“Mostly, [Mr. Pitt] listened,” said Mark Cane, the chief physical scientist at Columbia’s International Research Institute for Climate and Society, who created the first numerical model to predict El Niño. “He’s a very serious young man with a desire to do some good.”

And what celebrity doesn’t want to do some good these days?

From Leonardo DiCaprio’s environmental agitation and Bono’s campaign to eliminate Third World debt and AIDS, to George Clooney’s calls for intervention in Darfur and Madonna’s adoption of a Malawian child, the news and gossip pages are abuzz with celebrities’ public munificence. Even 50 Cent, that self-described “hustler,” has weighed in on the risks of childhood obesity.

And the occasional hypocrisy and self-promotion aside, isn’t anything that brings attention to the world’s ills—global warming, Parkinson’s, African poverty—a good thing?

“I find it odd that we’re inclined to make fun of celebrities who are trying to do some good, but we think it’s fine that Uma Thurman shills for [Tag Heuer] watches,” said David Rieff, author of A Bed for the Night: Humanitarianism in Crisis.

IN SUNDAY'S NEW YORK TIMES MAGAZINE, the Princeton philosopher Peter Singer takes a look at the philanthropic contributions of the nation’s mega-rich and calls on them, and the rest of us, to do more. For the most part, celebrities are not contributing significant portions of their private wealth to the causes they support. In Slate magazine’s list of the 60 largest charitable contributions of last year, only Oprah Winfrey, at No. 22, is what most of us would call a celebrity.

What celebrities contribute is, well, their celebrity, lending a public face to Parkinson’s (Michael J. Fox), animal rights (Pamela Anderson) or rainforests (Sting). They contribute their highly publicized good intentions. Whether good intentions always lead to good policies is another question.

In fact, many experts take issue with Mr. Sachs, the economist most likely to appear alongside Ms. Jolie or Bono, and his contention that Africa needs hundreds of billions in foreign investment to pull itself out of a “poverty trap.” In a recent book, Mr. Sachs’ nemesis, New York University economist William Easterly, shows that the $187 billion in foreign aid to 22 African countries from 1970-94 did “zero” to increase productivity. Other experts argue that reducing aid to many African countries would help fight the corruption and inefficiency that are the true causes of Africa’s impoverishment.

Take, for example, the event that arguably launched this new era of celebrity activism: Live Aid. In July 1985, British rocker Bob Geldof organized several concerts around the world that raised at least $100 million for famine relief in Ethiopia. But, as various journalists and scholars have since pointed out, Live Aid may have done more harm than good. While the aid distributed undoubtedly saved many, it was also complicit in dictator Mengistu Haile Mariam’s forced agricultural collectivization policy, a resettlement that may have cost as many as 100,000 lives.

For Mr. Geldof, “there was no political dimension to the famine,” Mr. Rieff wrote in Prospect, a British magazine. And herein lies the problem with much of the celebrity activism that has followed: its utter lack of, or even willful disdain for, political sophistication. (Issues that are obviously complex and controversial, such as the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, are avoided altogether.)

The recently leaked pitch for the rights to pictures of Mr. Pitt’s and Ms. Jolie’s new child included a shameless plug from Prof. Sachs, and everyone involved looked ridiculous. The purchasers were asked to “use them in a way that also draws attention to the needs of the Cambodian people.” To which Mr. Sachs added that the couple’s “vision and generosity will not only positively affect the lives of Cambodians today, it will also benefit generations to come” (according to Women’s Wear Daily). The pictures did nothing of the sort.

But now Mr. Pitt may be on to something. For his meeting with the climate scientists, sans Ms. Jolie, he was presented with an impressive packet of literature on the subject. Much of it was smart-layman’s material, such as Elizabeth Kolbert’s look at global warming in The New Yorker and top NASA climate scientist Jim Hansen’s survey of potential climate-change impacts in The New York Review of Books. But there was also meatier technical stuff. If Mr. Pitt reads it all, he will know more about climate change than the vast majority of Americans.

