Sommeliers Can Be Total Assholes

This article originally appeared on MUNCHIES in April 2016.

Welcome back to Restaurant Confessionals, where we talk to the unheard voices of the restaurant industry from both the front-of-house (FOH) and back-of-house (BOH) about what really goes on behind the scenes at your favorite establishments. In this edition, we hear from a New York City-based sommelier about the bad habits common to his ilk.

The other night, I went on a first date. It wasn't the first time we met, and thankfully we didn't need an app to introduce us. She always seemed fancy—we met as I was serving her a nice bottle of Champagne, and I found out shortly after that she worked for the kind of company that I will probably never, ever be wealthy enough to do business with. She came in a few more times before I finally worked up the nerve to ask her out—but oddly enough, she'd already written me a note on the check with her number.

I had a bottle of '96 Salon burning a hole in my wine fridge, and as I was returning from a tasting trip upstate with a sommelier friend, he suggested I take her to a certain omakase-only sushi spot that his friend managed. They played mostly very loud rap, and my somm friend had recently been waived corkage when he brought in a bottle of Raveneau (an expensive, somm-boner Chablis).

I arrived with the smug grin that one has when carrying a handbag that is actually just a neoprene sleeve with a $900 bottle of Champagne in it, and was seated at the far end of the bar. Thinking I'd save it until she arrived, I had a look at the drinks list. I immediately turned white.

I was basically just undercutting everything these people were doing with their whole lives.

I'd committed a Judas-level sommelier crime: I brought my own bottle of a wine that was already on the list. I was basically just undercutting everything these people were doing with their whole lives.

Thankfully, my date was late enough for me to regain my composure, order a fancy Japanese beer, apologize to the sommelier (offering him a glass of the Salon, of course), and have a good laugh.

We commiserated about the fact that sommeliers are kind of assholes, at least when they're eating somewhere they don't work. We both know "that guy," but many sommeliers end up being "that guy" on our days off.

A month before this, I was in Vegas for a retroactive bachelor party where the idea of a "Negroni crawl" was floated. When I woke up still wearing my shoes and feeling like I had eaten a Black and Mild, I realized that it had been a terrible idea, but I went in optimistically. First stop was a Michelin-starred name-you-would-know-spot for appetizers at the bar.

"What kind of vermouth do you have?" I asked.

"Uh…" The charming journeyman looked behind him, "No-illy-pratt."

"Do you keep it in the fridge?"

"Uh… No?"

"Could I look at the wine list?"

There's "that guy." I wanted a cocktail, but ordered something completely different because I was worried about the quality and condition of the vermouth in my Negroni. Who does that? Sinatra didn't walk in and quiz you on which appellation the French created for vermouth! (It was Chambéry, FYI.) He ordered a goddamned Manhattan, and then he drank it.

Sometimes, you get called out. Although I would like to think it's that my Instagrams of bottle-porn and vineyard vistas that have given me a broad reach, I only have seven followers on Twitter. Turns out, you can spot a sommelier pretty easily.

I have never bought into the Scientological nature of most wine training programs, but those that do are rewarded with Chotchkie's-worthy flair. It's mandated after passing the test that one wear said pins on the floor, and although few of my friends that have jumped the proverbial hurdles actually rock them, it's always fun to see them in the wild.

A guy came into my place for a late dinner wearing not one but two pins: the fleur-de-lis of Relais & Chateaux (the aging guide/association for restaurants that a moneyed Swiss 70-year-old would feel comfortable in) and Level 1-Million Court of Master Somms swag.

Generously assuming that he had been cut early from a legit spot in the city, and had merely forgotten to take off his flair, I was like, "'Sup?"

This guy was on vacation from out of state, and actually put his pins on to come to dinner. I didn't know how to respond because I had so many different kinds of questions. Like, mostly, "Really?"

Despite my blasé attitude, the last time I was in Portland I got picked out right away, even though I hadn't donned any sort of pin. It may have been the innocuous questions (to me, at least) I asked about the wine list, or perhaps any one of the kind-of-douchey things sommeliers do when they are trying to be regular people.

For example: Sometimes I say that I can't make a decision. It's a lie. I can, but all the wines I want cost way more than I can afford. Instead, I ask some pointed questions about things in my price range, and say something like, "I was thinking Chablis, but we're in an Italian place? You choose! Anything under $100."

Thankfully, I was on another date, and had to get to one of the city's famed cabarets for some post-dinner entertainment. As far as I can tell, I may have escaped without actually offending anyone. If I had been with some other wine-bros we would have almost certainly 1) found a wine with a price that is so low that it must be a typo and ordered it; 2) shared said wine with the staff; 3) flirted with one, if not all, of the hosts; 4) bought beer from the bodega across the street for the entire kitchen staff.

That night, though, when they put the glassware down, and I thought no one was looking, I smelled my empty glass. I am not proud of it, but I would like to know if it's the glass that smells like a wet dog because the water or rinse-agent needs to be changed in the glass-washing machine or if it's the crappy natural wine you're about to serve me.

I think, though, it was the moment of tasting that gave me away. If I remember to, I try to always actually take a sip, but we all know you can tell right from the nose whether a wine is corked or not. By not actually sipping my Arneis, I gave myself up.

"Who are you?" the Oregonian sommelier asked.

I'm an asshole.