Life here on America's Island of Hospitality is transformative. Anyone who has lived here for a month or so begins to feel the gentle melting of the cityslicker's frozen core; the soft island breezes have a way of wafting the cares of the day into the gently lapping tidal strait that surrounds us.

A warm late spring day provides the opportunity for an impromptu island jeeb. No TramJeeb, for the only commuter tram in the U.S. is still closed for repairs, but somehow, despite the best efforts of the MTA, a few intrepid geeks make the pilgrimage across the tidal strait to our idyllic isle. I am put in the unfortunate position of host, so my usual option of ignoring people and focusing entirely on wine is sadly out of the question.

So no notes this time. Must cook, plate, serve, chat. No time for my usual one-on-one communion with my glass. Stupid guests, ruining all the fun.

The first to arrive is naturally the Pasha of Promptness himself, Jay Miller. How he evaded Lisa's welcome wagon at the subway is beyond me, but I go to hand him a glass of Huet Vouvray Petillant 2000 and find that my new freezer is much more effective than my old one, for a brief spell for chill emphasis has frozen it mostly solid. After a brief time spent warming between my knees, we've got it back to a partially liquid state once more, and we're off.

At any rate, the Huet is lightly fizzy, smells a bit more robustious than bottles at past jeebi, with a light flintiness to the chalky lemon-quince fruit. Tastes a bit more substantial than I remember as well, tangy and stony with a pronounced bergamot citricity. It seems to be developing rather more quickly than I'd have expected, or maybe the freezing/warming procedure affected the chenin somehow. At any rate, it remains a very nice if not particularly deep or profound Huet fizz. Drink while you're waiting for your '97s or (theoretically) '02s to come around.

Here's Lisa with the Munro-Scotts, Andrew and Jen, and I pour the frosty bubbly, give the apartment tour and pass the poke medley (one traditional Hawaiian, one yuzu-infused new wave style). [A big cross-island cheer for the kind folks at the Hale Ku'ai Cooperative in Kailua, who went far beyond the call of duty to make sure I got my inamona by express courier this afternoon. My poke wouldn't have been the ethereally earthy delight it was without the addition of the roasted kukui nut extract that's impossible to find on the mainland. I urge all my readers in need of quality Hawaiian food ingredients to patronize this fine establishment.]

I'm eager to try the newly-released Samant Soma Wines Sula Vineyards Chenin Blanc Nashik (India) 2004, but sadly it's corked. Stupid corks.

Manuel and Josie Castrodad-Camblor appear suddenly at the door. "The subway near us isn't running," explains Manuel. "We had to jump in a cab." We welcome them in, give the tour, offer them corked Indian chenin blanc.

The cat is fascinated with Josie's long scarf, attempting to grab onto it anytime she goes past. "Watch out," says Lisa, "or she'll pull an Isadora Duncan on you."

Everyone laughs. LIsa's eyes widen at the high quality of rapport here on Roosevelt Island. "Wow, when I made those kind of jokes in New Jersey everyone just stared at me like I was crazy!" she crows delightedly. We toast to sophisticated Island living, and to her having succesfully passing neuro and thereby completing her preclinical years. "I hear that gravy train a-coming, boys," I toast. "It's on the horizon, heading this way! Here's to my future career as Arm Candy!" More toasts, general merriment ensues.

A Weingut Franz Hirtzberger Riesling Spitzer Steinterrassen Federspiel 1997 comes around. Vinyl-citric aromatics, lemondrops on a beanbag chair, maybe a hint of underripe pineapple. Quite crisp and a little stern, hard acidity and if there's any sugar it's just at the edge of perception. Solid wine, but a bit fruitless in the middle, LemonHeady structure without much cushion, more an intellectual pleasure than a sensory one.

The phone rings, and it's a nice young lady from the Hale Ku'ai Cooperative in Kailua, calling to make sure the inamona got to us today. She explains that she was worried it might not make it in time, and, once assured that it did, explains that it's not just for poke anymore, it goes great on salads, fish, soups, etc. I thank her for her concern and tell her that her efforts are most appreciated. Now THERE's customer service!

Here's a sauvignon-semillon blend from the southwestern part of France, a Château Carbonnieux Pessac-Léognan 2004. Pale straw color with greenish glints. Young and generously wooded. Vanilla cream and lemonlime-citrus running in parallel, nice firm acidic core, good balance. It's pleasant enough for a fetal white Bordeaux, but why drink this now? Actually though, it goes pretty well with the summer-veggie chopped salad.

