Missing Out on the Fun

     I might be slightly unaware of the hipster douchery of wine trade tastings. I guess because I never show up to socialize. My restaurant is in old fart land, far from the epicenter of city cool, so people's eyes glaze over when they see my name tag. I could go with the mentality of meeting new peeps, but I find I'm not my best at these events: Buzzy, with red stained teeth and hands? Not sexy. I'll chat with a couple sales reps for fun, but for the most part, I show up in non-descript black clothes and move silently from table to table, trying to actually learn something. Several things get in the way of this goal, however, which makes me hesitate to show up at these events.

Unnecessary Roughness

    If I swoop in just as the tasting starts, score! But my procrastinating self usually gets there an hour late, and I have to elbow past a bunch of tall suits to reach the front of a table. Once there, my covered boobage does little to pull the eyes of the pourer from his conversations with said suits. I'll wait a full minute before I think pass! and move on.

Tre Bicchieri San Francisco

     I once was ignored so profoundly at a tasting, that I hold the memory of this moment as the gold-standard of pouring negligence. I was the only one waiting, but the pourer refused to interrupt his conversations with the already-been-poured to even make eye contact.  I waited far longer than usual because I'd heard the wines were good but gave up. I did eventually get to taste the wines; the pourer from that table was in fact the wine maker and owner of his own company, and showed up at my restaurant to show me his wines a couple years later. Too bad I remembered him so clearly.

Shaky McShakertons

     Functioning alcoholics litter the wine field, befeebled wreckage of an industry where a drinking problem is almost requisite to staying up to date. These people are in full view at tastings and I often get pourers whose hands can barely stop shaking enough to get wine in my glass. So I get a taste with a dose of sad.

The Creeping Buzz

     I'll spit and spit like an angry llama, yet, for all this diligence, things start to get a little fuzzy about 20 wines in. It's the alcohol absorbing in through my cheeks and the fact I'm a super lightweight; And those little sneaky sips of expensive-ass wines I can't afford and have a hard time dumping, those sips catch up fast.

Nasty Splashback

  Spit buckets fill up quickly. I've only been nailed in the face a couple times with a rebound droplet of saliva-frothed bucket wine, but it was almost enough to make a germaphobe like me cry out in horror.

     Once I watched a hapless fellow dump out his finished taste not into the bucket, but into a decanter. The pourer was speechless, unsure whether to dump out the $100+ wine sitting in the decanter or pretend to look the other way.

Overshadowed Greatness

     Palate fatigue is real and sets in quick. Gigantic wines begin to seem incredible. The Sagrantinos, the Syrahs; with ripping tannin and high alcohol, these wines shake some life from my numbed senses. Delicate red, dry wines go blerg compared to their burlier cousins, though these are the wines I drink at home. I've given up at even trying whites, especially Italian ones: Hmm, water, interesting.

Don't Mug Me

     Lately it seems it's become trendy to hold tastings in the worst and least accessible neighborhoods in the city. I already have to drive; don't insult me by making me have to sketch street park.

     This year they switched the tasting venue of Tre Bicchieri, the only tasting I really give a damn about, as it has a huge selection of award-winning Italian wines. The new venue is at least large and has parking, but is way more annoying to get to so again, meh. I decided to not get my shift covered to go.

     I'm pouting right now as I type because I'm missing out on this event. For all the annoyances of tastings, there is something magical about walking into a huge room filled with voices, sparkling glassware and your favorite wines in the whole world. I'll be thinking about that while I'm serving people their pasta tonight.

Misconceptions About Sommelier-dom

     I'm late posting this week because I spent the weekend studying and taking a test. A wine test. Many thoughts ran through my head as the hours of studying passed by:

A) I'm too old for this shit

B) Where, working in California, will I need an in-depth knowledge of Greek wines?

C) Am I doing this for myself or others?

SF Gate article "The Ultimate Test"

     I'm asked often at work "are you a sommelier?" This question irks me because it's like if I walked up to a bartender and said, "are you a bartender?" If he/she is serving drinks behind a bar, that's kinda the definition of the job. There are different levels of experience and expertise to any profession sure, but, by the book, a sommelier buys, stores, sells and serves wine in a restaurant. Which is what I do, and have been doing for the last few years.

