"We've got the cure for what ails you," they say. I doubt that, but I'll take the placebo...

I did manage to expand my as-of-late paltry circumference to include a visit to Apothecary Café & Wine Bar. It met my criteria for the evening’s outing in that 1.) it was not my apartment 2.) it was not the library 3.) it served alcohol and 4.) I did not accomplish anything remotely productive there, unless you consider pleasure reading and liver pickling productive—which, come to think of it, I do. Damn it! But three out of four isn’t bad.

The atmosphere of most wine bars seems to be devoted to nothing so much as evoking a return to the womb, and Apothecary is no exception: a warmish, dark red interior in which edible and imbibable succor is offered. Of course, drinking in the womb is bad. But once you’re out of there, it’s a whole different ballgame. After all, you need something to take the edge off, and bleach is a little extreme. Accordingly, wine is a happy compromise. I passed a perfectly pleasant few hours here, with attentive yet unobtrusive service, a relaxed, seat-yourself setup, the Gorgonzola and honey crostini with walnuts and arugula (it’s nice that happy hour specials apply to Saturdays, which means I enjoyed this for two dollars less), two glasses of Pinot Noir (to which Happy Hour also applied, with a dollar off per glass until seven), and a glass of Vinho Verde Rosé, the latter being a pleasant surprise in that it was not repugnant, despite containing the dread Rosé in its appellation. The best circumstances under which to brave Rosé, it turns out, are those in which you have already downed two glasses of Pinot Noir whilst absorbed in dark tales in a womblike environment. 

So there you have it, in a nutshell. A good wine bar is like a return to the womb, if the womb were equipped with mood lighting and a soundtrack, served elegant snacks and wine, and allowed you to emerge from it at a time of your choosing. All in all, a good wine bar is an upgrade from the womb. Having visited one tonight (a wine bar, that is), I hereby officially declare the evening a success and give myself permission to bunker down once more in my uneasy little slice of the bizarre biosphere (everything is brown and the people are surrounded by invisible electric fences) in which I currently make my home—until I am driven out into the world once again.