Some wines age. Others simply become old. This was our experience with two bottles, drunk several months apart, of a 1964 Nebbiolo riserva by the great Piemonte producer Luigi Nervi of Gattinara (the estate was bought by Germano Bocciolone in the 1990s). The nebbiolo of Gattinara is known locally as Spanna and, according to  Joseph Bastianich and David Lynch’s Vino Italiano, “represents the purest expression of nebbiolo of the northern zones.” Oh goody!

We approached opening the first bottle with gingerly anticipation, like supplicants gently and perhaps fearfully dancing toward the altar of some wine deity. A properly aged bottle, in this case dating from the first full year of LBJ’s presidency, is to be revered by anyone who drinks wine. Aldo and I, in fact, have often debated whether the ordinary palate can fully discern and describe what one experiences from such a bottle, and this merely fueled the anticipation.

Aldo thinks there are very definite limits to most people’s sensitivies—he makes an obvious exception for the likes of Robert Parker, Jancis Robinson and Meryl Streep when she is playing Julia Child. His ideas about his own sensitivies, he once revealed to me in a tipsy confessional moment, have been stamped by his  grade-school reading of a child’s biography of Thomas Aquinas, in which the saint was described in boyhood as being mocked as “the dumb ox” by the other students. I asked Aldo why he would identify with this aspect of Aquinas, since after he grew up to display a rather discriminating intelligence. …

At any rate, the point is that Aldo was not at all sure he would be wowed by the Nervi, but he said he was willing to blame himself should that prove to be the case.

But I prefer to anticipate great things, all the better to experience them.

As a result, when we opened the first of our two Nervis, I was more forgiving of its unattractive nose, which was decidedly musky and lacking any fruit. Aldo thought it smelled like a swamp or, worse, a sewage plant. You may notice, by the way, that he was not especially self-doubting after all.

In the glass, I have to admit, the Nervi was not pretty. A thick, sluicy brown, it looked like chocolate syrup thinned with lemon juice.

Eventually the nose neutralized, which at least was a step forward, but on the palate—mmmm, there was a strong possibility we had a dud. The taste was not technically spoiled or bad, just not  pleasurable. There was still a little structure, some dark flavors that might be dried fig or a dried cherry if you are talking about cherry that had been dried back about the time Pope Gregory reformed the calendar.

At any rate, we finished the thing, but with a spirit of disillusionment. You can accept that a bottle can be off, but when it has spent its entire fermenting life—the passage of several generations—only to finally be revealed as an under- or even non-achiever, it’s a sad occasion. All those seasons, all those holidays, all those presidents, and the bottle sat them out in shadow, waiting, waiting, waiting for that moment when it would be opened and allowed to reveal itself to delighted oohs and ahs, like a butterfly with a perfectionist streak that had spent a prolonged gestation in its cocoon.

But the wine just comes out blah, its moment is gone, and no one will ever have anything nice to say about it. Those grapes are doomed to a forgotten eternity.

And of course I had paid for the bottle, cellared it for a few additional years, savored the vinodrama of it all. That didn’t lighten the mood, either. Aldo said the experience made him think of  Flaubert’s Sentimental Education—something epic in spirit but, in the payoff, dribbling ironically to anticlimax.

A few months later, we uncorked the second Nervi, this time with our expectations reversed. And this time with a better payoff.

Off the bat, it was more attractive in the glass: a ruddy garnett. The nose was strongly musty, and mossy, but there was still spice to it, some dark fruit, a light whiff of cherry. The acidity had held up well, and there even remained a trace, a slight tug to the cheeks, of tanins: The structure had kept the wine essentially intact for four decades. Fruit had almost vanished from the palate, but what was left behind was a satisfying blend of earth flavors, coffee, tar and fig, and the leisurely finish left a lingering flavor of anise.

Was this second Nervi profoundly, sublimely good? No. But reassuring, satisfying. It was like hearing an old recording of, say, a very good tenor: The surface imperfections are unavoidable—but the voice comes through, and you can perhaps imaginatively reconstruct the instrument at its peak. This wine would have been a richer experience if opened ten years ago, but you can argue that it could also have remained corked a little longer.

