…so I painted a wall in my sitting room in the color of metallic gold.

Each coat (three in all) was painted at night, after work in three consecutive nights. It looks absolutely fabulous. I look at it and I think of Egypt and Cleopatra, I get nostalgic for the gold borders on my mother’s saris and I think of all the hours my mother tortured me during shopping adventures for gold jewelry in the town of Flacq in Mauritius where bling-bling is cheap.

There are wines that are connected to certain eras. In the early days (the late nineties) of my time at Astor Wines, the bottles that captured attention were the Dagueneaus, Tempiers, CVNEs, Beaucastels, Rayas’ and the DRCs (when it was actually affordable).

It was a time that preceded the natural-wine wave when sound wine drinkers looked to tradition, terroir and typicity. To this day I try to recall the way I related to wine then. It was before blogs, Wine Therapy, Wine Disorder, Twitter and Ten Bells. It’s like trying to imagine life before the internet.

Jim and I worked at Astor together in 1998. It was where we met. We consumed champagne almost every weekend and constantly purchased wines from Burgundy (his love) and the Rhône (my then love). A lot of these bottles have sat collecting dust in his basement studio on Tenth Street in the East Village.

The small and odd collection of wine we’d amassed has grown to have significance for me – pointing to the life I had with Jim for twelve years. The last year was full or turmoil and change but we’re making it through as good friends. Division of goods has been easy and our little cellar was no question. We will still drink our beloved bottles together, and share them with the willing, but we wondered, had the wines been destroyed in temperatures that were not ideal?

We decided to find out by opening two Rhônes on Monday night: Ch. Rayas’ second label Pignan 1996 Châteauneuf-du-Pape and Ch. Fonsalette ’95 Côtes-du-Rhône. Jim hosted dinner, cooked his special burgers (freshly ground beef rump from Ottomanelli) and we shared the bottles with Jon Wallace and John Rankin from Chambers Street Wines.

Both wines showed beautifully and surprised us a little. The ’96 Pignan seemed more evolved than the Fonsalette. 1996 was Jacques Raynaud’s final vintage, before his death in 1997. (He had no offspring and the estate has since been taken over by his nephew. I’ve no idea what the wines are like these days, though I am curious). The fruit was still fairly ripe, the tannins were almost sweet, the wine smelled of violets and old wood (I hear Rayas CdP was typically fermented in tank and raised in foudres but not sure about the élevage for the second label).

What also made Rayas stand apart from other CdP producers was his focus on Grenache. Out of all the varieties permitted by the appellation, his choice was all Grenache, a grape that can produce wines that are cloying in their youth but this was a stunning wine.

The Fonsalette ‘95 was all blood and Marmite (sort of like a beef bouillon cube), tar and iodine, darker and deeper. It reminded me of why I loved the Rhône (North and South) so much and that I shouldn’t have defected entirely (Eric Texier aside) to the Loire of late. For today’s sign o the times, maybe I’ll snag a bottle of Gonon St. Joseph from CSW, and open it in fifteen years.

I am the proud caretaker of a wee thing called Marmite, formerly known as Miles. I adopted my furry friend on Labour Day weekend from the dear owners of Thirst Wine Merchants and Thirst Bar A Vin, Michael and Emilia. Turns out the duo aren’t just passionate about honest wine and food – they care about homeless, troubled felines too.

Marmite was rescued during Hurricane Irene (remember the “apocalyptic” weekend?) along with his brother (Michael and Emilia kept Booker). Michael posted a photo of the two siblings on Facebook, and revealed they were looking for a home. I immediately shot him an email, found myself perched at their bar the following day for some lentils, gamay and kitten viewing. I was introduced to an all black, tiny and terrified thing, with bewildered eyes and a single white paw.

