The lunch was for Valdo, an Italian sparkling wine producer widely respected throughout Europe but only beginning to break into the American market. It was hosed by Dr. Pierluigi Bolla, (fantastic name, right?) whose family (Bolla) purchased Valdo in the 1940’s. (Beyond their interest in Valdo, the Bolla family is one of the most recognized in the Italian wine industry.)

I’ve come to expect certain things from a lunch such as this: the opportunity to taste many or all of a house’s wines with food and take notes at leisure; a small speech from the proprietor to give the kind of insight only someone with their heart and soul in an operation can provide and a little bit of hype and propaganda on the winery and its region. Normally, I would attend with the hopes of using one or two of the wines in an upcoming column and then file away the information to draw upon should it fit a freelance assignment somewhere down the road. It would normally never be something I’d share in a blog post; but the lunch changed my perspective on Prosecco so greatly that I felt the experience and my new found knowledge is worth sharing-hopefully you will feel the same!

You see, I’ve never been a fan of Prosecco. I view its rise in popularity as almost a nuisance in my lifelong goal of drinking as much methode champenoise as possible. Why, you might be asking? Because Prosecco is made not by the traditional bubbly-making method, methode champenoise, in which the grape juice naturally goes through a secondary fermentation in the bottle, thereby producing a fine stream of delicious effervescence. Instead, the bubbles are forced upon the wine in large tanks through a process called charmat. The method produces finer, more subtle bubbles but less complex wines. (Charmat-made wines tend not to age well and really only work with a fresh style of bubbly meant to be drunk right away.) However, it is a much less expensive method of producing bubbly, which is why restaurants can afford to offer Proseccos by the glass at drastically more affordable prices than those charged for Champagne.

So I actually went into the lunch fully expecting to enjoy the wine well enough to sip through the meal but really my purpose going in was more to learn than indulge.

And boy, did I learn!

First of all, to be specific, Valdo does make Prosecco but more broadly, it is a producer of Spumanti (Italian for bubbly). Until about two years ago, Prosecco was identified by grape but now this type of wine signifies region and only those wines made from grapes grown in the designated region may be called Prosecco. (The Italians stepped in to make this distinction when growers started producing things like Swiss Prosecco (made from the Prosecco grape, Glera, but not grown in the Prosecco region-which is actually terribly confusing since the soils and growing conditions in Switzerland are quite different than those of Italy’s Prosecco region.)

We started with the Brut Rose (the wine in the group that is not a Prosecco). Although I am a big fan of Brut Rose, this Spumanti was a little lean on effervescence for my taste. However, as we continued to drink the wine through the meal, I was amazed by its versatility. It paired well with all three savory courses of the lunch.

Next came the Prosecco Brut DOC, the winery’s simple, “good value” wine (retailing for approx $12). I absolutely loved the wine’s aromas which were at once faintly floral and fruity with just a hint of baking spice. Dr. Bolla explained that Glera is one of Italy’s most aromatic grapes. Valdo certainly knows how to take advantage of this characteristic!

At some point in the lunch, Dr. Bolla pointed out that on the neck of the bottle you can find the wine’s bottling date. This way, before you buy you can ensure the Prosecco’s freshness, (the wine is, as I mentioned, meant to be drunk young and vibrant). Its something I’d never considered before but it really represents a kind of accountability you’d never find in the American wine industry.

With the main course, we were introduced to Valdo’s two more serious sparkling wines: Cuvee Di Boj Prosecco DOCG Brut and Cuvee del Fondatore Prosecco DOCG Brut. Both wines, retailing in the $25 price range, offer a surprising amount of body and richness for a style I’d come to think of as essentially fresh, simple and, quite frankly, cheap.

In fact, I feel a bit of shame in admitting it, but Cuvee di Boj is the first Prosecco I’ve ever enjoyed as much as methode champenoise sparkling wine, would hope to drink again and would, in fact, be happy to purchase. The wine had a bit of those baking spice notes with a citrus freshness and apple fruitiness but was surprisingly savory on the finish. It made the pasta course come alive and kissed the arctic char with citrus and spice. (the del Fondatore, I should mention, was certainly no slouch either! A voluptuous wine with subtle sweetness, it too lent sophistication to the food.)

What can I say? Some days you go to lunch expecting to dine with Champagne’s poor cousin and you go home with a handsome prince!

This year’s pilgrimage was a bit more challenging than previous visits. No, it wasn’t for losing favorite haunts to the recession or personal financial crunch. My problem was much more basic.

I traveled all the way to New York for dinner and I got food poisoning.

You’re laughing at me. I can feel it.

It was most likely either the sashimi or those Virginia oysters, (yeah, that does seem suspect, now that I actually hear myself saying it). I will never know what really did it. All I will know is that I lost my appetite. For. a. 24. hour. stretch.