     Of course the Court of Master Sommeliers have done a good job of claiming the term "sommelier" for themselves. This is a group that gives actual credentials for somms, ones that look shiny on a business card or résumé. As much as these are nice to have, anyone who has worked in the business for a whack of time knows that book learning is no substitution for hands-on knowledge. This is acknowledged by the Court of Master Sommeliers, I suppose, in the fact that you can't even apply for the advanced exam without five years in the wine/service industry.

     The holy grail of the sommelier study path is to get your MS, or Master Sommelier. Supposedly if you achieve this, kittens will start flying out of your backside, and you will suddenly start speaking perfect French. Or that's what I've heard.

     To me, my job is work: negotiating, dealing with sales people, unpacking bottle after bottle, and trying to read customers' minds. It seems so far removed from the hallowed grounds of the James Suckling-style "wine experts" out there, that as far as I'm concerned, the Court of Master Sommeliers can keep the term sommelier. I'm happy being just a wine buyer

     Soo, how did I get sucked into this test nonsense then? A year ago I figured I'd shut people up by getting some sort of credential, and looked into the Wine and Spirits Education Trust. Their top credential, the MW, or Master of Wine, is equally respected and as famously difficult to achieve; There are 280 Masters of Wine as of 2010, and 186 Master Sommeliers as of 2011, according to the great Oz (Wikipedia). The main difference between the two credentials is that the MS is more service based, and the MW is more trade and business orientated.

     Because I like being different and I don't particularly enjoy the thought of farting kittens, I decided to go the MW route. The first place for me to jump in was taking the WSET level three certificate. This certificate is a prerequisite to taking a two-year "wine diploma" course (that costs 4,000 bucks or so); the diploma is considered the best way to possibly be granted entry into the MW program (which costs more than $10,000 to complete).

     Oh and the WSET Level 3 is available as a home study course, unlike the first sommelier level, which makes you sit through a two-day all-day-long lecture on beginning wine stuff. Blech.

     No one seems to have a clue why I'd want to take the WSET Level 3 vs. Sommelier 1. I've had some fun conversations like this:

     I'm talking to regular about how I've had to drink more wine instead of beer lately in preparation for my test. A slightly tipsy wine rep at the bar interrupts:

     "So you're going to be a sommelier?"

     "Well, not exactly, this test is a little different. It's more relevant to what I want to do."

     "Yeah and what's that?"

     "It's a bit more industry side of things which I like. I don't think I'll be taking the sommelier test."

     "But you should totally be a sommelier. You are so talented!"

     I had to walk away at this point before I felt compelled to knock my head into the wall next to the bar. I know that this conversation will repeat itself a hundred times, so I might as well get used to it.

     Thank you Samantha Sans Dosage, for bringing to my attention douche biscuit extraordinaire, Brad Newman and his Reviewer Card sham. I mustered up the energy this weekend to do a story about this on Wino on a Ramble, if anyone is curious.

Kid Karma

     One hundred dollars- I spend my life chasing these crisp, clean, underused measures of success, yet so many of my customers throw these bills around like they are nothing. For every person who enters our restaurant with a reverence for the ritual of spending money, 10 more are in jeans, in a hurry, and sit at their tables on their iPhones looking bored; They act like they are in their own living rooms, and are paying a hundred bucks for the privilege. I love our laid-back neighborhood vibe, but I have joked more than once, particularly when I'm being pressured for time, "Are we McDonald's for rich people?"

     We have a regular, a floppy-haired, mild-mannered guy, who comes around 8:30 or 9 pm, dressed in a suit coat and toting his hyper-active spawn. If you are a parent you understand the significance of this immediately: 9 pm should be time for bed, not for hanging out with dad at a fancy restaurant. Dad always has a 1/2 bottle of wine of something excessively expensive for the occasion, something French worth hundreds of dollars. Like our other "living room" regulars he does not pay corkage (Though at least he gives me a splash to try, and I can't really complain about a 20-40 dollar taste of wine.)

     Usually, floppy hair's child passes out as soon as he eats. I'll catch him stretched out in a banquette or across a few chairs pushed together in the main dining room. It's late enough that there are not too many other people around to witness this less-than-stellar example of parenting. Dad continues his meal, contently messing with his tablet or watching TV, enjoying his fabulously expensive Bordeaux.

