So I’m in the grocery store, seeking out a jar of sauce and the pasta aisle.  I look up and behold a decidedly odd sight.

I’m not saying this is a bad idea.  Actually, it makes a lot of sense on a number of levels.  Still, in the Mid-West, most of your booze is in a separate room, never mind aisle.  And it’s usually just called wine.  ”Pinot Noir,” “Chardonnay,” and “Sauvignon” mixed in with the pasta and tomato sauce?  I must be in San Francisco.