(Now, a friend asked me to explain for those of you who aren’t familiar with my soapbox that I am known for telling anyone who will listen that the rule about never eating oysters in an “R” month is completely outdated. So my comment was by no means a slam to the Virginia oyster business, it was written with irony for those of you who know of my campaign to get “R” month oysters off the endangered aphrodisiacs list.)

I also have to tell you that despite my stomach’s protest, I was not so far off my game that I couldn’t rally for a progressive dinner. After the oysters and a rosé Prosecco, (my first), there was a long stroll, followed by an unforgettable pork bun, perfectly sauced, at Momofuku Milk Bar. Luckily my misery had not yet struck, although the sample of stuffing-flavored soft serve, yes, stuffing-flavored–as in Thanksgiving, could have put me over the edge.

(There was also a purchase of compost cookies, which I originally mistook, quite naturally I think, for something psychedelic from Northern California. The cookies, which, sadly, have yet to be eaten a day later, are actually an outrageously decadent mash-up of chocolate chip cookie dough with mini pretzels, crushed potato chips and probably the kitchen sink.)

My friend Annette Tomei, a chef instructor at the French Culinary Institute (training ground of such famous faces as Bobby Flay) who led this gastronomic tour for two, also snagged one of the chocolate-chocolate cookies. These, she informed me, are said to be the best chocolate cookie in the city. We sampled a rather heavenly bite of the blackish-brown beauties (we’re guessing the result of using premium Valrohna cocoa powder) but saved most of the over-sized snack for later, to compare with the beloved baked goods at Milk and Cookies.

Next was a jaunt to Union Square to meet my brother, who was in town for a conference. Our trio moved on to cocktails at the newly opened Corsino. My Italian 75, a play on the traditional 75, was a refreshing and unsweetened blend of gin and Prosecco with a twist. Annette’s West Sider was a boozy enough mix that I’m shocked any hint of poisoning could have survived. We also munched house-made pickles and olives while my brother sampled washed-rind cheeses with a sparkling red.

This was about the point at which Annette and I simultaneously turned green. We decided soothing tea was in order and strolled Bleeker in search of a restorative elixir.

Unable to find a suitable stop after 5 on a Sunday evening, we headed to Milk and Cookies Bakery, where we were meeting friends a little later. We sipped tea and shared a scoop of black fig gelato while we waited than ordered a sampling of 6 cookies for the group. Peanut butter was a homey flavor and, although I’ve never quite found the appeal, the Snickerdoodle was moist with rich, buttery goodness.

The Momofuku Milk Bar cookie was unearthed from Annette’s purse and placed side-by-side on the unfolded cardboard container with the Milk and Cookies version.

Just by touch we could tell the superior cookie. The Milk and Cookies rendition was thicker and softened by a generous portion of butter. The Milk Bar chocolate-chocolate was brittle and austere by comparison, a deeply chocolate flavored and sophisticated rendition but nowhere near as comforting and satisfying as that of Milk and Cookies.

My favorite of Milk and Cookies treats, however, was not chocolate-chocolate but the dark chocolate with mint, which I saved until last for the purposes of cleansing my palate. I make my own rendition of a chocolate mint cookie each Christmas and while it is always a hit, it could never hold a candle to the at once indulgent and refreshing treat found in this cheerful little NY cookie shop.

After washing our cookies down with more hot drinks, we bid farewell to our friends with the intentions of finding our evening’s entree. Unfortunately, food poisoning was in full swing and Annette and I dismissed cuisine after cuisine trying to settle on something that held any appeal. Earlier plans for crudo were out the window as were pasta, meurgez, Mexican and Malaysian. Finally, we settled on Balthazar, the bright, French bistro, thinking hot mussels with fries and french bread would cure what ailed us. (We still, at this point, had not put the name food poisoning to our shared urge to curl up in the fetal position.)

In addition to mussels and frites, we ordered a frisee salad for the table and my brother requested duck confit, (a dish of which Annette and I had already enjoyed a near-perfect rendition at brunch pre-ailment at L’Ecole in the French Culinary Institute).

We were starting to come around after a little Cotes du Rhone, (a steal at less than $30/bottle), and fresh baked country bread slathered in butter. The frisee, a poached egg resting on top, was appealingly simple and somewhat bland. We both thought we were over our strange loss of appetite until the mussels appeared in their perfect, black crock. I think I managed 3-how I am not sure-but I believe it will be a long time before I face another mussel.

After dinner there was no choice but a taxi to Brooklyn, to sit on Annette’s couch sipping chamomile tea like Peter Rabbit nursing his wounds.

momofuku pork buns and cookies

To consume more of the trip check out Dining Around New York Day2: sexy chefs