Two days later Marmite was hiding behind the loo in my bathroom and I’d have to gently take him by the scruff of his neck and hold him close. His little heart would beat like mad but it was a matter of mere days before I won his trust. Three months later, Marmite runs the length of my apartment, causes havoc (like climbing up my net curtain), greets me at the door, begs for attention whenever I’m working/browsing from my laptop, and he loves to cuddle in bed.

I am now the cat lady.

To mark the final day of my vacation in the city, the rains are falling. I am just returned from a soggy trip to Cortelyou Road with my Lefferts Gardens neighbor and CSW colleague, let’s call him JMW since we all go by our initials at the shop. This particular Sunday farmer’s market is surprisingly sizable. Knoll Krest Farm eggs, the ubiquitous Di Paolo’s (the “spoofulated” farm stand as JMW put it), Bardwell’s cheeses, and a couple of enticing seafood, grass-fed beef and usual Mexican specialty all-veg stands were there. It is not far from the breakfast serving Farm on Adderley – a restaurant I intend to hit in the next four weeks.

On a grander scale, I took my first journey north through Prospect Park to visit the Greenmarket at Grand Army Plaza yesterday. It is the second biggest greenmarket after Union Square but considerably more chill with a great many good stands for seasonal produce. I could have spent a bomb, had I had a bomb in my pocket, instead I made out with garlic scapes (so fucking earthy), and a small honeydew melon (that’s currently stinking out my apartment), along with sweet heirloom tomatoes, among other goodies.

Perhaps my favorite market journey of all was Borough Hall on Tuesday. It was simply sweet, sweet, sweet and heaving with peaches. The major score for me is that it’s situated a short walk away from Sahadi. Oh how I love Sahadi.

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Departing from my greenmarket vacation forays, I also visited the new DeKalb Market with my good mate Chantal. It was hot and the sun was intense; it had that gritty urban feel that reminded me of a swap meet (the first time I heard this term I thought everyone was saying “swamp mead”) in a city like L.A.

DeKalb Market is sheltered in an abandoned lot surrounded by food stands (our choice that afternoon was unfortunately disappointing) and filled with tables and benches to nosh at while listening to the slightly too-loud music, spun live by one of the resident DJs. Being a Wednesday afternoon it wasn’t busy but the cross section of Brooklyn-ites was eclectic to say the least, consisting of the lunching local elderly, stroller mummies, cool afro-punk chicks and the occasional skinny hipster. Customized shipping containers house small boutiques. My favorites were the Pratt pop-up shop and Harriet’s By Hekima. The latter caused me to fish for my credit card to procure a playful navy tank top dress, flared at the bottom with a crazy ruffle of West African cotton print in loud yellow and red. I’ll be wearing it until Labor Day.

Lefferts Gardens isn’t a food destination. Manhattanites (or other Brooklyn kin) aren’t trekking here for off-the-beaten-path grub featured in influential publications, but for anyone that lives here, De Hot Pot is a sweet Trinidadian curry and roti café .

Vee cooks the food. She’s a moody lady and she’ll give you the cold shoulder if she feels like it, for no apparent reason. I like her despite the hot and cold temperature, or perhaps I like her for it. The first time I introduced myself as a newcomer to the neighborhood I was met with frosty skepticism. Until, that is, I told her Fritz (my neighbor and a long time Lefferts resident and Trini ex-pat) sent me. The ice melted. My intimate knowledge of achar (spicy Indian pickle) didn’t hurt either.

The third encounter had us bonding over curry recipes. I bemoaned the distance I had to travel for curry leaves. She looked at me oddly, tilted her head, and questioned, “girl, ya mean kari poulay?” The common language for curry leaves got me way excited. Vee gets her ingredients from Queens, where there is a large desi community. She travels to work everyday, from one borough to another.

On this visit I felt bold enough to approach the subject of roti.  I told her I’d never seen roti so big  – “it’s the size of a table cloth” exclaimed my friend Chantal — to which Vee explained that in Guyana the rotis are small like India but Trinidadians make them big for the practical purpose of feeding guests at large weddings and celebrations. It’s easier to roll out one big roti instead of three small ones when you’re feeding hundreds.

