The thing is, if I wanted to have a night like that at a restaurant in New York City in 2011, I would have no idea where to go. Certainly, I know where to go for great meals and terrific service, and anyone who knows how to use Google could figure out what the latest trendy hot spots are. But where to go for a sophisticated night on the town with my husband? Not a clue.

I’m partly to blame. We don’t have an unlimited budget and we love to cook, plus my husband’s a bit of a homebody, so we don’t go out all that much. But. Even the occasional restaurant-goer can see that something’s afoot. That while we’ve become very sophisticated about food, we’ve become very childish about dining.

You see it everywhere. The “small plates” craze suggests that our appetites have become dimunitive, not quite adult-sized. The Earnest Eating movement (sustainability, slow food and the like) has much to admire, but  it’s turned restaurant-going into a pedagogical experience, rather than a gustatory one. We’re not diners anymore as much as we’re eager students, reading up on the latest ingredients and producers and purveyors. There is also something deeply unsexy about many of these places, with their raffia-tied, relentlessly tasteful rusticity and exaltation of homespun ingredients. (I love kale too, but I’m not putting on 4-inch heels and paying a babysitter $14/hour to hold hands with my husband over a plate of kale salad.)

And then of course there’s the no-reservations policy. One of the very nice things about being a grown up is that you can decide not only what you eat, but also when. Unless, that is, you’re trying to get into that hot new place in that only serves grass-fed beef burgers topped with organic kimchi made by some dude in Bushwick who spent six months traveling through Korea to find the most authentic kimchi of all kimchis, the urtext of kimchi recipes, in which case you will eat when the hostess damn well pleases. There’s nothing like waiting at a cramped bar for an hour as your blood sugar drops precipitously to turn you into a cranky, fussy five-year old.

We’ve never had better, and more varied, food at our fingertips. However, in our pursuit of the best, the latest and greatest, and the most authentic, we’ve lost something. We don’t know how to slow down, how to enjoy our food, how to have a real conversation (and no, a conversation about the food itself doesn’t count.) We’ve forgotten that when it comes to truly enjoying a meal, what’s on the plate is nowhere near as important as who’s at the table.

When I moved to Rome in the mid-90s, I witnessed initial sparks of a food revolution. The Slow Food movement, which began in Italy’s Piedmont region, was making inroads, and a handful of restaurateurs were trying to wake the Eternal City up from its eternal reliance on tired trattorie. Fifteen years later, I found a really exciting culinary energy in the city, with more and more chefs successfully putting their own spin on Roman cuisine without ever abandoning old favorites completely. A great example of this was Ristorante L’Arcangelo, where chef Arcangelo Dandini breathes new life into the classic dishes, techniques, and ingredients of Rome and the surrounding area.

My companion, John, and I started with a glass of St. Paul’s Gewurztraminer and Casale Certosa Convenio Malvasia di Puntinata (again sticking to my “drink local” adage), respectively, as we admired our amuse bouche of lentils from the Lazio town of Onano, cooked simply in a dark, rich, tomato-based sauce. We split an incredible potato-cheese torte, smoky with mackerel and grilled rosemary, with marinated beets providing acidity and color, and also shared fried nuggets of rabbit with raisins, pine nuts, ramoracce, wild greens found in the Roman countryside, and croutons made from sweet fette biscottate, packaged crisp toasts that are a staple of the Italian breakfast table, such as it exists. During our starters, we moved into the bottle we’d selected, a 2006 Montevertine, a Sangiovese-Canaiolo blend I had way higher hopes for. It should have been complex with a long finish, but it never seemed to open up; it was just, well, okay. Maybe in a few years.

