As a babe of three, I liked sitting on my mother’s naked stomach and playing a game I called “Does This Hurt?” She didn’t much care for it, but I had burning questions to answer, like, “What happens if you twist these?”
Curiosity is still my master. I’m a founding member of Googlers Anonymous. My interviews are compared unfavorably with the Spanish Inquisition. But it serves me well in restaurants. Ask the right questions, I’ve learned, and you need never settle for wine you don’t love. My table ends up a forest of glasses; I taste dozens of wines that never appear on the check.
“Sure,” you say, “but you’re a wine critic. What about the rest of us?” Actually, most of the world, including, I suspect, the newspaper I write for, has no clue who I am. The routine I’m about to share with you works whether I reveal my identity or not.
For purposes of assisted social suicide, there’s nothing quite like the sommelier appearing out of the gloom with his trademark wine list and sickle. But the right questions can harness his powers for the good. Don’t worry that you’ll sound like a newbie. The tip-top echelons of winedom - marcheses, masters of glass, heads of wine industry - all ask questions of the sommelier. Because no matter who the grand funkety-funk you are, the som has tasted wines you haven’t. Why not benefit?
Skip the nervous laugh and declaration of ignorance. Do you act this way with the telephone tech support guy in Afghanistan who’s trying to determine why your computer keeps spewing hot chicken soup out of its serial port? Certainly not. You go along with the program – “You see the little button at the top of your screen that says XMppptss&^%$? No? OK, let’s start again. You sure it is a computer and not a toaster?” – until you hit a snag and are forced to confess that you never really did understand what an “operating system” was.
Good sommeliers are a font of information. At the highest levels, the Master Som spends years cramming for the vinous equivalent of law boards. All that knowledge – building up pressure in his brain! You will act as a release valve; transitioning him to a calmer, pleasurable brain state. He will want to keep returning to your table to get more of this drug that is you. Here’s what to say:
“Who writes the wine list?” This person can reveal to you hidden gems. But first, whether tiny table tent or a ten-ton tome, you must compliment it. “How refreshing! An all-Retsina theme!” you might exclaim.
“Do you get to taste a lot of these wines?” Positive spin. “How cool!” the question says, “How unlike those stupid restaurants that don’t care a fig for empowering their staff. You, in contrast, are a Super Som!”
Alternative phrasing:
“Do they taste you through a lot of these wines?” You speak the lingo; you might be in the business.
Discuss the dishes you’ve chosen and any other relevant info such as you’re into Spain or you prefer big and fruit-juicy to austere and intellectual. Find a region, grape or term you don’t know much about and ask some version of:
“What’s up with that?” You may learn why Sauvignon Blanc tastes like cat pee in New Zealand, if there’s really any good Merlot, or whether Chianti Classico is a region or type of Chianti. Pretty soon it’s time for:
“What do you recommend?” He needs a price range, so point to a number on the list and say, “Something like that.” Don’t worry if it’s low. What do you suppose they drink at home? Besides, at that price, you might order more bottles. Now it’s time to deploy the Magic Question:
“What about you? What are you passionate about?” And just like that, you are no longer a bland, faceless customer. You have become an adventurous spirit, one of his tribe. What’s more, you care about his tastes. The rewards are twofold. You will encounter the hippest, cutting-edgest of wines; something wonderful, wild and woolly that could never come from a factory. Plus, get a som cranked up enough about his baby and sooner or later he will be compelled to utter the phrase you’ve been waiting for:
“No, really! I’m so sure you’re going to love it - if you don’t, I’ll take it back.”
Which he will, and drink with pleasure in the kitchen. This phrase disarms the whole rejection issue. Wine should be sent back only if flawed. Never, a) to show what a big shot you are or b) because you just don’t like it. Now that you’ve engaged the som, however, you’re free to say, “Hey, thanks for trying, but I really can’t get into this.”
Assuming you do like it, though, always offer both som and waiters a taste. This is courteous and useful for them. Plus it injects some fun into their long, exhausting night of work. Don’t worry about “giving away” your wine. This move will repay itself many times over. Especially if you launch the bonus question:
“If you happen to open something that would help me learn more, and I could get just a tiny taste of it, I’d really appreciate the opportunity.” Offer to pay, of course, but you seldom will. If they go for it, a funny thing happens. Once they start, they can’t stop. You’ll be offered tastes of everything from Pinot to Perrier. You must be extremely gracious, polite and thankful. And always tip handsomely for this sort of experience.
At a restaurant dinner in New York featuring wine critic Robert Parker Jr., I offered a copy of my book, Waiter, There’s a Horse in My Wine, to a gentleman at my table. “You’ll learn all kinds of stuff about wine,” I explained, “while spitting it out your nose laughing.” With a patronizing little smile and nod, he answered, “I don’t think so, dear. I already know all about wine.” Which doesn’t say much for Mr. Parker, who read his copy cover-to-cover on the plane to France and wrote lovely things about it on his website. But then I’ll bet that man’s mom never had to play Come in Tokyo.
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