Bottles I keep going back for

These are the wines (and the rooms that pour them) I find myself returning to after a long day of stabilizing silk or re-weaving a moth hole the size of a thumbnail. I tend to pick a glass the way I pick a thread — by how it catches light, how it smells before it tells you anything — and most of these places are close enough to the museum that I can walk there still smelling faintly of archival tissue. Half are shops where I buy bottles to drink alone with a crossword, half are bars where the pour comes with good light and better eavesdropping (one of them, Liar Liar, has become something of a Gowanus institution in its short life, and I will die on that hill).