Surprisingly, there was no mention of the crash course in the tabloids, which at the time devoted much space to the premiere of Ms. Jolie’s new movie, The Good Shepherd. The Observer tried contacting Mr. Pitt through his publicist, who claimed not to have known about the briefing. And Erin Trowbridge, the Columbia spokeswoman who coordinated the event, said that neither Mr. Sachs nor anyone else would be available for comment. The meeting was “utterly confidential,” she said.

It’s sort of refreshing. Here’s hoping that next time Mr. Pitt speaks out, he’ll have something truly meaningful to say.

That isn’t their real name. They are named, prosaically, Team No. 2. But at some point, the other players in the league realized that Team No. 2 was almost entirely made up of male models and christened them with their new name.

The Reebok Club is one of the chichi-er gyms in the city. George Clooney drops by when he’s in town to work on his jump shot (not bad). And Taye Diggs (terrible shooter) is a pick-up regular. Why not male models?

“So what if you get a black eye?” said Damon Wills, 28, who has posed for Ralph Lauren, Dolce & Gabbana and Guess. “That’s what makeup is for.”

The Zoolanders have perfect skin, but they can also shoot, and a few can dunk. They’re in the top half of a league that includes former Division I players, a few with overseas professional experience.

And along with their skills, the models are the only team to bring a cheering section: their hot wives and girlfriends, a few of whom are models themselves.

“We hope they’ll make an impression on the refs and we’ll get a few calls,” said Nathan Kamp, 30, the Team Zoolander captain whom you may have seen, shirtless, in a Gillette commercial.

Give them the calls, the rest of the league says. The other players relish the opportunity to make one of those distractingly gorgeous women on the sidelines realize that she’s settling for an inferior jump shot.

“How do they keep their tans?” The Observer asked Mr. Kamp’s wife, Elizabeth, a freelance makeup artist who was sitting on the sidelines alongside her parents, visiting from Washington state.

“L’Oreal Sublime Self-Tanning Cream for the body and Chanel for the face works best,” she said.

Daniel Jarrett, 26, who has modeled for Armani Exchange and L’Oreal, “doesn’t do creams,” said his wife, Amy, the only model spouse who’s not in the business. (She’s studying to be a math teacher.) “Daniel goes to the tanning salon once a week,” she said.

LAST MONDAY NIGHT, the models took the floor for the opening round of the league’s eight-team playoffs.

To the 20-odd spectators, and the half-dozen women sweating on the treadmills overlooking the court, the contrast between the models and their opponents could not have been sharper. On one side of the court was the unseasonably tan, chiseled musculature of Team Zoolander. On the other stood players mostly 15 years and 20 pounds past their primes, a fact acknowledged by their name: Still Hoopin’.

Though long in the years, Still Hoopin’ can play. They made it to the finals last year and improved this season with the acquisition of James (Speedy) Williams, an aging but still dangerous New York playground legend who has been featured in the movie Above the Rim, Nike commercials and a video game. Led by Mr. Williams and the net-scorching shooting of Terrell Townes, last season’s M.V.P., Still Hoopin’ raced to a 13-0 lead.

Team Zoolander looked out of sync, turning the ball over and giving up too many fast breaks. To be fair, it was the first time in several weeks that all the models had played together. Last week, Mr. Wills was back in Alabama visiting his family for an extended Thanksgiving. And Lucas Kerr, 29, whose ridiculously hard body has been featured in Absolut and Equinox campaigns, has missed the entire season with ankle injuries—due to the perils of the court, not the catwalk.

But more often than not, the models’ absences are work-related. An earlier forfeit—the models were away on photo shoots—dropped them from second to fifth place, which was why they were facing Still Hoopin’ in the first round.

The team also wasn’t getting much of a contribution from the normally steady Merritt Paulson, a friend of Mr. Kamp’s from the gym, who also happens to be the son of Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson. A few weeks ago, The Observer asked Mr. Paulson if he too was a model. Beaming, he led the reporter to his wife and made him repeat the question. “Tell her what you just asked me—go on, tell her,” he insisted.

Finally, the male models scored a basket. And another. But defensively, they couldn’t stop Mr. Williams and Mr. Townes. At halftime, the models were down 60-27.

