(FORTUNE Magazine) – You probably don't associate football season with fine wine. It's a time of tailgate parties, and where I come from that means mustard-soaked hot dogs and cans of Budweiser.

At least, that's what I used to think. But I was recently inspired to reconsider my position after a conversation with the owner of a hugely successful liquor store in suburban New York City, a jolly bear of a man I'll call Hans. Here is a man who likes his football and loves his wine, and he convinced me how well the two go together by describing a tailgate party he attended last year. Believe me, there wasn't a six-pack in sight at this one.

The guests: a dozen or so "close acquaintances." (Translation: a guy in the wholesale trade throwing a party for a bunch of retail guys like Hans who might just put in a bigger order next time round.) And the team...well, that part was less enticing. "We're talking Jets," said Hans, "and you remember what last year's Jets were like. They were terrible! People were giving away tickets." Maybe so, but the price of admission to the tailgate was two or three bottles of vintage wine. "But nothing too special," Hans assured me.

Yeah, right. Tack a tailgate thrown by folks in the cutthroat-competitive wine business onto a lackluster game and you're likely to get some special drinking indeed. The group started, for example, with Veuve Clicquot '89 ($60 per regular-sized bottle), a big-bodied, mouth-filling champagne just approaching maturity. I wondered, as Hans rhapsodized about how well this choice had washed down the first round of hors d'oeuvres, what I'd bring to such a tailgate--if I had to pay my own way. I'd start, I decided, with Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label Brut ($25), one of the best nonvintage bruts on the market: a blend with some age to it, beautifully balanced between pinot noir, meunier, and chardonnay grapes. Gulpable year-round.

Anyway, kickoff was still distant when Hans and company had drained their magnums, so they moved on to jumbo shrimp accompanied by white burgundy. Not just any old white burgundy--Bouchard Pere & Fils' classic 1992 Le Montrachet ($200 the bottle, if you please). "Spec-tac-u-lar," said Hans. "In this kinda cold, you don't even have to chill it." True, no doubt. But what would a mortal like me have chosen? I settled on a 1995 Beaune Clos St. Landry ($35), a wonderfully individual, spicy, rare white premier cru burgundy also from Bouchard Pere & Fils, a house on the upswing since being acquired by Champagne Henriot.

"And then came the Marines," Hans continued. Or maybe it was just some high school band playing John Philip Sousa over in the stadium. Either way, it was perfect background music for a round of barbecued ribs, complemented by the '93 Rosemount Balmoral Syrah ($40), an inky, rich monster of a wine from Australia. Hans' only comment--"Wow"--said it all. My substitute: a 1994 Penfolds Coonawarra Shiraz, Bin 128 ($20), a fine introduction to Australian shiraz: leathery, plummy, a touch peppery, to go with the gobs of vanilla.

Then, Hans went on, one of his cohort broke out another syrah-based wine, the 1988 Hermitage La Chapelle made by the famous Paul Jaboulet Aine, a structured, yet supremely elegant red Rhone, perfect for washing down juicy, pink lamb chops. As he so eloquently put it: "Oooph." I mentally countered with my vote for bargain wine of the year: 1995 Cotes du Rhone Parallele 45 ($7), a remarkable red from the same Paul Jaboulet Aine.

Next? "Was the game," sighed Hans. The crew trooped to their seats and endured another blowout of the hapless Jets, vintage 1996. And then, he continued, "right when I'm thinking I'm bored out of my gourd, along comes a silver flask full of Hine cognac." In fact, it was the Triomphe, a blend of Grande Fine Champagnes with an average age of 50 years in cask ($250). "This stuff is mind-blowing," Hans confided. Indeed, it's one of the smoothest, most elegant, most oaky old cognacs on the market. The fruit is not only ripe but elegant, with a lovely glossy sheen.

"Not exactly what I'd think to carry to the ballpark," I protested, "to see a one-and-15 football team that couldn't manage to win a single game at home all season!" I silently concluded that for me, Hine Rare & Delicate ($40), a lovely sipping wine of a cognac, ought to do the trick. Winemaker Bernard Hine likes his Havanas--and it shows: tobacco and oak on the nose, and as focused as they get for the price. A mini-Triomphe, in fact.

But even as I congratulated myself for all my first-rate substitutions, logic overcame emotion. If that's how Hans washes away the tears, I reasoned, I'd sure like to see how he celebrates. "Say, Hans, old pal, old buddy," I piped up. "When is that next tailgate? The one you're inviting me to?"