Ah well. This is part of the aesthetic gamble of wines worth aging instead of being labeled “drink now” in the bin. A few nights ago at a family dinner we uncorked a 15-year-old Beaujolais Moulin-à-Vent by Georges Duboeuf—a magnum—and it had mellowed beautifully. In the glass, an opaque mulberry.  On the palate, good acid and flavors that revealed themselves on the back palate: plum and rhubarb. And, as one guest noted, “it even gives a good buzz.”

Manhattan has just come through the hottest July in millennia, and I have come home from a trip to find Aldo melted into a pool on the apartment. I recognize strands of his goatee and his crocs. How to revive my poor friend?One. Turn on the a.c. – I suspect he was in the process of reaching for the switch, but was already too reduced in size to succeed.

Two. Repair to the wine fridge and pick a bottle of rosé.

We drink rosés all year round, Aldo and I, but before my trip we had focused on the happy exercise of tasting and rating bottle after bottle from New York stores. Our sentiment was noble: Wouldn’t it benefit and educate mankind if we set forth our thoughts on wines from the 2009 vintage, the ones being made available this summer?

Wine sellers make their big rosé push in these hot months. Possibly the notion is that consumers, who generally prefer reds, will think of rosés as a red that has somehow lightened along with the season—it’s on vacation. The color of rosés is, indeed, a beautiful range of berry, coral, salmon, with flecks of ruby and orange, and a perfect match for a setting sun. And, if you’re an artist or decorator, that easily could be the standard by which you choose one at the store. But you may want a rosé that’s a good match for dinner, or for an appetitizer of cheese. You may want it with some heft on the palate. You may want it fleet, a bit sweet, fruity or dry. They’re versatile enough to hit those points solidly, and also differently, without being too expensive, or too demanding. These aren’t usually wines meant for aging. But some really fine rosés can.

On the other hand, let’s start by noting that—well, a certain fatigue can set in with rosés, although the French ones were almost invariably our favorites. This is not a list that ranges from, say, Tolstoy to Harold Robbins. It’s more like a diet of EM Forster, encompassing both considerable delights and …. slight limits. Now our 2009 favorites:

Puzelat Ko Rosé/ Sari Puzelat-Bonhomme. A welcoming nose of mint and floral aromas. On the palate, layered, long flavors of raspberry and honeysuckle, giving way to a finish of ginger and anise. Light-bodied, with an underlying sweetness. Under $15. (Importer: Louis/Dressner.)

Cantalupo/”Il Mimo.” A very dependable Piedmont Nebbiolo rosé we’ve enjoyed in the past, and enjoyed this time too. In the glass, a deep salmon pink—almost sushi—with aromas of cherry soda, anise and rose petals. The first impression on the palate is of a bright cherryiosity, if you will, rounded out by rhubarb, nectarine, citrus and licorice. The slight tannin keeps the wine from a cloying fruitiness. Not a deep wine—and that masque on the label is a bit Phantom of the Opera—but approachable, pleasant and a good value for $15. (Importer: Polaner Selections.)

Dom. Tempier. From Bandol, in Provence. A touch of beige lightens the salmon color in the glass. A delicate but rich nose: citrus, light floral, honeysuckle, peach. On the palate: medium-plus acidity, medium bodied. The flavors, which unfold broadly at midpalate, include lemon, melon, a little honey, baked apple, almond, grapefruit, and spice at the finish. Long length. It is rounded, understatedly complex and concentrated—quite elegant. Aldo described it as a fawn peeping out amid tall grasses. $38. (Importer: Kermit Lynch.)

Bermejo Rosado. From Lanzarote in the Canary Islands. This boldly tart, nearly full-bodied wine was our favorite choice from Spain. Color: Cranberry with flecks of orange—very pretty, very inviting. On the nose, light notes of guava, cherry and tropical fruit. On the palate: High acidity, a slight oiliness and a burst of cranberry that fades to star anise. $29. (Importer: Vinos & Gourmet Inc./a Jose Pastor Selection.)

Schloss Gobelsburger. From Austria. Medium aromas of musk, tea, orange and floral notes on the nose; and, in the mouth, medium flavors of lemon, spice, tea and orange, with a citrus finish—a subtly layered taste experience, delivered with crisp acidity. Good construction, mild and refreshing. At $14, a very good deal. (Importer: Michael Skurnik.)

