Victoria James - Wine Girl: The Trials and Triumphs of Americas Youngest Sommelier

T WENTY-ONE YEARS OLD, the youngest sommelier in the country and the most foolish. Today my career will end, I thought.

It was early 2012 during a Monday lunch, one of the shifts given to the newbie (in this case, me), as it is the slowest service of the week and typically safe from any real challenges. Only occasionally would I sell a bottle and get to make the magnificent journey through Aureoles extensive wine cellar. This collection climbed upward and ran the length of the restaurant, holding over fifteen thousand bottles.

Usually, the bottles I sold during this shift werent particularly fascinating, as its not a typical American custom to drink well during a Monday lunch. However, this Monday was different. A guest had ordered the 2009 Chevalier-Montrachet from Domaine Ramonet.

Some sommeliers might nitpick that Domaine Ramonet is not their favorite producer in Burgundy (a bit overrated, theyll sneer), or perhaps a wine collector will argue that this wine was too young to drink (infanticide! at only three years old), but snobbery aside, it was a $650 bottle of chardonnay! Who does that... at a Monday lunch no less?

I thought of how proud my wine director would be when he saw the sales from lunch and imagined all the wonders the guests would experience when they drank the grand cru white Burgundy. I had never tasted the wine, only read about its notoriety and rarity.

The guest who ordered the Ramonet was at table 100 (in restaurants tables are numbered for practical purposes). It was one of the best tables in our dining room, surrounded by a plush banquette and pillows. Sometimes, this comfort led to loose wallets. The captain scurried to find me after receiving the order. With the wine list still carefully propped open to the correct page, he pointed to the six-hundred-fifty-dollar one! His eyes screamed Ka-ching!

I held my breath as his fingers scrolled from the price over to the left... 2009 Domaine Ramonet Chevalier-Montrachet... ! At first, I was sure this was a practical joke. As the new girl, I had grown accustomed to all sorts of ruses.

Let me just double-check, I added, hesitant. The captains face dropped as I took the wine list from his hands and walked over to the table, where four men lounged. They all had slicked-back gray hair and wore dark suits with thin stripes. I presented the list to the gentleman who had ordered. Pardon me, sir, I wanted to confirm your order of 2009 Domaine Ramonet Chevalier-Montrachet... My finger ran along the name and to the price. He just stared at me with his beady eyes.

Tiny droplets of sweat began to form under my cheap polyester suit. He closed the wine list abruptly with a clap. Yes, he said with an overt tinge of annoyance, and hurry, we are thirsty. I managed a nervous nod, rushing out of the dining room and upstairs.

In the wine cellar, there was a corner I had yet to explore. This nook was where all of the high-end wine was hidden, away from light and dangerous swings in temperature. After a few moments of scanning, I found the Ramonets and thumbed my way through until I landed upon the right vintage and vineyard. I gently picked up the bottle and noticed that there were, in total, only two of them. I cradled the wine in my arms as if it were a small child, terrified of what a single misstep might bring.

Back near the table of men in suits, their conversation quieted to whispers as I returned. Sir, 2009. I pointed to the vintage on the bottle. Domaine Ramonet. I pointed to the producer. Chevalier-Montrachet. I pointed to the vineyard. He gave a sharp nod. The eerie silence from the group crept onto my skin and sent a small shiver throughout my body.

Outside the dining room, I placed the bottle steadily down on the gueridon, the sommelier station where wine is opened, prepped, and tasted. To open the bottle, I whipped out my corkscrew and rendered two precise cuts to the foil capsule, removing the top portion that covered the cork. Just in case there was any unwanted residue, I wiped the top of the cork off with a serviette. Once it was cleaned, I dug the tip of my corkscrew in and, with a few twists plus one steady pull, extracted the cork quietly. To be sure, I followed the last step of the sommelier protocol here and wiped the lip again with a serviette. Then, the best partI poured myself a one-ounce taste.

Believe it or not, a sommelier must taste every single bottle before serving. One bottle in every two or three cases of wine is corked, and even more can be affected by a variety of other flaws. Just as a chef would never send out a rotten piece of fish, a sommelier should never serve a lousy bottle of wine. The chemical compound known as TCA (trichloroanisole) is what is responsible for this cork taint. It wont harm you, unlike a piece of rotten fish, but its a horrible taste.

The tradition remains that even after the sommelierarguably the expert in this scenarioapproves the wine, she allows the guest to taste it as well. Here, the guest is merely rechecking to see if it is flawed; it is not a tasting to see if they like it. Preferences should be established with the sommelier well before the selection. So why even go through this rechecking process? I like to do it because I believe hospitality is about love, not logic. Of course, it would make more sense to skip this step. However, at this moment, the sommelier puts expertise on the back burner and humbly gives the guest the power. The sommelier respectfully bows down first, followed by the guests reciprocating in appreciation (ideally).

Despite my lack of experience in the industry, I had already tasted thousands of wines and trained myself to commit all flawed flavors to memory. Still, I especially honored the tradition of letting the guest approve the wine. Many of my guests were two to three times my age; it would have been disrespectful for me not to bow to them first.

When I tasted the Ramonet Chevalier-Montrachet, there was nothing off about it. The wine was like slipping into a bed made up with silk sheets. In the glass, aromas and memories kept popping out: sour cream spread on toast with honey, butterscotch candies, clotted cream, movie-theater popcorn, sour frozen yogurt, a zing of lemon zest, freshly cracked crme brle, warm butter with salt, and mouth-puckering acidity. I could see why people would spend so much money on this wine.

The glasses are down, the captain remarked, pulling me out of my amorous reverie and back to Monday lunch service. He had placed white Burgundy glasses, specifically made for this type of wine, on the table.

The uneasiness I had felt before crept back. Although my restaurant training had taught me how to suppress nervousness, sometimes my body had a hard time listening. I approached the leader from the right again, pouring a taste quickly but with a calculated precisionlabel facing him, two ounces, a quick dip ofthe neck, twist, wipe with a serviette, cradle in both hands within view. He brought his lips to the glass, stuck out his tongue a tiny bit, letting the Burgundy inch in. Moments passed; he looked up at me, scoffed, and turned back to his guests. I think she has too much perfume in her nose, this girl... His glare turned upward and at me. The bottle is corked, take it back. Bring us another.