We discuss my concern that the cat will one day defenestrate herself and plunge sixteen floors to a messy death. "Oh yeah, that could easily happen," says Josie. "Cats are really stupid, they'll do that." She describes one of her cats attempting to do the same thing when she experimentally opened a window, and her having to grab it halfway out. This, not surprisingly, does little to allay my fears for fat Perdita. Curiosity + stupidity + clumsiness = a bad combination, although her persistent absurd luck might well act as a counterweight.

The nomination for most confusing label goes to the next bottle, which is an Italian white of some kind. "Who is the producer, Zanusso? Where is it from?" I appeal to Camblor, who brought it. He smiles confidently, "I've talked to the guy who makes this, let me explain..." but after staring at the label, turning it around to read the back, staring at it more, he can't figure it out either. Other geeks, sensing a challenge, give it a shot, but no one can figure out any of the pertinent details, although the vintage date seems pretty clear.

Here are the things written on the label, in order, from the top down:

1999
Clivi Brazan
Viticoltura di Ferdinando Zanusso
Brazzano di Cormons
Collio Goriziano

At any rate, it smells sweetly vanilla-gingery, with a gentle chamomile streak and a touch of hay. Tastes relaxed and languidly pure--medium acidity, feathery at the edges, a nice sense of easy heft. The finish just lingers and lingers, humming and buzzing with quiet waves of stones and herbal-tea herbs. Really nice wine, offbeat and chameleonically complex, a wine to sip and listen to--it seems to have a lot to say, but it's not saying it all at once. Lovely, meditative stuff, a nice match with the potato & shrimp soup.

The phone rings again, it's Dressner, complaining that all transit routes to the island are shut down. "Jump in a cab!" I urge. "Camblor did it, you can too!"

"A cab?" he replies, puzzled. "Where would they leave us off?"

"They'll take you where you tell them, that's beauty of cabs," I explain. "We are actually part of the city, you know, they have to take you here BY LAW."

This seems to satisfy him; he assures us they'll be here shortly and hangs up.

In the meantime we've got a magnum of Montevertine Vino da Tavola di Toscana 'Il Sodaccio di Montevertine' 1986. Medium ruby color, browning lightly at the rim. Smells like a forest pond--wet leaves, cedar and earth, eucalyptus hints up high, maybe a touch of shoyu, gentle decay. Medium lightbodied, the acidity is present but subtle, just enough to enliven the small frame. Shy bricky redfruit is almost an afterthought among the earthy notes, and the flavors take a turn towards old pipe tobacco as they head into the finish. Probably just a quarter-mile over the hill, but has a charmingly decayed composure that wins the crowd over, and the magnum is emptied with alarming speed.

Next is a Vallana Spanna 1968. Smells delightfully complex and layered, balsamic hints over leathery muted cherry, crushed brick and balsa wood. Tastes softly expressive, light bodied but impressively taut and vivid. Frankly, this seems younger than the Montevertine, pure and wonderfully focused, on the lean side but with a lively cherry-brick fruitcushion. Turns lightly tarry on the finish, with some fine glassy tannins. Really pretty wine, youthful but happily developed as well. At the end of the evening, this is the only empty bottle.

Quick as a flash, here's the lovely and talented Denyse Louis with trophy husband Joe Dressner, and now that we're a quorum we can begin tonight's centerpiece tasting, a cru-diagonal retrospective of 1995 Beaujolais.

Mystery 1995 Beaujolais A. Medium red color. Ripe black cherry aromas, touch of mintiness, slight balsamic hints. Tastes gently candied, cherry-strawberry flavors with an earthy patina. Soft and fruity and simple, with a blowsy thinness in the middle. The crowd's least favorite: "Tastes like a caricature of Beaujolais," says Andrew. (Clos de la Roilette/Coudert Fleurie 1995)

Mystery 1995 Beaujolais B. High-toned aromatics, hint of volatility over shy cherry-strawberry and tea hints. This seems the most advanced of the three, the only one showing a bit of age. A bit sharp, firm and taut but a bit on the stern side, with drying glassy tannins on the finish. Seems correct, but really rather joyless. (Domaine des Vignes du Tremblay/Paul Janin Moulin-a-Vent 1995)