We’ve shared our love of bones with each other too. Here’s an excerpt (as much as I can recall) of another recent visit.

Me: Hi Vee, I’m here for goat curry. I like the bones, will you give me plenty of bones?

Vee: Ya like bone? Ya like me. I don need meat, jus bone.

And did she pile it on. I came home with a container overflowing with curry sauce and a roti the size of a tablecloth.

Here’s a picture, portioned out of course.

Just how much can change in a year? A lot. This long time East Villager took herself to Brooklyn and got a job at Chambers Street Wines. Pinch me. I’m not dreaming.

My one-bedroom apartment has a hallway. A. Hallway. There are no tall buildings blocking my view to the spread of sky viewed from my sitting room window. I find myself overlooking the train tracks of Prospect Park station each morning and night. It doesn’t look like New York City as I’ve come to know it in the last 13 years; this image, before me, looks a lot like Europe. The first time a friend saw the view he joked that I had Rome outside my window. Apart from the trains (a sound I love) it’s dead quiet here.

My dad worked for the British Rail for years, before ticket machines replaced humans. He wore his uniform, shined his shoes and blew his whistle for as long as I can remember at Streatham Hill station. I grew up in Balham, an area that was serviced by both the underground and overground trains – the sound of locomotive engines don’t bother me one bit, if anything it is a comfort.

I’ve been dwelling at my new apartment for two months now. Each day gets a little sweeter. My floors are laid with bamboo parquet, the walls stand pristine white and the minimal surroundings provide a good backdrop for coffee & reading rituals, wine & dinner indulgences. I’m a block away from Prospect Park and a two blocks from the Botanical Gardens.

As a neighborhood, Lefferts Gardens is incredibly cool. And I don’t mean in a trendy way. The residents are mostly Caribbean and African American. There is a large Rastafarian culture here. It really reminds me of Brixton. Lefferts feels more real than Williamburg, less out of the way than Sunset Park and more working class than Park Slope. I watched Crooklyn one night and was completely charmed by this early Spike Lee sleeper. It was based on Bed-Stuy but it sure resembles my new hood. And how can you not fall in love with Troy?

It was a wretched 90+ temperature degree-day with Russian-bath-level humidity when I headed to LDM’s short n’ sweet tasting last week. I needed to find out what the hell the Foti wines were all about. Lee – the coolest chick in the wine biz – revealed it to be one of the best wines she’s tasted thus far in 2010.

The line-up consisted of about 30-something bottles, mostly old favorites (Puzelat, Chaussard, Montescondo and more) with a few new producers to the portfolio thrown in.

I got to taste Coquelet’s wines from Beaujolais for the first time. Damien Coquelet is Georges Descombes stepson. The Beaujolais Villages ’09 sells for a mere $14.99 at Chambers Street Wines. It was bright, clean, showed really good acidity and stood up to the heat, despite its delicate nature. Then came the Chiroubles ’09, giving more complexity and lead on the palate. Loved it. And not a bad price either at $172 frontline.

There were two wines that weren’t on the tasting list, from the Roussillon. Cheesy labels, but hey don’t judge a wine by its cover. Bruno Duchêne is located in Banyuls-sur-Mer in French Catalonia, Roussillon. La Luna 2009 is a VdP de la Côte Vermeille, made from Grenache and Carignan. It had an earthy nose, red fruits and a sort of gentle, breezy personality, a little like its beachside label depicts. I liked it. A lot. The same producer’s Puchene Collioure Pascolie (mostly Grenache 50+ year old vines) on the other hand is darker, deeper and shows this gorgeous note of violet with an overall gamey-ness about it. Give it to me in the fall for my next pot-roast please. In the meantime, Ten Bells are getting in some magnums of La Luna “and some of his crazy cuvee “L’Anodine” 09.” Whoever (Fifi?) writes the Facebook posts has me curious.

