It happens; the wrinkle in the brain, the wrinkle in the heart, the moment when I question my life connections. Even though I have spent almost two decades being pulled into a fermenting vortex there are those moments when I wonder if I bored with wine.

And so it was on this last trip, I often did wonder. Austria was stormy. Weather continued into Paris. On my last afternoon, after a exhibition on war time fashion at the Musee de la Resistance, I picked up my dense loaf of pain seigle from Poilane. I purchased cheese from ABM to munch when I arrived in New York City. On the Rue Dufour, the last cloud over the city dumped a reservoir of rain on me. Then as if apologizing, that same sprite flipped the switch on the sun. My feet suddenly dry, my hair properly frizzed out, and I was spit out like Jonah, right in the mouth of Fish, the wine bistro on Rue de Seine.

Sitting at the bar. I ordered a salad to fortify me for the flight home. Knowing I would be drink challenged on that flight, I chose my wine. When I saw the 2008 muscadet, Marc Olivier's, Domaine Pepiere

I listened.
I sipped.
I smiled.

A southern-accented woman named Wendy, was chinwagging with the other English speaking, somewhere down under, ex-pat behind the bar. She took a moment out to shush her dog. It was near that moment, when I noticed that the flavors in my mouth from my last sip were still with me. They lingered even as she ordered her salad after her risotto.

My wine was tart, juicy, brilliant, vibrant, seemed to have this long lean vibrant nervous finish that kept on going into my first bite of celery like pure dry apricot nectar. That finish. That finish was up there with the best of them. There are some that you always remember.

This is why. This glass in front of me, this is why this absurd wine discourse seduces me.

Know the wine, know the man. I don't know Marc Ollivier that well, but I know him enough to know his wife makes terrific gravlax and a few other details outside of his wine. I know him enough to affectionately kiss both cheeks when I see him. Marc made that wine. That 2008 was a difficult year, kicking off with an April frost which knocked down yields. The weather wet and cold kept the vignerons exhausted and full of suspense.

Marc did what he always has done. He fussed over the vines and worked the soil. He thought. He positioned. He obsessed. He lost sleep. He plucked. He leafed. He thought. He hoped. He infused those vines with love. His desire transferred and inspired. He probably neglected his wife and kids and the dog and his fishing to squeeze those grapes into the wine before be and damned if I wasn't on my knees at my first sip of that not so simple muscadet.

Becky Wasserman tells the story of Freddie Mugnier. When asked what his favorite white wine was, the famed Chambolle winemaker answered, "Muscadet."

On Tuesday, sitting in jeans I had worn every day while on the road for two weeks, I once more felt the truth in his answer.

FISH LA BOISSONNERIE 69, rue de Seine Paris 6. Tel: 01 43 54 34 69. Fax 01 46 33 15