I drank a lifetime’s worth of sparkling wine in a single day—glass after glass, bottle after bottle, stretched across lower Manhattan in a loose choreography of toasts, sidewalk kisses, camera flashes, and spontaneous applause. It was the kind of day that reminds you what wine is actually for: to lift, to loosen, to lubricate the feeling that life might, in fact, be okay.
And bubbles do that better than anything else.
They say Champagne goes to your head, and there’s real science behind the claim. Carbon dioxide trapped inside the bottle—aka carbonation—accelerates alcohol absorption by increasing gastric pressure, which speeds up the transfer of alcohol into your bloodstream. That’s why a single glass of sparkling wine hits differently. It’s not just the mesmerizing motion of those little beads rising to the surface—it’s biochemistry, honey. One glass can alter your sense of time, tilt your head toward laughter, make everything shimmer just a little. Champagne is built to launch you.
Before I get to recommendations, may I tell you about our evening of opulence?
The occasion was a courthouse wedding. My two friends—both women, both from New Orleans—came to New York to make it official. The decision was prompted less by bridal fantasy than by political realism. Given the current climate in Louisiana, the future of marriage equality feels increasingly uncertain. So they got married here. First week of Pride. Everything was romantic.
We got ready at the Maritime Hotel with a bottle of Pierre Gimonnet Brut, gifted by a friend back home and delivered to the hotel. It’s a chiseled, citrusy Champagne from the Côte des Blancs: all Chardonnay, all angles, but with just enough creamy texture to round the edges. (Coincidentally, this wine seems to be having a moment in the Hamptons—I’ve seen it at a handful of local retailers, tucked between Veuve, Doyard, Ruinart, and other more corporate-coded, big-brand Champs.) We drank it out of minibar flutes while we messed around with bra tape, bobby pins, and disposable cameras. As we auditioned Nikki’s veil—a gravity-defying white tulle sculpture that made no secret of its symbolism—it became clear that it would be the fifth member of our party. Everywhere we went, the veil would announce our presence before we even opened our mouths.
At the courthouse, we realized we couldn’t bring the half-drunk bottle of Gimonnet through security. So we stashed it in the bushes and hoped for the best. When the papers were signed, we retrieved it and drank what was left straight from the bottle like teenagers on prom night—except it was broad daylight in the Financial District. It had lost its chill and some of its fizz, but no one cared. It tasted like luck.
The veil made us magnetic. We were a mobile nexus of celebration. At Frenchette, we walked in during pre-shift (literally mid-meeting), and instead of being annoyed, the staff applauded. They graciously paused the meeting, sat us at the bar, and splashed us with a Colombard pét-nat they said wasn’t available anywhere else in the market. Sounds like their wine guy, Jorge, might have a little winemaking side project in the works. It was a little cloudy, with bright acidity and notes of citrus oil, straw, and underripe melon. Something to keep an eye out for.
Then to The Nines, early enough that no one else was there. The room was glowing and empty, like a dream in standby mode. We ordered a bottle of Bérêche et Fils Brut Réserve, a savory, taut Champagne from Ludes in the Montagne de Reims. It showed chalk, a little smoke, lemon curd, and salt. These wines are truly a masterclass in character and balance. Bérêche is just... so good. Their special bottlings can get pricey, but the entry-level was $165 on the list—which felt like an easy spend for four people on the best day of their lives. Flash photography ensued. Disposable cameras clicked under chandeliers, until other guests arrived and we had to calm down a bit.
Later, at Carbone, the veil entered the room first. The sommelier clocked it instantly and greeted us with glasses of Champagne. The wine was excellent—super lean, with a fine, soft bead and low pressure. I love that texture in sparkling wine, when the mousse is gentle enough to hum instead of hiss. Or maybe it had just been open for a while (we’d obviously had a few at this point). Either way, it ruled. When I asked the somm what it was, he launched into an excited, book report–style rundown of grower-producers versus Grandes Marques. He hit all the right notes—small farmers, estate fruit, sustainability, terroir—but never actually got around to naming the producer. We didn’t mind. He seemed like a fun guy (“Nigel from Chicago,” he called himself) with a genuine interest in hospitality, so we just let him cook.
All of this is to say: it was a day defined by effervescence. Every stop lifted us further, buoyed us across the city. Every pour made sense. Not all of it was Champagne, but all of it sparkled.
And that’s the thing about bubbles: they’re irresistible. So irresistible, in fact, that their branding has become…ridiculous.