     I didn't appreciate the method to this madness until floppy hair came in early one day. He was with the whole family‒wife, two older kids, and the little one‒coming in at 6 pm or so. The mini-member of the spawn was in full spaz. He couldn't sit still, messing with the table papers, getting into his dad's space, and I feared several times for his water glass. It was a special occasion, and the family was nicely dressed. Dad had brought in a half bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild, a 1st growth Bordeaux which costs roughly 800-1500 for a full bottle, to enjoy with mom.

     I poured the wine, eyeing the spastic minion distrustfully. Dad didn't seem to care, his method of dealing with the kid was "cope and ignore." My own small experience with children tells me I'd be a doormat of a parent as well, so I really can't judge; however, this child's lack of discipline came back to bite floppy hair. Towards the end of their meal, I walked past to see a stemmed glass down, with wine poured across an empty plate and surrounding table cloth.

     A couple hundred dollars worth of wine was soaking into the table cloth, but floppy hair seemed unfazed. He simply stood up and took junior for a walk outside. Perhaps he was simply happy his tan suit had been spared.

     I finally understood the 9 pm visits. The late hour plus rich food were a tranq dart for the minion, with our restaurant chairs serving as a containment unit. It's nice to know we can provide a service to our regulars beyond, you know, food and drink.

     For anyone who is curious, is the Lafite Rothschild worth ten crisp hundred dollar bills? Not even close‒ I've tried a few different vintages now and I'm always impressed by its polish and elegance; It kind of reminds of Anne Hathaway: glamorous, wholesome, neatly put together. But quirky tends to catch my interest more than perfect, and there are too many beautiful, intriguing wines under 50 bucks to ever make me throw my hundreds at any single bottle.

A Beautiful Myth

     "Oh Natasha," breathes a male customer wistfully from time to time. "Do you remember her?"

     With a twinkle in their eye, the old geezer will reminisce about how years ago, our bar was ruled by an Amazonian princess.

     I've only caught glimpses of Natasha myself, as whenever she comes in she's usually surrounded by her model friends‒ all freakishly tall, their stick-like figures draped in odd clothing. Natasha, the star of the show, does the rounds, saying her hellos to former coworkers. Sometimes her group will stay to eat, ordering just water and salads, of course, and maybe a little wine.

     Our customers' occasional longing comments are harmless enough, rolling off my back, in spite of the fact that I know none of them will ever speak of me in such hallowed terms. Not until last Saturday did I hear something that made my ears burn.

     I was already having a not-fun evening. I'd been passed up for the first six-top to come in and wasn't sat with a table for more than an hour. The boss' son was at the host stand with the hostess and came to the back to ask me: "Why won't she let me seat you?" I just shook my head at him, morose, biding my time, thinking about how to set a trap for someone traversing the kitchen in heels.

     Later, when I finally had some tables and my feelings of frustrations were starting to ebb, a customer asked me:  "Is Natasha working tonight?"

     This guy was the head of a six-top and was two-cocktails chatty. I was pouring wine for his table, and said that no, she wasn't working, and hadn't for many years (like, seven or eight). His friend on the opposite end of the table leaned in, "Oh, she left a long time ago, got married and everything. She does commercials and modeling now for a cosmetics company."

     "Is that right?" first guy said.

     "Yeah, it's so strange," the friend continued to gush with his privileged information. "I don't even know why she ever worked here. Why would she need to? Maybe she was a friend of [boss man]"

     Soooo, let me get this straight, I thought to myself. The reason why a gorgeous girl would ever work a job "beneath her" would be as a favor to the owner of a restaurant?

     ....Not for money, or because bartending can be a fun job for outgoing people?

     I'm standing right here!

     I came close to saying something about how our restaurant is a great place to work, but chose to disappear instead.

     Incidentally the guy who made this statement had previously ordered a drink at the bar, while waiting for his party to arrive, by jamming his finger in the bartender's face. The gesture had been rude enough for my bartender to forewarn me about him.

     I guess not everyone appreciates having to pay bills. Serving and bartending jobs in my area pay about three times as much hourly as entry-level college positions do, which is why I got stuck back in restaurant work to begin with. It's about paying bills, yo. Even beautiful people have to pay rent.