Happy hour at Uva Enoteca is a good place for people who are a few years past the age where the dine and dash is a legitimate option, i.e. people over the age of 5 who like to eat and drink, but hate to pay for it.

Uva is probably the only place in the city where you can munch on a $4 chicken gorgonzola panini, double fist with a $1.50 Peroni and a $4 glass of sparkling Lambrusco, and be served water that has done time in a decanter. The proprietors of Uva wish that oxygen bars had never gone out fashion, so they’re bringing you the next best thing: H2O3.

Some people, and I use the word people loosely, like to describe wine with words like jammy, oaky, and buttery. What if we dispensed with such nonsensical comparisons and instead talked about how a particular wine makes us feel?

Your first girl’s weekend in Vegas? There’s a wine for that, probably Prosecco, tasting of: Hunter S. Thompson, the kind of regret that is easily forgotten, and those heady moments before the mushrooms kick in.

Or what about when you are overtaken by the sudden urge to steal that Smartcar that’s always parked in front of your building? There’s a wine for that too, notes of trench coat and something vaguely sinister like the way you still get the urge to lie to your parents about things that don’t matter.

If we were going to describe Uva this way we might say it’s part Jenny Lewis performing at the Fillmore: a sultry southern redhead under a chandelier. Part evolutionary psychology, like the genetically predetermined comfort engendered by low-lit rooms, and large slabs of marble covered in alcoholic beverages, and part the whimsical optimism of falling for someone you might not deserve. That last one might be because I’m dating the owner, but there’s a wine for that.

Image of Ramona’s lovah from Chef’s Blade

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