MOST OF THE MODELS met on the job. Several years ago, Mr. Kamp and Mr. Jarrett shared an apartment in Barcelona while working shows. And Mr. Wills roomed with Mr. Kerr in New York when they both were represented by the same agency (Metropolitan, though they’re now with Major Model Management).

“We talked, and one of the first things we discovered is that we all played hoops,” Mr. Wills said. Today, they all live in Long Island City; Mr. Kamp and Mr. Jarrett in the same building, and Mr. Wills and Mr. Kerr only a few blocks away.

“There’re actually a lot of models that live in this neighborhood,” Mr. Wills said.

When they joined the league, the Zoolanders didn’t announce themselves as male models. But the word got out.

“One day I was watching TV, and all of a sudden a Gillette commercial came on and there was Nate, shaving with his shirt off,” said Mo Bethea, a professional martial artist who plays in the league.

Mr. Bethea, who often provides color commentary from the sidelines, gave them each nicknames. Mr. Jarrett, for instance, is known as “Brillo Cream,” since his perfectly parted hair never seems to move during the course of a game.

A former N.F.L. tight end playing on another team once taunted them: “You guys must be the prettiest team in New York.”

“They’re too pretty to play defense,” joked another player as Monday’s blowout unfolded.

“Yeah, we get a lot of shit,” Mr. Kamp said. “But it’s all in good fun.”

They’ve earned a certain respect for their all-out physical play, which belies the effete male-model stereotype offered up in Zoolander.

“They play just as hard and physical as anyone I’ve seen,” said L.Z. Granderson, an ESPN sportswriter and member of Team ESPN, in third place entering the playoffs.

In Monday’s game, Mr. Kamp, who is called “Hawaiian Punch” for the tropical shorts he favors, drove the lane fearlessly, crashing into bodies and diving into the partition that separates the two courts. Mr. Kerr plays a similar hard-nosed style, which has earned him the nickname “Lumberjack.”

“I’ve been playing basketball for so long that I’m not going to change the way I play now,” said Mr. Jarrett, the only one of the models who played ball in college (Concordia University in Nebraska).

Still Hoopin’ extended their lead to 46 points. It was a blowout, but the wives, who have become good friends themselves, continued to cheer every Team Zoolander bucket.

“Yeah, Nathan!” yelled Ms. Kamp, rising from the bench as her husband scored on a nifty finger roll, cutting the lead to a mere 40 points. Meanwhile, her parents snapped photos of the all-but-defeated (but still handsome) Zoolanders running up and down the court.

“They never lose the spirit,” said a player from another team admiringly as he waited to play in the night’s second game. “I can’t even get my girlfriend to come watch one of these games. And forget about cheering.”

The referees mercifully stopped the game with a few seconds left. The final score was 120-73.

This was supposed to be Team Zoolander’s year. Previously, they had suffered from a relative lack of size. In this league, to be competitive you need a few players who are at least 6-foot-5. But the vast majority of models range from six feet to six feet, two inches—as do Mr. Kamp, Mr. Kerr, Mr. Jarrett and Mr. Wills. Which is why, this year, Mr. Kamp found a taller model.

Jarred Sper, 28, who stands 6-foot-6, is a fitness model and international face of VO5. But he’s also a legitimate low-post threat and steady rebounder. And his wife, supermodel Sara Stout, was a welcome addition to the cheering section.

“We’ve known his wife for years,” Mr. Kamp said, when The Observer asked him where he had found Mr. Sper.

“His height probably limits him in terms of certain model jobs,” he also said.

Mr. Kamp was digesting the defeat, perhaps already thinking ahead to next year’s squad. Who knows? Somewhere in the world—Milan? Moscow?—there just might be a seven-footer in Versace.

That isn’t their real name. They are named, prosaically, Team No. 2. But at some point, the other players in the league realized that Team No. 2 was almost entirely made up of male models and christened them with their new name.

The Reebok Club is one of the chichi-er gyms in the city. George Clooney drops by when he’s in town to work on his jump shot (not bad). And Taye Diggs (terrible shooter) is a pick-up regular. Why not male models?

“So what if you get a black eye?” said Damon Wills, 28, who has posed for Ralph Lauren, Dolce & Gabbana and Guess. “That’s what makeup is for.”

