Wobbly knees and a resolution

It's not everyday I eat a meal that leaves me wobbly at the knees. I try, I swear I do. And the food I do eat (almost) always makes me happy. But I can't remember the last time I ate something that was knee-wobblingly good. And then, last Wednesday, came along Del Posto's Enoteca and everything as I knew it changed. At least as far as wobbly knees go.

Despite a fear of Mario Batalli and a distrust of all that is labelled New York City's best kept secret, I took the plunge in hopes of a celebratory meal that would make me forget the world outside. I clearly had high hopes, and I wasn't let down.

The Enoteca made me realize I have no reason to fear Mr. Batalli (though I do question the Food Network producers that have done him so little justice) and that it is absolutely possible to lose yourself in a meal then realize halfway through that it will end too soon. I wondered aloud if I would be able to keep on eating forever if the food just kept on showing up at the table.

I opted for the $45 prix fixe. My meal started with a plush, fragrant roasted squash and I couldn't help but think that I had died and gone to heaven, then hoped I hadn't because I couldn't get the pillows on the banquette on which I was lounging comfortably positioned. The second course was a duo of pastas, a garganelli with meat sauce and orechiette that found its soul mates (yes, two soul mates, that lucky thing!) in pancetta and spicy peppers, strewn haphazardly across a too-big plate. By the time the beef brasato came my way, I was giggling giddily, and the perfectly chocolatey torta del nonna pushed me over the edge, leaving me making declarations of love for Mr. Batalli and the Bastianich family. And for my wine guy. Because, as you may already have guessed, my musings and passionate exclamations were fueled by four half-glasses of wine. No, not four and a half - four half glasses. Yes, that equals two. Shush.

Which leads me to my resolution: From now on, I must - MUST - ask the the darling person selecting my pairings to write down the names of everything I drink. Especially if he describes one (my favorite!) as "experimental" and serves it in a glass as big as my face and lights up when I tell him I absolutely love it, boldness and all. I've been tempted to call him up and ask, but I have yet to work up the nerve. But I will. Eventually. I think.

So go. Eat. Drink. And don't be afraid to take notes.

(Oh, in case you were wondering, I managed to clonk - somewhat chicly if I do say so myself - past the piano player, out of the restaurant and back out into the world in spite of the wine, and my still wobbly knees.)