By Ada Brunstein

The best part of any bottle of wine isn’t the first sip and it’s certainly not the last.

It isn’t the swirling or the nosing or the recognition of grape and region.

The best part of a bottle, whether you’re on your first glass or fifth, is in that moment of “zin” when you look across the table at the person you’re drinking with and know, with your glass half full, that you will return to this moment over and over.

A wine shop should be no different.

The Wine and Cheese Cask on the corner of Beacon and Washington in Somerville has embodied the spirit of wine for me for over a decade. Like the friends with whom I share my wines, the shop is warm and familiar. It’s where I go when I know exactly what I want and where I go when I’m not so sure of myself and I’m counting on it for suggestions. In this shop I’m not afraid to take chances.

It’s where I first discovered Las Rocas, a Garnacha that a friend liked so much he bought a case. It’s where I first saw the pun-wine, as I like to call it. Sin Zin, an Alexander Valley Zinfandel that I took with me on a relationship-ending weekend in Nantucket years ago.

I went back to the Wine and Cheese Cask recently to browse through the regions of the main room: Portugal, Spain, Toscana, the lesser-known Piemonte and Alto Adige regions (all on one wall). A post-card that hung between Spain and Toscana offered instructions on how to store wine to “ensure your maximum pleasure.”

The tall ceilings, the clear labeling, the rustic feel of all the wood and wine makes it easy to visualize the landscapes that produce the grapes I’m considering.

From the main room I go up a few steps to Wines of France Room, where the Burgundies and Loire wines live. This intimate room could be anywhere in the world – it could be in the Loire itself without much imaginary effort. Sometimes it’s jarring to find just a parking lot outside the shop.

This time, for the first time, I’m browsing with my notebook, a detail that didn’t go unnoticed by “a patron” as he wants to be called. “Steve,” he finally says over his shoulder as he walks away. He had asked about my note-taking.

A web site, I told him.

They know everything here, he said.

I know.

When Steve and his wife have dinner guests, he comes to the Wine and Cheese Cask for staff suggestions, he says.

I lay out the menu, he tells me. Then I tell them who’s coming.

“You tell them who’s coming to the dinner?” I ask.

Yes, he says, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to pair a wine with the company you keep. I describe what kind of people they are, he says. And, he adds, the staff are spot on with their suggestions every time.

“The staff” are four wine buyers, a beer buyer and sales staff. Stephen Mocher, one of the wine buyers, knows this place well. He’s been here 20 years.

“It’s been around since the 70s,” he says. And it’s barely changed since then. “We don’t even change the carpet color,” which happens to be a Merlot–red as far as I can tell. In my 10 years here, I’ve never known this bit of history. He doesn’t stop to talk to me, he keeps moving, carrying bottles, moving through the store as effortlessly as if he’d been in his own living room.

I take one last tour through the assortment of cheeses, glance at the meats, wonder what caper berries are, and why I haven’t ever seen Pig’s Nose scotch anywhere else. I go to the wine of the month bin where Stephen and his crew offer their monthly selections for those who feel like living on the edge.

I go home with a $7.99 Malbec called Notro. I’m not afraid of a bargain.

It turns out to be the perfect complement to the triple cream and dried beef that I share with a friend over a Netflix movie. And I know I’ll return for years to come.