John and I shared one of the best pasta dishes I have ever eaten: thick spaghetti with aglio rosso (“red garlic”), grape must, and extra-aged Parmigiano. I have no idea what they did or how they did it, only that these three ingredients came together in an astoundingly delicious way. We went our separate ways with course #3, John choosing the pigeon special (evidently the mascot of the week), and me going with what was billed on the menu as an “aromatic torment,” which turned out to be small tasting portions of anchovies with butter, a brioche-like sweet bread, and a dusting of ground coffee; roast quail with lavender and cicerchie, a legume related to the chickpea; porchetta; and unctuous oxtail, another staple of Roman cooking. Our dark chocolate, turmeric-infused dessert was nicely paired with a highly-spiced, herbaceous Barolo Chinato from Teobaldo Cappellano, whose ancestor apparently invented the stuff.

Riding back to my hotel on the back of John’s moped, I reflected on the dinner, which was both totally Roman and one step removed. I felt like I’d seen an old friend who had gotten a great new haircut: same friend, just a little spruced up.

I rebounded from my disappointment with the Lupi Le Braje and cracked open a bottle of Lini Lambrusco ($14.99) Monday night. Full disclosure: I have had this wine before (“isn’t that cheating?” my husband asked with raised eyebrow as I popped the cork). Yes, OK, so sue me. I wanted a sure thing–and I wanted to smile. Because it’s impossible to drink this wine without smiling. A fizzy red with bright cherry and strawberry aromas, and more than a touch of earthiness, this wine is incredibly easy to like. The bubbles + substantial acidity have a way of working up one’s appetite, and I’m confident I could conquer even the most daunting plate of salumi with this Lini by my side. This is a terrific, casual red for summer.

Tuesday night I went in for a more refined, but no less satisfying, wine experience at dell’Anima. I’ve been curious about this restaurant for a while. Not just because of the good reviews, or because co-owner Joe Campanale is a graduate of the same wine diploma program I’m in the middle of. (No, we’ve never met.) I’m a little obsessed because Joe’s mom is on Twitter. (@dellanimom, how cute is that?) This is a)totally endearing and b)great branding. I mean, who better to be your brand ambassador than your own mom? I don’t know why more people haven’t thought of this. Anyway, dellanimom (aka Karen Campanale) and I have had some lovely exchanges over Twitter and I was eager to see what her son–such a nice boy!–was up to.

Things started off well at the bar. Tired of the crisp, refreshing wines of summer, I was in the mood for some depth. I tried the 1997 Malvira “Treuve,” a Piedmontese blend of Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc, and Arneis, a white grape indigenous to the region. Nutty and austere, with a little bit of freshness yet, this is exactly the kind of thoughtful wine you want to sip slowly while waiting for your dining companion. And kudos to dell’Anima for offering an older white by the glass for a relatively reasonable $14. Drinking older wines by the bottle is financially inaccessible for many of us, and impractical if you just want a glass, so this is a more approachable option.

We kept up the 20th century theme with dinner and ordered a bottle of the 1998 Sant’Elena Ros di Rol, ($44) a Merlot/Cabernet from Friuli. Northern Italian reds are one of my favorite things to drink in hot weather. Cool climate fruit produces wines that are subtle and restrained, excellent qualities when it’s 90 degrees in the shade and the last thing you want is big and brawny. The Ros di Rol absolutely fit the bill. The wine struck a great balance between fruit and earth. For the first time, I began to understand what iconic wine writer Hugh Johnson means when he says that Bordeaux (which, like this Ros di Rol, is often a Cab/Merlot blend) is refreshing to drink. It went well with our eclectic dinner choices, which ranged from octopus (heightened, as all things are, by slivers of chorizo) to quail, which had me wondering if there are some of my people (Puerto Rican, that is) in the kitchen, as the quail skin was crisped to chicharrón levels of crunchy, fatty deliciousness.

My one complaint about dell’Anima is that there’s relatively little information about its wines online. The wine list is incomplete and a bit difficult to read. I’m sure the selection changes often, but I would have loved the chance to do a little more wine list recon before dining there.

In fact, this was one of the biggest issues I faced during Italian Wine Week overall. It was pretty difficult to find good, updated information about many of the wines that I drank. (In English for sure, but even in Italian there wasn’t always a lot out there.) The sheer diversity of Italian wine, with its 1,000+ varieties, along with the occasional arbitrariness of Italian wine legislation and labeling, can be confusing. I understand that for small production wines it’s completely impractical to spend time and money creating fancy Web sites, but I’d love to see more importers or regional wine marketing organizations take up this challenge.