The Zoolanders have perfect skin, but they can also shoot, and a few can dunk. They’re in the top half of a league that includes former Division I players, a few with overseas professional experience.

And along with their skills, the models are the only team to bring a cheering section: their hot wives and girlfriends, a few of whom are models themselves.

“We hope they’ll make an impression on the refs and we’ll get a few calls,” said Nathan Kamp, 30, the Team Zoolander captain whom you may have seen, shirtless, in a Gillette commercial.

Give them the calls, the rest of the league says. The other players relish the opportunity to make one of those distractingly gorgeous women on the sidelines realize that she’s settling for an inferior jump shot.

“How do they keep their tans?” The Observer asked Mr. Kamp’s wife, Elizabeth, a freelance makeup artist who was sitting on the sidelines alongside her parents, visiting from Washington state.

“L’Oreal Sublime Self-Tanning Cream for the body and Chanel for the face works best,” she said.

Daniel Jarrett, 26, who has modeled for Armani Exchange and L’Oreal, “doesn’t do creams,” said his wife, Amy, the only model spouse who’s not in the business. (She’s studying to be a math teacher.) “Daniel goes to the tanning salon once a week,” she said.

LAST MONDAY NIGHT, the models took the floor for the opening round of the league’s eight-team playoffs.

To the 20-odd spectators, and the half-dozen women sweating on the treadmills overlooking the court, the contrast between the models and their opponents could not have been sharper. On one side of the court was the unseasonably tan, chiseled musculature of Team Zoolander. On the other stood players mostly 15 years and 20 pounds past their primes, a fact acknowledged by their name: Still Hoopin’.

Though long in the years, Still Hoopin’ can play. They made it to the finals last year and improved this season with the acquisition of James (Speedy) Williams, an aging but still dangerous New York playground legend who has been featured in the movie Above the Rim, Nike commercials and a video game. Led by Mr. Williams and the net-scorching shooting of Terrell Townes, last season’s M.V.P., Still Hoopin’ raced to a 13-0 lead.

Team Zoolander looked out of sync, turning the ball over and giving up too many fast breaks. To be fair, it was the first time in several weeks that all the models had played together. Last week, Mr. Wills was back in Alabama visiting his family for an extended Thanksgiving. And Lucas Kerr, 29, whose ridiculously hard body has been featured in Absolut and Equinox campaigns, has missed the entire season with ankle injuries—due to the perils of the court, not the catwalk.

But more often than not, the models’ absences are work-related. An earlier forfeit—the models were away on photo shoots—dropped them from second to fifth place, which was why they were facing Still Hoopin’ in the first round.

The team also wasn’t getting much of a contribution from the normally steady Merritt Paulson, a friend of Mr. Kamp’s from the gym, who also happens to be the son of Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson. A few weeks ago, The Observer asked Mr. Paulson if he too was a model. Beaming, he led the reporter to his wife and made him repeat the question. “Tell her what you just asked me—go on, tell her,” he insisted.

Finally, the male models scored a basket. And another. But defensively, they couldn’t stop Mr. Williams and Mr. Townes. At halftime, the models were down 60-27.

MOST OF THE MODELS met on the job. Several years ago, Mr. Kamp and Mr. Jarrett shared an apartment in Barcelona while working shows. And Mr. Wills roomed with Mr. Kerr in New York when they both were represented by the same agency (Metropolitan, though they’re now with Major Model Management).

“We talked, and one of the first things we discovered is that we all played hoops,” Mr. Wills said. Today, they all live in Long Island City; Mr. Kamp and Mr. Jarrett in the same building, and Mr. Wills and Mr. Kerr only a few blocks away.

“There’re actually a lot of models that live in this neighborhood,” Mr. Wills said.

When they joined the league, the Zoolanders didn’t announce themselves as male models. But the word got out.

“One day I was watching TV, and all of a sudden a Gillette commercial came on and there was Nate, shaving with his shirt off,” said Mo Bethea, a professional martial artist who plays in the league.

Mr. Bethea, who often provides color commentary from the sidelines, gave them each nicknames. Mr. Jarrett, for instance, is known as “Brillo Cream,” since his perfectly parted hair never seems to move during the course of a game.