So the Foti wines. Wow-wee. Bianco “Vinujancu” 2008 tastes like a hardcore dry Riesling with a bunch of other stuff. And that is exactly what it is (a blend of Carricante, Riesling, Minella and Grecanico) but it’s also got this mineral, mineral, mineral that really reminds me of why I love Gulfi’s Carricante a lot. It is all, one presumes, in the volcanic soils of Mt. Etna in Sicily. The Rosso was pretty amazing but, ouch, the price [$440 frontline] but it was all the things I love: high acid, bright fruit, pretty, racy and nervy.

Finally, not new, but first time I tried it was the Champs Libres St Péray Brut NV (that is actually made from 2005-harvested Marsanne). Funky-monkey and a little rancio. And I have to mention the Puzelat Pétillant Naturel because the price is right ($160) and it’s a musty, herbaceous, textured, farm-like wine. I’d rather not be stuck in the city right now but be chilling in the country, drinking this stuff.

From talk of its inception, I expected Town Hall Hotel to stand apart from most boutique hotels. For a start Artsadmin (an edgy East London-based company that produces and supports contemporary artists) had been hired by Peng Loh (a young Singaporean hotelier) to curate the artwork for the space. My rabble-rousing brother, Manick Govinda, happens to work for Artsadmin and clued me in on the project about a year ago. He recently told me he loved the entire process from conception to fruition. And I’ve got to say I’m struck by the end results.

Town Hall Hotel opened in March 2010. It is housed in the old Bethnal Green Town Hall. It’s off a busy, gritty street that remains diverse despite East London’s now explosive hipster scene. Depending on what direction you’re coming from, as you walk along Cambridge Heath Road, you’ll likely pass a handful of small Asian cafes serving basic grub and a rather large car mechanics where men are still men.

I walked into the building through the restaurant entrance (you have to turn the corner onto Patriot Square for hotel access). To the right is the hotel bar and to the left is Viajante, which by the way is fully booked through to September and has a waiting list in the three digits. The bar is tastefully stylish. Manick was running late so I took a seat and perused the menu. Whoa. Wine geek alert. This was no yawn-inducing Clicquot, Moet, Henschke, Penfolds, line up. For starters, the champers is mostly grower-producer. I spied Selosse Initiale, Vilamart Grand Cellier and Lassaigne Les Vignes de Montgueuex. This place would be the bomb if it were in NYC.

I ordered Lopez de Heredia Vina Tondonia Rosado (by the glass for seven quid). Charles Jouget Cuvee Terroir was on offer among the reds btg. The wine director (who at that moment was unbeknownst to me) had my full attention and respect. Word. Even more so when I found out she’s an unconventional professional wino, an Asian woman sporting a mohawk. Word Up. Bar snacks are delectable, simple and sometimes Iberian inflected. The head bartender is a no-nonsense dour sort of English man who makes a damn good cocktail. I tried the bracingly bitter Hanky Panky (a mix of gin, Antica Vermouth and Fernet Branca).

While I waited for Manick to arrive, my attention was drawn to a large piece of text engraved into a narrow cut of sand blasted glass, which fit perfectly into a narrow alcove just above the stairway to the loo. The words were full of images. When Manick arrived he explained to me that it was the work of WalkWalkWalk – a collaboration between three artists. Smaller pieces of texts by the same artists can be discovered in unexpected spots at the hotel.

This isn’t your usual flashy Schnabel-like paintings (on view at Gramercy Park Hotel) or the traditional visuals adorning the walls at more classic hotels or, worse yet, wallpaper art. No, the artwork work at Town hall Hotel is playful, thought provoking, modern, quirky and quite brilliant. I took in my favorite piece when Manick whisked me through a little tour of the artwork and we got to the floor where artist Debbie Lawson had created wood-paneled images of saucy, intimate, sexual Victoriana, cut from the likes of London plane, sycamore, bird’s eye maple and walnut. In one instance a woman’s nipple is the natural swirl of grain in a piece of wood. I do it no justice here. You’ll have to book a room, have a glass of wine, head upstairs in a giddy mood and see for yourself.