I suppose this is where I should summarize everything I’ve learned during my week of drinking nothing but Italian, but making any grand proclamations after a mere half dozen bottles is absurd. I’ll just say that I was delighted to do it, and just as delighted to resume my usual consumption patterns. And with that, I’m off to open an obscure Languedoc red I’ve been dying to try.

Hi there. Yes, I’m talking to you, gangly guy in your early 30s with the interesting glasses on. Could I get a little help over here with the wine list? I have some questions. Yes, the woman at the table is ordering the wine! Crazy, I know. Yeah, I saw the look of surprise on your face when my husband handed me the wine list. Anyway, speaking of the wine list, you dropped the list off quickly, with a few perfunctory words, before rushing off to another table. Specifically, that table of guys sipping on their super-Tuscans, so I didn’t have time to ask you about your wine program. Do you feature wines from a certain region, or made from a certain variety, because the chef thinks they bring out the best in his food? Are you serving something new by the glass this week? I’d love to know. Actually, I’d love for you to tell me. The host, busboys, and servers have all been lovely so far, and your inattentiveness stands out like a sore thumb.

So. I wanted to ask you about this Sagrantino di Montefalco. I’ve had a few I’ve enjoyed, but I’m not familiar with this particular one. Can you tell me anything about it? Also, I’d love it if you could pronounce the name correctly. I’m not asking you to be fluent in Italian or even to have a decent accent, but if you could at least not add syllables that aren’t there, or omit ones that are, that would be great. If I dig this wine and want to order it again or purchase it at retail, I’d love to be able to say it right. And, I confess, another reason I’m asking about the Sagrantino is to telegraph that I know a little something about wine. That’s so you won’t automatically steer me towards a wine you think I’ll be comfortable with because it has a familiar name or a middle-of-the-road flavor profile.  Sure, I could tell you about my wine qualifications, but this is a date, not a job interview, and I’d rather engage you in a little conversation. Word to the wise: women are less likely to brag about their knowledge than men are. Yes, I know, it’s our responsbility to speak up. But the upside is, we’re much less apt to “demonstrate [our] hubris and wine knowledge like a rooster strutting before a cockfight.” So take a deep breath. Relaxed? Great. Now look me in the eye, smile, and try not to look bored.

And when I ask you to tell me about the wine, please lead with how it tastes and will match with the food. Right now, I don’t care about the yeast strain used, the history of winemaking in Umbria, or the producer’s stance on globalization. If I like what I hear, great–I’ll order it and then you can share a fun factoid or interesting story.  And if I’m not feeling it, let’s work together to find something else in the same price range. I promise to be specific about my likes and dislikes, if you promise not to just randomly point to a wine that’s $40 more expensive and say “that’s good, too.”

Once that fun is over, I’m sure you’ll do a competent job of presenting the wine to me, pouring it, and making sure our glasses are adequately filled throughout the meal. But I’m not sure that you’ll ask me how I like the wine, if it’s working well with what we’re eating, or see if I have any more questions. I understand that you don’t want to be intrusive, but the rest of the staff here manages to strike that perfect balance of warmth and professionalism–why can’t you? Did you miss that day? If I say I really like this wine, could you maybe write it down for me? Or even remove the label and give it to me at the end of the meal?* It’s the details and little courtesies that people remember. I can promise you that five years from now I won’t be able to recall what the food here tastes like, but if the server, say, brings us a second round of chocolates with our coffee because we couldn’t stop raving about them, I will never forget it.

I get it–your job is super-cool. You get to taste amazing wines and meet fascinating winemakers. You know what else you get to do? Serve me. Because, whether you like it or not, you are in the service profession. So stop treating me like  a nuisance you have to deal with between the fun stuff you get to do. Clearly you know a lot about wine and love it, but that’s not enough. You have to know something about people, too.

