Sommeliers are crazy about wine. They have to be. Who else would endure the job? Typically earning less than waiters, managers, and cooks, sommeliers aren’t drawn by the money or the working conditions, which often include nights, weekends and holidays. They suffer long hours in cold, dark cellars; unloading boxes and counting inventory; daily printing and reprinting of wine lists for accuracy; fielding the constant torrent of sales calls with dignity and grace; stocking up the bar, training the staff, and then, at last, going on the floor for service — which is not a walk in the park, especially in a busy, fine dining establishment during a convention.

A few years back, I worked at Aqua, one of San Francisco’s premier restaurants located in the bustling financial district. This high-end seafood restaurant attracted only the most talented staff, both in the kitchens and in the front of the house, and was under the direction of famous chef Michael Mina. The dining room was as stunning, rich, decadent and luxurious as the food.

One night during the Fancy Food Show convention (the annual pilgrimage of foodies of America to San Francisco’s Moscone Center) when we were packed to the rafters, I approached a sloppily dressed middle-aged man who had refused to check his briefcase and shopping bag. Traffic flow was everything in such cramped quarters. In fact, everyone who worked on that floor had to learn how to navigate the rows and, especially, the corners, in order to avoid collisions with each other and with guests. “Stay to the right, to the right!” we’d have to remind a new busser or runner. Make the wrong move at any juncture and there was sure to be an accident involving food, dishes and glassware. Space was so tight I trained the servers to cradle bottles of wine against their bodies en route to the table. We had it down. We’d sashay. We’d pirouette. We were a ballet in motion most of the time. When a guest refused to cooperate, we’d have yet another obstacle to deal with, as would all the other guests who might pass that table on the way to the restroom or exit.

This gentleman also refused to take off his overcoat and his hat. His friend looked down sheepishly when I offered the wine list. He took the list, and then proceeded to explain to me in a natty British accent that he was quite capable of choosing his own wine. In fact, he told me, he was a Master of Wine. I asked his name and began to explain that I was a second-year candidate in the same program.

“Bring me a riesling!” he ordered, cutting me short.

Though I didn’t have one currently by the glass, I did have an open bottle from the wine pairings on the tasting menu that night and I brought that to him straight away. He took one sip, and demanded to have a glass of pinot noir. I rushed back with this, and watched in horror as he proceeded to tell me that as a Master of Wine, he was qualified to make his own blends. He poured the riesling into the pinot noir, and handed back my wine list with a look of disdain.

Riesling and pinot noir? Blechhhhh! But hey, there was probably a lesson in all this worth keeping in mind — namely that the sommelier’s number one job priority is to make sure the guests are happy, no matter how abrupt they might be, or how brutally their concocted blends might assault my senses. And judging by this man’s face, I think I did just that. Or I should say, as much of his face as I could see. Just as he began to lift the corners of his mouth into a semi-smile, he suddenly dipped forward and fell asleep in his soup. What could I do but thank him and graciously excuse myself? I’ll never know if he heard a word I said as bubbles rose up in the soup bowl and I quickly pirouetted away.