A former N.F.L. tight end playing on another team once taunted them: “You guys must be the prettiest team in New York.”

“They’re too pretty to play defense,” joked another player as Monday’s blowout unfolded.

“Yeah, we get a lot of shit,” Mr. Kamp said. “But it’s all in good fun.”

They’ve earned a certain respect for their all-out physical play, which belies the effete male-model stereotype offered up in Zoolander.

“They play just as hard and physical as anyone I’ve seen,” said L.Z. Granderson, an ESPN sportswriter and member of Team ESPN, in third place entering the playoffs.

In Monday’s game, Mr. Kamp, who is called “Hawaiian Punch” for the tropical shorts he favors, drove the lane fearlessly, crashing into bodies and diving into the partition that separates the two courts. Mr. Kerr plays a similar hard-nosed style, which has earned him the nickname “Lumberjack.”

“I’ve been playing basketball for so long that I’m not going to change the way I play now,” said Mr. Jarrett, the only one of the models who played ball in college (Concordia University in Nebraska).

Still Hoopin’ extended their lead to 46 points. It was a blowout, but the wives, who have become good friends themselves, continued to cheer every Team Zoolander bucket.

“Yeah, Nathan!” yelled Ms. Kamp, rising from the bench as her husband scored on a nifty finger roll, cutting the lead to a mere 40 points. Meanwhile, her parents snapped photos of the all-but-defeated (but still handsome) Zoolanders running up and down the court.

“They never lose the spirit,” said a player from another team admiringly as he waited to play in the night’s second game. “I can’t even get my girlfriend to come watch one of these games. And forget about cheering.”

The referees mercifully stopped the game with a few seconds left. The final score was 120-73.

This was supposed to be Team Zoolander’s year. Previously, they had suffered from a relative lack of size. In this league, to be competitive you need a few players who are at least 6-foot-5. But the vast majority of models range from six feet to six feet, two inches—as do Mr. Kamp, Mr. Kerr, Mr. Jarrett and Mr. Wills. Which is why, this year, Mr. Kamp found a taller model.

Jarred Sper, 28, who stands 6-foot-6, is a fitness model and international face of VO5. But he’s also a legitimate low-post threat and steady rebounder. And his wife, supermodel Sara Stout, was a welcome addition to the cheering section.

“We’ve known his wife for years,” Mr. Kamp said, when The Observer asked him where he had found Mr. Sper.

“His height probably limits him in terms of certain model jobs,” he also said.

Mr. Kamp was digesting the defeat, perhaps already thinking ahead to next year’s squad. Who knows? Somewhere in the world—Milan? Moscow?—there just might be a seven-footer in Versace.

I was the only customer, and the manager came over and asked me if I needed assistance.

I tried to be tactful.

“I’ve had the Simard before and enjoyed it, but when I had it last I think the price was closer to $20.”

“Well, it’s a popular wine, and prices have gone up, I’m afraid,” he said. “For something at that price point, I’d suggest the Château Labat. It’s one of our weekly selections.”

Indeed, I recognized the Labat. I had bought a bottle somewhere else for $15—not $22, as it was marked here—the previous week.

I walked out empty-handed. Briefly, I considered printing out a list of prices from other stores and returning to confront the manager. But what would be the point? I’d had similar experiences at wine establishments all over New York.

If you ask me, wine producers, writers and aficionados focus on the wrong numbers with their 100-point scales. The wine world doesn’t need another Robert Parker; it needs a Ralph Nader, someone to expose the pricing shenanigans on display alongside all those bottles of Chardonnay.

I don’t know if I’m the right person for the job, though. After all, until a year ago, you’d be hard-pressed (so to speak) to find a wine bottle in my apartment. I couldn’t have cared less what someone was charging for a bottle of Burgundy. I hated wine—its taste, the way it stained my teeth and the silly adjectives people used to describe it. Now I have a wine fridge, have been known to post on critic Eric Asimov’s New York Times blog, “The Pour,” and haunt the city’s wine stores like a deranged Howard Beale.

What happened?

I’m still not sure, but I know who’s to blame.

