Distillations: Sweet on the Finish at Etcetera Wine Bar 

"This is amazing," Megs said about the Etcetera Wine Bar on Valencia. "It's like a hidden gem." She wasstunned she lives nearby but had never seen it. I wasn't: It is the nature of hidden gems to be hidden, to appear and vanish from our lives before we've caught on.

Etcetera leans as close as it can to "hip" without ever crossing the line from "chill." A traditional bar anchors one quarter of the room, the rest of which is devoted to a long row of tables that start out at ordinary height and then get lower and closer to the floor as you reach the back. The ceiling has an antique map printed on the tiles. The food menu is one single page of "bites" and pizza options, along with tapas specials on the blackboard.

There is so much good wine produced in California that I suspect it would be pretty hard to establish a bad wine bar here. An entire menu could be made up of the free wine San Franciscans gave away on Craigslist this morning, and it would still have a better selection than the entire state of Nebraska. The problem a Bay Area wine bar faces, therefore, is not to be adequate but to be exceptional in a place where some of the world's best vineyards are two hours past the bridge. If there were less traffic or better public transit, no wine bar would be up to the task.

Etcetera holds its own. The wine menu is sectioned by flights, by the glass, by country, and by rarity. There's less to each section than meets the eye — a common flaw at Bay Area wine bars, where "complication" of menu is often mistaken for "quality" — but it's a strong selection and well-curated. Come with a friend; it's geared to people who are going to buy by the bottle.

Megs and I moved to San Francisco around the same time, and met each other through Burning Man. Years ago, out on the playa, a volunteer came up to us and said how much he loved being on our team, how great everyone was, and how well we all got along. "You two," he said, "you're obviously such great friends. You hang out together all the time back in San Francisco, right?"

And there was this long pause, because in fact we never had. Not for any reason (I think?) ... we just hadn't.

We both replied at the same time. One of us said "Sure," and the other said "No," and I can't for the life of me remember which one I was.

Over the years we had connected at parties, at art events, performed together ... but this may have been the first time we'd ever hung out one-to-one. For the life of us, we can't remember.

Megs ordered the flight of Rhone whites, I took the flight of Italian reds. They looked too good — and reasonably priced — to pass up.

I've lost track of the number of apartments Megs has been through since we met; I've moved exactly once. We've both been in and out of relationships, and talked about it over the years in a pragmatic, "I guess I have to catch you up now," way, although at one New Year's Eve party I watched her give her lover a truly passionate kiss. I was alone that night, but a stranger made out with me in a clinical way. I got home the next morning, woke up with a massive hangover, and discovered that my pockets were filled with cake.

Each flight comes with four glasses, and each glass has a generous pour. Every glass is labeled with a small note tied around the stem by a delicate string. Very practical, and very pretty. Megs adored it, while I thought how good it would be if the people in our lives came labeled like this. She will be your light Chardonnay with hints of vanilla; he will be your Petit Syrah with a complicated finish. This is who they are to you.

The wine was superb, to a glass, and we each finished the night with a late vintage port from 2005. It made us swoon together, in perfect sync. "Yes," we both said as one.

We left, after several hours, promising to do it again, to keep in touch, and saying we love each other. Yet one day we're going to look up and discover that the other has gone, and that for the life of us we can't remember where.