*I’ve had sommeliers do this for me a few times at Gramercy Tavern and 11 Madison Park, and this kind of stuff is why I frequent Danny Meyer’s restaurants as often as my budget allows.

One of the highlights of the evening was walking the grounds. We checked out the greenhouses and their neat rows of every leafy thing imaginable, and made some new furry and feathered friends (none of whom were featured on the menu). Here’s a little photographic tour, with pics courtesy of my better half:

Up close and personal with an actual Blue Hill Stone Barns chicken. Bet he’s all like “this backyard urban chicken trend is total BS. Country chicken livin’  is where it’s AT.”

We got into a staring contest with some sheep.

And woke up the sheepdog. Sorry, buddy.

Me, posing awkwardly in front of a greenhouse. Feel like I’m in that scene in Talladega Nights where Will Ferrell doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Idyllic, no?

It was kind of a tale of two cities. Paris had a few highlights — this very simple fig and mozzarella salad at Autour d’un Verre, a little wine bar in the 9th arrondisement, was awesome. The mozzarella was insanely creamy (I have a theory it was actually burrata, which is mozzarella enhanced — as if it needed any help – by cream in the center), the figs were perfect, and a drizzle of olive oil brought the whole thing together.

The restaurant itself, however, was kind of my worst nightmare. The crowd was somehow hipster-y and yet uncool – as if they had all just stepped off a Lucky magazine photo shoot.  The tables were lined up tightly against both walls and you couldn’t help but jostle your neighbor. Between that and the dingy yellow lighting, it felt like dining on the R Train at rush hour.

Despite the “wine bar” tag, the waiter was absolutely zero help when I asked him to compare and contrast two bottles on the list. He said the equivalent of “they’re both fine” and left it at that. I ended up going with La Treille Muscate, from Corbières in the Languedoc, in the foothills of the Pyrenees.

It delivered a nice smoky, herbal, blackberry kick, and for about $30, the price was right. Our mains were fine, we both ordered a kind of Scandanavian meatball concoction. OK, yeah, I know, so that was kind of a misorder on our part, but it was either that, fish in creamy sauce — my nemesis — or confit de canard, and at that point we were thoroughly duck-ed out. One of the few other upsides of the place was that we bonded a bit with our neighbors about the surly waiter. Nonetheless, we left feeling harried and unsatisfied.

Bandol, on the other hand, was dreamy. We stayed Les Quatres Saisons, this bed & breakfast near Le Castellet, a slightly Disneyfied fortified medieval village a few minutes away from Bandol. The Web site truly does not do it justice — this is the first time I’ve ever been to  a hotel that looked much more beautiful in person than it did online. Our little duplex suite, which had a spacious deck looking out onto the vineyards of Bandol, was beyond charming, and the setting was incredibly peaceful.

However, the highlight of staying at Les Quatres Saisons was the nightly dinner 3-course dinner. No choices, just whatever happened to look good that day at the market. Always a gamble, but luckily, the market highlights during our stay included pretty mainstream selections — no snails or liver or sea urchin. There were some welcome stylish touches — a very cool “tapas de volaille” starter that was a variation on a theme of poultry: smoked duck over spicy couscous, a tiny, zesty chicken wing, duck sausage over deliciously olive oil drenched vegetables, a chicken and duck terrine with a chunk of foie gras in the center — but nothing was overworked. Desserts were exceptional, and I managed to get a shot of Paul’s moelleux au chocolat before he devoured it.

Extra props to Didier and Patrice for making such an effort with the food when, as you can see from the lead photo of this post, they really could have phoned it in. The could have relied on the beautiful setting to justify the 40-euro per person price tag and left it at that. Instead, they put forth a million elegant little touches — the very aromatherapeutic logs of pine burning in their outdoor oven, the apéritif of local vin d’orange (orange-scented fortified wine) and Muscat to open the meal — that made the dinners so memorable. My dream for my 40th birthday is come back here with Paul and a few of our besties. Presumably at that point I’ll have even less tolerance for BS, and Didier and Patrice’s no-fuss elegance will be that much more welcome.