Masters in the Hall: What is a Master Sommelier?

“Moderate climate, Old World” says the guy in front of me, “wet earth, Bordeaux blend, mostly merlot, I’m going to say right bank, 8 to 10 years old.” He scoorreesss!! The wine is a ’95 St. Emilion. Curiosity has landed me in the Court of Master Sommelier’s two-day, introductory course. We’re at the Lodge at Sea Island, Georgia, one of the most beautiful spots on earth, alas, no beach for me: I’ve got homework.

Anyone with a corkscrew can call himself “Sommelier,” but a genuine Master Sommelier degree commands worldwide respect. It’s such a tough program that since 1969 only 104 have graduated. Even the runner-up title, Advanced Sommelier, requires an invitation, a mentor, 5 years of wine-service and access to thousands of wines.

Level one is open to anyone, but woe to the unprepared. In two days, MS’s Robert Bath and Doug Frost whisk us through the grapes, history and laws of every wine region in the world. Byzantine topics like German prädikats and domains in Burgundy get 5 minutes apiece.

By lunchtime, one girl looks dazed, partly because she’s been drinking the wines instead of spitting. “If I don’t drink them it gets so borin’!” she complains, “They’re throwin’ all these words at me, these places ñ I’m never gonna go to Fray-unce!” She doesn’t come back the second day.

Aimed at grooming the professional sommelier, the program covers cigars and other drinks along with wine service. Bath shows us how to decant old claret, and illustrates the danger of over-vigorous popping with the story of a cork that landed in a lady’s cleavage. He also addresses the pressing new issue: do you present the customer with the screw cap? (For the record, no. The sharp edges are a lawsuit-in-waiting.)

Sexiest, by far, is the blind tasting. Initial horror at being called upon in front of the class gives way to euphoria as students find themselves nailing down region, grape, even vintage. It’s detective work: you examine and deduce. “First, find three fruits,” says Frost to a student who has jumped right on petrol in the nose. “Apple? OK than is it Golden delicious, Fuji, baked, rotten? If there’s apple, is there pear?” When we place the wine in the Rhine valley, Frost nudges us to the east bank of the river, remarking, “No region besides Germany could put in this much flavor at this low alcohol.”

We get bolder as we realize there are no wrong answers. “I can work with that!” says Bath when a student reports cinnamon and cloves.
“That’s French oak. Old, soaked barrels or brand new? What percentage new?” And so we pin down another wine.
The lack of classes or printed curricula after level one shrouds the MS program in mystery, conjuring images of secret handshakes, robes and rites that only the initiated can penetrate. An ethos of feudal hierarchy, as Court would imply, casts candidates as squires, idolizing their lord and knight, the MS mentor. Despite eleven women who have passed the bar, there’s a boys-club feel about the whole thing.

Bitter outsiders, who’ve failed to crack the upper echelon, cry politics. The Court denies this, perhaps a little too vigorously. After all, who knows better than an MS how feelings can mess with objectivity - that’s why they taste blind! Besides, what’s wrong with politics in a private club that has a right to choose its members?

The emphasis on learning millions of facts that are but a Google away marginalizes the program a bit: it separates the good servers from the super-brains. “It’s not rocket science,” says Frost, dismissively, but then it ain’t exactly wood shop. It’s a stretch to imagine these competitive intellectuals content as sommeliers, quietly serving, with few chances to display their encyclopedic knowledge.

Our piddling knowledge, meanwhile, is tested at the end of two days. As we wait for results, the tension in the room is as thick as a 5-puttonyo Tokaji. One by one, improbably young people are called up to get their diploma. A buxom redhead receives hers wiping tears out of her eyes like a Miss America contender. How do these people know so much? I spend my life marinated in the minutia of wine, and I clearly did not ace the exam. A vision of the beach outside my hotel room comforts me. I’m cool. Hey, if I fail, it makes a better story! Yeah, that’s the ticket.

At last they call my name. I’ve avoided humiliation but, as so often happens in the wine world, I’ve been humbled. These guys really know their wine.

By Jennifer Rosen: http://www.vinchotzi.com