A few days here and there is all I’ve experienced of Paris over the last few years. I’m thinking it is about time I plunge in and get a real dose of the city everyone loves to love (& hate). Not sure how I will achieve this but I hope to play the ex-pat writer in the city of lights one day. Yesterday was my final day at Tinto Fino. A sweet shop it was but vinos de España and I weren’t meant to be. Now I find myself dreaming of the possibilities. I’m free (and yes poor) again. I can keep dreaming, can’t I?

My most recent morsel of Paris was just for 3 days. My friend, May Matta, joined me for walks, talks, eating & drinking. We stayed in the pricey-posh neighborhood of St-Germain-des-Prés and tested the grounds with two local spots: Boissonnerie and Le Comptoir. Francois Chidaine, whose Montlouis and Vouvray wines I adore, recommended the former. The latter restaurant has plenty of buzz online and was suggested to me by Sharon Bowman.

We almost didn’t make it to Le Comptoir but after stumbling upon La Crèmerie (they weren’t serving lunch that day) we were encouraged to try and get a table there. It was a moment that couldn’t be planned. We spied Doug & Tina Polaner seated at the packed out spot. They kindly gave us the remains of a bottle of Lapierre Morgon, which I preceded with a glass of Renardat-Fâche Cerdon. I needed something pretty, fresh and light for the 85-degree scorcher of a day. The food made me swoon. May and I noshed on dishes of white asparagus, baked eggs with cepes with Peruvian potato chips and snails drenched in butter and parsley.

The chow at La Boissonerie was equally good as was exemplified in a first course of eel with crème fraiche and second courses of succulent rare lamb chops with lentilles du Puy and an exquisite fish dish that May ordered, topped with an orange grated root vegetable (no not carrots) I haven’t heard of – all of it sitting in a mushy cloud of potato and pistachio nut oil. Perfection. I immersed myself in Chenin. First the razor sharp and salivating Belliviere Jasniere Les Rosiers ’08, followed by a rather rich Pierre-Bise Anjou Le Haut de la Garde (2008), a sans souffre wine that seemed to have botrytized grapes in there.

A repeat performance was made at Verre Vole (I’d been in Oct last year) where I had my first taste of Domaine Prieuré-Roch Nuits “1” 2007, a Nuits St. Georges1er Cru. OMG. Winemaker Henry-Frédéric Roch, is the co-director of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti and the wine is not available in the States. It is Burgundy that’ll make you cry. Really reminded me of Pacalet – earthy, floral, hints of iodine. Just stunning.

Finally, dinner was had at quedubon in the Belleville neighborhood. The restaurant was adorable, staff was lovely and the food was honest and tasty. Had some of the best cheese here and discovered a very lovely pet-nat VdT from Montlouis called “Rose à Lies” produced by Jousset, along with an Alsatian blanc – Sylvie Spielman Riesing Reserve Bergheim 2007.  The Jousset was so good I ordered two glasses.

Oh the bottles I’ve had of this wine, the memories associated with it…the search for gratification from Astor Wines in the East Village to Slope Cellars in Brooklyn. I recall when all accounts ran out because small-production vino offers very, very finite numbers. Like the end of a summer fling, I was broken hearted. The third arm of the methode ancestrale trinity, along with Rene Mosse Moussamousette (and that too ran out late last year) and Renardat-Fâche Cerdon du Bugey, had gone but now it’s back.

Spied in the ice bucket at the recent Savio Soares tasting, I was thrilled to see it’s slender, graceful neck peeking out among a handful of sparkling wine bottles. I took in my first sip for 2010 and marveled at its prettiness and pure grape-y sweetness.

Soares said he’s gotten more in this year but it wasn’t easy. Apparently, everyone wants this wine, including Japan.