There’s an entire genre of restaurants that base their identity on “celebrating the sparkle.” You’ve probably seen them: Pops for Champagne in Chicago, Bubble Bath in Boston, the kind of place with a “bubbles list” and, intentional or not, lots of bachelorette vibes. I used to run the wine program for one of them—a bar in New Orleans called Effervescence: Bubbles & Bites. Great wine list, excellent snacks from serious chefs, but the aesthetic energy of a first-year graphic design student’s crack at a bridal catalog. And yet—I’m not always above it. I’ve fallen for more than a few sparkling labels with calligraphy fonts and hand-drawn fruit. Sometimes you just want to drink the mood.
Which brings us, inevitably, to the Spritz.
The Aperol Spritz has reached peak visibility—it’s a cultural archetype. It’s the West Village fashion intern in a linen top and oversized sunglasses queued up at Bar Pisellino. It’s also the downtown finance bro in a Tombolo camp shirt embroidered with Italian words he definitely can’t pronounce, and a Montaukila snapback. And you know what? I’m not mad. The Spritz is approachable, photogenic, and generally reliable. It’s the sparkling wine gateway drug for people who don’t care about disgorgement dates, lees aging, or dosage. And thank god for that.
My only complaint is that the Spritz has recently become a vehicle for some genuinely terrible sparkling wine. I don’t mean innocuous—I mean rusty metal, stale beer, sad-pineapple-juice bad. As long as the Prosecco is just good enough to be forgettable, a Spritz can still be great. But too often it’s not. And Aperol, for all its charm, isn’t doing much to compensate.
Let us not forget: the Spritz is an open format. An expanded field of possibility. Bitter + bubbles + a diluting dash of soda = infinite combinations. And yet, most people don’t look past the big orange bottle. I’m not suggesting you swap in a Hugo Spritz (somehow even more basic) or sub Campari (narc behavior). I want you to take it somewhere weirder and wilder—somewhere that doesn’t taste like it was made in a showroom.
Here are a few ideas:
Cynar: Herbal, earthy, a little more mysterious. Made from artichokes but tasting more like a walk through a garden at dusk—dark greens, piney edges, something bitter underfoot. It’s a Spritz with shadows. A splash of tonic instead of soda keeps it from getting too spooky.
Salers: Gentian-forward, alpine, slightly medicinal. Think mountain herbs, white flowers, and a dry tonic chaser in a wood-paneled spa. It’s less juicy than Aperol but far more grown-up—and just as much fun.
Menaud Aperitif: My personal favorite. From the mountains of middle-of-nowhere Quebec. Wild herbs, sea buckthorn, camarise berry, cold lake energy. There’s a cooling effect in the finish, like mint without the menthol, that keeps it fresh and angular even when mixed with Prosecco. It’s like spiked Sleepytime tea, but chic.
There are spritz menus out there now—entire categories of spritzes—but most of them are overbuilt, slushy, or trying too hard to reinvent the wheel. I’m not asking for ume plum liqueur, or a chicken wing garnish. Just a little curiosity. A tiny detour. The Spritz is a format worth keeping, but it deserves better inputs.
And if we’re talking about effervescence, we have to talk about Pascal Potaire.
His project, Les Capriades, in the Loire Valley, has long defined what pét-nat could be at its best: hand-riddled, long-aged, bone-dry, and made with the same care and intention as Champagne. Pascal was never trying to be trendy. He just didn’t want to dose his wines with sugar and chemicals. The results were wines of extraordinary finesse and quiet power.
Now he’s done. They’re ceasing production and releasing the full back catalogue—recently disgorged and often in magnum. I could probably put together an NYC scavenger hunt for those interested. We opened a 2018 Pet-Sec at Claud for a friend’s birthday a few weeks ago, and it was excellent: bruised orchard fruit, a little oxidation, delicate mousse, a finish like pressed flowers and pencil shavings—super precise. Les Capriades proves that pét-nat doesn’t need to be funky or loud. It just needs to be made with intention and allowed time to rest in bottle before disgorgement.
So yes, drink the Spritz. Drink the Champagne. Seek out the last bottles of Capriades while you can. Bubbles don’t last. That’s the whole point.
Thirst Behavior is still taking shape, and I’d love to hear what you want from it. Should we start a wine club? A write-in advice column? A bulletin board for wine industry jobs and gossip? Stories from my life as a party somm in the 2010s? If you’ve got an idea, a request, or just a half-formed thought you want to throw at the wall, the inbox is open. Think of this as a two-way street, or a group chat. Hit reply and tell me what you’re thirsty for.