Mas des Bressades. The rosés of Provence were almost uniformly the most intriguing of the wines we tasted, with a particular delicacy of color and a light minerality that make them instantly identifiable. This one, a blend of grenache, syrah and cinsault, was a beautiful coral, touched by orange, with a sharp aroma of berries underpinned by leaves and earth. In the mouth, it was smooth, slightly tangy, balanced, with the dominant flavors being anise, orange rind and vanilla, with a slight cinnamon heat at the end. A rosé with some bite on the palate, but some nuance beyond that—broad, rapid layerings of flavor. Hardly a better rosé for $12. (Importer, Robert Kacher)

Chateau Soucherie/Cuvée l’astrée. This Loire wine is salmon colored, of course, but with a lustrous pearliness and a pronounced nose of lavendar. Palate is dry, with high acidity and medium body, as well as medium flavors of citrus, lemon, pomegranate, almond and strawberry. Long length, with a citrus finish. Somewhat tart, even a little taut—which gives it a light, lithe muscularity amid so many of these rosés. $16. (Importer: Neal Rosenthal.)

Clos Sainte Madeleine. This Cassis wine begins with a rather beguiling Provençal nose—peach, honey, wildflower—followed with a gentle palate of grapefruit, apricot, tropical fruit. It is both light and long, very well-made. Aldo described it as being like a little well-pitched tent in a field of blossoms. We can’t really do much about him, can we? $24. (Importer: Kermit Lynch.) Clos Roche Blanche. A rosé of Pinot d’Aunis from the Loire. Comes unfiltered, with a grapefruit nose, high acidity and focused grapefruit flavor too—it’s a palate cleanser, and charmingly breezy. You can imagine drinking it at a spa instead of taking the waters. $19. (Importer: Louis/Dressner.)

Jean-Marie Raffault. Another Loire gem. This refreshing Chinon has a medium intense nose of cherry and musk, with a slight floral note. Concentrated palate of cherry, strawberry, rhubarb, lemon and nutmeg—some minerality, to boot. Lightly tannic, with crisp acidity—a balanced, firm wine, with long length and a citrus finish. $18. (Importer: VOS Selections.)

Robert Sinskey/ Vin Gris of Pinot Noir. From Los Carneros, Calif. For all the pleasure of the French wines, this California rosé, made of pinot noir, is a great one, and possibly the most memorable of the 50 or so we tasted. Medium plus aromas of rose, rust, clove, tea, orange. Crisp acidity, medium bodied, no tannins. Flavors of strawberry, blood orange, ginger—an unusually harmonious palate, so concentrated it almost has the quality of distilled fruit. Smooth, silky mouthfeel. $30.

Christian Lauverjat/Moulin des Vrilleres. This Sancerre rosé pours out a pretty coral—the most beguiling color in a rosé—and gives off a nose of red berries and citrus. Well-balanced, with refined flavors of lemon, hazelnut, pineapple and minerality. To-the-point, but elegant. $20. (Importer: David Bowler.)

Gerard Boulay Rosé. This Sancerre from Chavignol gives off a ravishing color—pale pink flecked with orange—and a ravishing nose too: light aromas of cranberry, musk, orange rind and even a little bacon. The acidity is crisp, the body medium, and there is a faint drying in the mouth—a hint of tannin. Medium flavors of blood orange, lemon, grapefruit rind, cranberry and nectarine, with a stone-fruit finish. Concentrated, complex, even atmospheric—Matisse would have enjoyed having a glass at hand while painting. $26. (Importer: Polaner Selections.)

Rows of chardonnay vines at Malivoire vineyards on Ontario’s Beamsville Bench on the Niagara escarpment. Ontario is no longer just a pilgrimage site for Canadian ice wines. With increasingly warm vintages in recent years, Ontario has begun to produce distinctive, world-class chardonnay, as well as cool-climate reds, in the Niagara and Prince Edward counties on Lake Ontario.

We stayed at the W hotel in South Beach for a few days recently. The dark and airy lobby of the hotel, which opened less than a year ago, is decorated with striking pieces of contemporary art by major artists—Damien Hirst, George Condo. It’s a salute to Art Basel, but the place didn’t seem lit well enough to really encourage you to stop and look, only to admire their presence there, as celebrities.

Aldo was rather baffled while sitting in the lobby, next to a table adorned with a statue of a small, golden pig: A member of the staff stepped up quietly, said, “I think it looks better here,” and moved it over to the next table. Did she think Aldo would steal it? Or did she really think it deserved to be placed at Spot B instead of Spot A? To Aldo, it felt vaguely like a lost incident from Henry James’ Spoils of Poynton.