Mystery 1995 Beaujolais C. Medium-dark red. More restrained aromatics, plummier and more minerally. Tastes elegant and pure, stonily flavorful, with better focus. The fruit has muted down to a stony plum-strawberry calmness, and I think I like this one the most. Another sip, and yes, I'm sure I like this one the most, it's firing on all cylinders and has plenty of room for further development. (Domaine Savoye (à la Côte du Py) Morgon Cuvée Vieilles Vignes 1995)

There is much debate over the three specimens, with passions rising and threats and accusations flying, but I'm stuck in the kitchen plating the lamb, and miss all the fun. My damn new oven seems to run about fifty degrees hotter than the dial shows, so the meat comes out more medium than the rare I'd aimed for. After the crazily cold freezer, this is the last straw, "Goddamn you, lousy appliances!" I shriek. "Lousy gas burners are too damn feeble too, what the fuck is the problem?!"

I catch myself, peer out into the dining room to see if anyone has noticed me cursing at the stove. No one has, thank god. Carve the meat, Coad, and never explain, never apologize, just sell it, sell it, sell it.

Here's a Luddite Vineyards Abouriou Russian River Valley Gibson-Martinelli Vineyard Old Vines Dry Grown Natural Yeast 'Unspoofulated' 2003. It's pretty dark, medium-dark garnet with a purply rim. Earthy-pomegranate aromatics, hint of wet dog animality. There's a candied quality right upfront that Camblor calls 'Flintstone Vitamin,' but just past that the texture grows chewy and abrasive, with sharp acidity and aggressive tannins. A tough wine, more concentrated and rougher than the 2002, lots of character but disjointed and difficult.

A Matisyahu tune comes round on the shuffle and Camblor lights up with indignation. "This guy is soooo over. I mean, my god, if you're an indie rapper on Sixty Minutes your fifteen minutes of fame is just about up." Andrew too joins in the anti-Matisyahu backlash: "The guy's some club kid who took acid and found god or something, it's just junk."

I sense my musical taste is being called into question. "C'mon, we've got Shatner on the shuffle!" Jennifer is not impressed. "Too much Shatner," she opines. Camblor smiles patiently. "Let me burn you a CD of stuff that's a little more... out there," he offers grandiloquently, as if I'd been playing nothing but Britney Spears tunes. I bristle, but with a sickening quiver I realize that the song that's queueing up now is Fountains of Wayne's cover of Hit Me Baby One More Time.

"C'mon, it's ironic," I mumble to no one at all. Then, louder, "More out there than Shatner?" Can such things be?"

He rattles off the names of a few indie bands I've never heard of; in fact I think he must be making them up. The Doors of Congestion? Siouxsie and the Beetroots? HlTLER'S HERMITS? He's looking at me expectantly; I must 'fess up that I don't know any of them. Camblor 1, me 0.

Damn tunes hipsters.

A freshfaced youngster is next, a Pascal Granger Chénas 2004. Gently perfumed aromatics, cherry-raspberry with an undercurrent of gravelly stoniness, bright and fresh-smelling. Tastes crisp and a bit thin, but nicely focused and kinda chipper, a chipper little ChŽnas, insubstantial but perky.

Last red, a Miguel Merino Rioja Reserva 1995, is medium garnet colored, smells like suntan lotion, coconut oil and vanilla candle over dark cherry-berry. Could be interesting without the lavish amounts of simple woodiness overlaid on it; as it is it's just clumsily anonymous, though nicely rich and robust.

As we pause for the predessert interlude, a rumor flashes through the assembled geeks like wildfire: SFJoe couldn't be here tonight because he has a date with Scarlett Johansson! It sounds farfetched to me, but hey, the guy's a mover and shaker, and you know what Kissinger said....

Anyway, a Domaine du Clos Naudin/Foreau Vouvray Moëlleux 1990 is an alarming reddish-amber color. It's a recent purchase, so my guess is that it's been stored behind someone's radiator since just after release. Still, it smells fun, lots of orange rind and apricot, scorched sugar, light botrytical hints. Fairly sweet, a broad-beamed moëlleux that, were it not a bit cooked, would probably be pretty darn good. Actually, even cooked the bottle is quickly two-thirds empty.

With the chocoberry mousse we have a Bodegas Antonio Candela e Hijos El Remate Dulce 'Bellum' 2003. For reasons that may have to do with intoxication I keep calling it Spanish grenache, but it's not, it's mourvedre. It's big and sweet and obvious, but it's also a bit corked, alas.

And with that, the guests flee as one--well, except for Jay, who had left earlier so he could arrive home precisely on time--and calm and decency return to our edenic isle.

If only I'd had time to take notes.