When I was 20, I went to a winery in Switzerland.  We sat in a cool cave around a wooden table, eating cured meat and tasting the wines.  I was astounded to see an older gentleman in the corner, sipping, swirling, and then spitting into a pail.  He was wearing one of those “can’t you tell that I’m french?” checkered neck scarves, and a beret.  For real.  I couldn’t fathom it.  A few years later… I can imagine life without alcohol, but I can’t imagine life without wine.  This blog is the outpouring of Epicurean indulgence, a dread of mediocrity and a dash of scientific narcissism — the latter to the extent that I am hoping for some revelation to pop out of this painstaking catalogue.  If you are reading this, I hope you profit from the experience.  Cheers.