But our room was chic and light, with a sort of chandelier made of small cystal discs that reached from ceiling to floor. It was lovely, and stirred like a wind chime whenever the sliding glass doors were open. It also chimed when the air-conditioning was on a night: That was an odd effect, to lie there and hear the whoosh of the fan kicking in and, a few seconds later, the air stirring in the crystals.

We spent a few hours by the pool, but felt rather restless. There is the old wisdom of Pascal: Man’s problems could all be avoided if he would be content to just sit in a room. Or by a pool. Pascal probably never got invited along on anyone’s vacations.

So we drove into Miami and its Design District, where it always seems to be high noon: There’s a shadowless quiet to the streets. I’m surprised skinny dogs aren’t spotted loping around the corners looking hungry and worried. We had our first night’s dinner there at Sra. Martinez. This is a high-end tapas-style restaurant run by Michelle Bernstein. She’s best known for Michy’s, a zesty little restaurant further up Biscayne Boulevard in the funky-desolate row known as MiMo (Miami Modern).We settled on Sra. Martinez this time rather than Michy’s after Frank Bruni wrote it up—yes, we were on the Frank Bruni Trail. You didn’t think we’re the types who rough it, did you?

We can only lament, once again, the tragedy of the American tapas joint. The food was, on the whole, very good—the standout was a small risotto with calamari and chimichuri. But it’s frustrating to determine how much to order, and the plates keep coming out like some enchanted ballet from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. The large box of a room (the building used to be a post office) was done up with reds and browns to create the ambiance of a prosperous old bordello or a place where Elvis might have ordered shots of tequila. We drank a rose, Quinta Clarisa 2007, produced by Belondrade y Lurton, but frankly you can’t enjoy a rosé with that sort of color palate. Or that large a space, or that prolific a menu. A rosé calls for less fuss.

The biggest culinary success in the Design District remains Michael’s Genuine Food and Drink, where we had lunch two days in a row—salads: one of rock shrimp, another of heirloom tomatoes and beets. Aldo thought he saw the photographer Bruce Weber there eating beneath the trees outside, but there are plenty of burly white-bearded men who wear bandanas on their heads. It could have been a retired pirate.

We returned to MiMo for our favorite meal, dinner at the enjoyably bizarre Red Light, stuck to the side of something called Blue Motel—old motels run up and down Biscayne, as if Norman Bates had gone on a building spree. Its ground floor looks like a cheap, retro diner. It made Aldo think of the old 24-hour Manhattan Meat Market hangout, Florent, and also of one of those twilight settings in a David Lynch movie. We ate outdoors and downstairs, at a table overlooking the Little River. This felt, strangely enough, like the waterfront club where Blanche Dubois does her damnedest to win over dumb old Mitch with the help of extremely dim, age-concealing lighting.

The wine list was rather frustrating, since that night it only offered, at most, five bottles. We settled on an albarino, which was served too cold—icy. There was a puzzlingly long wait for appetizer salads—the place wasn’t too busy—but our swordfish was excellent: deeply tangy. We would eat there again, without hesitation. Good food, and an atmosphere that’s both seductive and vaguely disorienting. Aldo in particular seems to enjoy this sort of thing.

Our last dinner was at Area 31 in the Epic hotel: We ate high up in the sky, on a terrace overlooking the city. Aldo, in fact, began suffering little twinges of vertico, and had to move his chair to look away. No one seemed to have thought to make this huge terrace a more attractive dining area: The lighting was harsh and, for some reason, clustered around the floor of the main entrance to the terrace. You felt as if accent lighting was being directed toward your seated torso. But we both had excellent servings of cuttlefish, which you don’t see often in Manhattan, and with it we selected a delightful Jura wine, the Arbois Puffeny 2003, from a very pleasing wine list.

We were seated next to a table of terribly arty people with two little dogs. Terribly arty people seem even more terribly arty outside the context of New York, and their little dogs seem even more ridiculously dainty—although these people and their dogs may have been from Manhattan.

This is snobbery, I suppose, but it’s true.

A memory from a few, very cold days spent in Alsace. One afternoon we left Strasbourg for a drive through the small vineyard towns to the south. Frigid air, intermittent sun, fields mostly brown and, one might think, shivering beneath a light blanket of old snow. Andrew Wyeth in France.  This vineyard was just outside Ribeauvillé.