About 18 months ago, not long after I moved to New York, I reunited with my friend Daniel. In college we weren’t particularly close, but a friendship grew from our e-mail correspondence over the years. Our lives were completely different. I was living in the Middle East, studying and writing, drinking and carousing, scrambling to pay the next month’s rent. (Say what you will about the Arab-Israeli conflict, but the Palestinians make better beer.) Daniel was an investment banker with a wife and spectacular view from Trump Place. He envied my freedom; I envied his paycheck.

I wanted to take Daniel to one of my favorite BYOB restaurants, called A, near Columbia University. But first we met up for a beer.

I had been a beer guy ever since I took my first sip in high school. Back then, the point was to get drunk, and any beer would do. We drank cheap swill and had our obligatory suburbanite malt-liquor phase.

But in college, my taste evolved. We threw parties with kegs of porter. When I moved to Manhattan, I became a regular at d.b.a., an East Village brewpub, and sought out the city’s Belgian bars for Trappist ales and lambics. I would have been happy with a six-pack of either for our dinner at A.

Instead, Daniel insisted on buying a nice bottle of wine. We walked out of two wine stores before a third was deemed acceptable. “Let’s splurge,” he said, inspecting the selection. He wasn’t showing off, just wanting to indulge an old friend—and himself. Daniel settled on a $150 bottle of Opus One.

It was sublime.

Unlike other wine I had tasted—the wine equivalent of Busch Light Draft, I’ve come to realize—this had none of the acidity, the thin, dry aftertaste that left me clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth. No, this was full and rich, with a bouquet (yes) of flavors that only revealed themselves long after the first sip.

I am not religious; my soul is not open to conversion—only my palate. And as far as the tongue goes, I was born again.

There was just one problem: I don’t have Daniel’s generous expense account. So I scour the city for bargains. Of course, you don’t need to spend $150 or even $50 for a great bottle of wine. I’ve found very enjoyable wines for less than $10, mostly from Spain and Italy. (Try a Las Rocas Garnacha or Di Majo Norante Sangiovese.)

But it bothers me that, for all my pavement pounding and Internet surfing, I cannot provide a definitive answer to which wine store has the best prices. To be sure, the giants—Sherry-Lehmann, Astor Wines, PJ Wine, among others—typically offer better deals than the small, neighborhood joints. But not always. And prices also vary markedly among the larger stores, depending on the bottle.

For instance, say you wanted another California fruit bomb, the 2002 Caymus Cabernet Special Selection. Morrell Wine offers it for $150, 67 Wine for $130. The disparities are not only among expensive bottles. A 2004 Yellow Tail Shiraz costs $11 at Astor Wines and $6.50 at Sherry-Lehmann.

Recently, I asked Sherry-Lehmann’s chairman, Michael Aaron, to explain the price discrepancies among the city’s stores.

Each wine store has its “loss leaders,” he said. Stores mark down particular bottles and advertise the low prices, hoping to lure in customers. “For a store like ours, which sells thousands of different bottles, it’s impossible to have the lowest price every time.”

I like Sherry-Lehmann and buy a lot of wine there. Still, for that special occasion when only a bottle of 1996 Veuve Clicquot will do, I won’t be going to Sherry-Lehmann. I’ll call up PJ Wine, which sells it for $25 less.

In fact, I’m already chilling some nice champagne deep in the recesses of my wine fridge, saving it for that day when the pricing scheme finally makes sense. Now that’ll be something to celebrate.

I was the only customer, and the manager came over and asked me if I needed assistance.

I tried to be tactful.

“I’ve had the Simard before and enjoyed it, but when I had it last I think the price was closer to $20.”

“Well, it’s a popular wine, and prices have gone up, I’m afraid,” he said. “For something at that price point, I’d suggest the Château Labat. It’s one of our weekly selections.”

Indeed, I recognized the Labat. I had bought a bottle somewhere else for $15—not $22, as it was marked here—the previous week.

I walked out empty-handed. Briefly, I considered printing out a list of prices from other stores and returning to confront the manager. But what would be the point? I’d had similar experiences at wine establishments all over New York.

