060 starting gravity will turn us around ... okay, I'll admit that the Halloween Ale is a favorite and generally considered justification for western civilization.
What the heck. Bring on the Halloween Ale -- it is any good on mosquito bites?

Ah, yes, the good with the bad.

It could have been any neighborhood bar, I guess, but it was Annie's on Congress Street near my headquarters in Portland, Maine. This was back when Johnny was still tending bar at Annie's, before the new sign went up, and I think we were talking about an all-nude bowling league when Death took a seat at the end of the bar.

The Big D walked in with a guy named Jason. I don't know Jason well, but he's maybe 30, a lively conversationalist, tells great stories and you have to like that he rides his bike to the bar in mid-winter Maine, mostly because he felt the local cops cut him a break once -- thus he owes it to them to never, ever drive after having even one beer. It's unclear what the "break" was, but I gather a very tired Jason once napped in his car at roadside and his wakeup call wore a badge. And maybe he wasn't alone. Or dressed. But perhaps I enhance that story -- the details remain wonderfully fuzzy.

Jason is a mechanic who talks about cars the way my Freewill Baptist grandmother talked about the Rapture. He ordered a PBR and noted flatly that one of his favorite customers had died, and he'd just fixed the window of a Honda for the guy, and he was only about 50-something and that just sucks.

"He was fine the other day," said Jason staring into the mid-range. "Just the other day. Fine."

Welcome to local pub, 101, and when they compile those "best of" lists, I wish they would always include best pub-pubs.

The Drink:  Redbreast Irish Whiskey
The Place: Chelsea Hotel, New York City
Space/Time: 3 a.m.


Redbreast is clearly among the elite Irish whiskeys, but that’s not what makes it great for drinking at 3 a.m. with the ghosts of the Chelsea. What makes it perfect is the looong finish that allows you to contemplate the New York streets in ways unknown to those staying in hotels without huge open windows and a nice breeze fluttering the surprisingly stained curtains.

We’re here to talk about long finishes. The Chelsea is under new management, with resulting controversy, but it doesn’t take The Donald to see that a funky 12-story Bohemian hotel in this location (222 W23rd St.) with Manhattan real estate being what it is … hell, lot track of the sentence because an overwhelming stench of Doom floated up from the keyboard like landing-zone smoke in Vietnam movies.

But fuck that. If it’s finished, it’s going to take a while because of people like whoever writing the “Living With Legends” blog – an example of what blogging should be and a slice of justification for Western Civilization, which is in shorter supply dignity in politics.