If you ask me, wine producers, writers and aficionados focus on the wrong numbers with their 100-point scales. The wine world doesn’t need another Robert Parker; it needs a Ralph Nader, someone to expose the pricing shenanigans on display alongside all those bottles of Chardonnay.

I don’t know if I’m the right person for the job, though. After all, until a year ago, you’d be hard-pressed (so to speak) to find a wine bottle in my apartment. I couldn’t have cared less what someone was charging for a bottle of Burgundy. I hated wine—its taste, the way it stained my teeth and the silly adjectives people used to describe it. Now I have a wine fridge, have been known to post on critic Eric Asimov’s New York Times blog, “The Pour,” and haunt the city’s wine stores like a deranged Howard Beale.

What happened?

I’m still not sure, but I know who’s to blame.

About 18 months ago, not long after I moved to New York, I reunited with my friend Daniel. In college we weren’t particularly close, but a friendship grew from our e-mail correspondence over the years. Our lives were completely different. I was living in the Middle East, studying and writing, drinking and carousing, scrambling to pay the next month’s rent. (Say what you will about the Arab-Israeli conflict, but the Palestinians make better beer.) Daniel was an investment banker with a wife and spectacular view from Trump Place. He envied my freedom; I envied his paycheck.

I wanted to take Daniel to one of my favorite BYOB restaurants, called A, near Columbia University. But first we met up for a beer.

I had been a beer guy ever since I took my first sip in high school. Back then, the point was to get drunk, and any beer would do. We drank cheap swill and had our obligatory suburbanite malt-liquor phase.

But in college, my taste evolved. We threw parties with kegs of porter. When I moved to Manhattan, I became a regular at d.b.a., an East Village brewpub, and sought out the city’s Belgian bars for Trappist ales and lambics. I would have been happy with a six-pack of either for our dinner at A.

Instead, Daniel insisted on buying a nice bottle of wine. We walked out of two wine stores before a third was deemed acceptable. “Let’s splurge,” he said, inspecting the selection. He wasn’t showing off, just wanting to indulge an old friend—and himself. Daniel settled on a $150 bottle of Opus One.

It was sublime.

Unlike other wine I had tasted—the wine equivalent of Busch Light Draft, I’ve come to realize—this had none of the acidity, the thin, dry aftertaste that left me clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth. No, this was full and rich, with a bouquet (yes) of flavors that only revealed themselves long after the first sip.

I am not religious; my soul is not open to conversion—only my palate. And as far as the tongue goes, I was born again.

There was just one problem: I don’t have Daniel’s generous expense account. So I scour the city for bargains. Of course, you don’t need to spend $150 or even $50 for a great bottle of wine. I’ve found very enjoyable wines for less than $10, mostly from Spain and Italy. (Try a Las Rocas Garnacha or Di Majo Norante Sangiovese.)

But it bothers me that, for all my pavement pounding and Internet surfing, I cannot provide a definitive answer to which wine store has the best prices. To be sure, the giants—Sherry-Lehmann, Astor Wines, PJ Wine, among others—typically offer better deals than the small, neighborhood joints. But not always. And prices also vary markedly among the larger stores, depending on the bottle.

For instance, say you wanted another California fruit bomb, the 2002 Caymus Cabernet Special Selection. Morrell Wine offers it for $150, 67 Wine for $130. The disparities are not only among expensive bottles. A 2004 Yellow Tail Shiraz costs $11 at Astor Wines and $6.50 at Sherry-Lehmann.

Recently, I asked Sherry-Lehmann’s chairman, Michael Aaron, to explain the price discrepancies among the city’s stores.

Each wine store has its “loss leaders,” he said. Stores mark down particular bottles and advertise the low prices, hoping to lure in customers. “For a store like ours, which sells thousands of different bottles, it’s impossible to have the lowest price every time.”

I like Sherry-Lehmann and buy a lot of wine there. Still, for that special occasion when only a bottle of 1996 Veuve Clicquot will do, I won’t be going to Sherry-Lehmann. I’ll call up PJ Wine, which sells it for $25 less.

In fact, I’m already chilling some nice champagne deep in the recesses of my wine fridge, saving it for that day when the pricing scheme finally makes sense. Now that’ll be something to celebrate.