Unless you count the time I delivered plates at the St. Stephen’s church supper and bingo bonanza, I’ve never really worked as a waiter. But of course, that never stopped me from commenting on the service in restaurants—and particularly the wine service—as if I knew what I was talking about. To stopper my leaking credibility, it was time for the rubber in my sensible shoes to hit a restaurant floor for a night.
Only the best would do, so I decided to make my debut at Le Baccara, the posh restaurant in the Casino du Lac Leamy. Le Baccara serves haute French cuisine in the grand European tradition—one of few to be awarded five diamonds by the automobile association. To achieve this coveted designation, a restaurant must offer "the ultimate in adult dining, the highest culinary skills, flawless and pampering service." (Perfect, I thought, but then realized that as a server, I would be giving the pampering rather than getting it.)
The restaurant has a full-time sommelier, Danielle Dupont. Her job is a wine lover’s dream: she spends barrels of someone else’s money to buy the best wines in the world. The French word sommelier dates from the Middle Ages, when it was first used to denote the principal wine taster of a religious order or royal household. As making wine was serious business for either religious services or the royal table, the position of sommelier was coveted.
Royalty and religion, however, were declining job markets. Sommeliers eventually became wine stewards of the people (well, the rich people) in fine restaurants. In 1889, Harper’s described the sommelier as someone “who runs from table to table, laden with bottles, and distributes here and there strange liquids.”
The role is changing, though, because restaurant patrons today are more knowledgeable about wine. Sommeliers must be founts of information about wines from around the world, including those from countries that began producing wines within the last five to ten years. They also need to be able to discuss grape-growing areas, châteaux, producers, vintages, and which wines will best complement the foods they accompany. Increasingly, sommeliers work alongside chefs to create a complete dining experience. In fact, the role is often more visible than the chef since the sommelier is in direct contact with customers.
Dupont and I make our plans: I’ll shadow her as a trainee for the first part of the evening, and then I’ll work on my own. “This is going to be so cool!” I tell her with an eagerness unsuitable to a sommelier, someone who ought to be poise personified. She chuckles and suggests that I wear a jacket with a pocket for my corkscrew. Oh, right, a corkscrew—a pointed little reminder that I’ll be opening bottles in mid-air as patrons pause in their conversations to watch.
At home, I always use a large lever corkscrew bolted to the kitchen counter—it makes opening bottles easy, and so my manual skills have atrophied like those of a calligrapher who now has a laptop. So for two weeks before the big night, I practise using a handheld model. Sommeliers forgo the convenience of a levered device that wine drinkers use to open their bottles, preferring the austere simplicity—and potential for showmanship—of the central worm screw model that drills in through the centre of the cork, but requires more effort and control.
The first hurdle is cutting the foil cap off the top of the bottle with a knife that folds out, Swiss-army-style, from the body of the corkscrew. I discover, though, that just pulling out the knife requires either breaking a fingernail, or digging at it futilely with the nubs of my fingers. Perhaps I should just leave it out, I think. But if I approach tables with my knife drawn, will patrons interpret this as a sign of aggression? And when I start scratching at the foil cap, it flakes off in silvery slivers that I envision floating into the diners’ vichyssoise.
I decide to practise something that I can master, and stand in front of the bathroom mirror saying: “Good evening, I’ll be your sommelier tonight” with varying modulations and accents. Trouble is, I can’t convince myself to order anything more than a beer.
When my big day arrives, I walk through the dark, quiet casino early on a Friday afternoon. (A few diehards at the slot machines clearly won’t be dining at Le Baccara tonight.) Inside the restaurant, the sun streams in through the thirty-foot windows, with a view outside of Lake Leamy sparkling in all its manmade glory. Gold and burgundy hues give the long room the feel of a royal dining hall.
Dupont comes around the corner, carrying five bottles in her long, pale piano-player hands. She is a trim, five-foot-four, but her energy adds six inches to her height; and her large brown eyes glitter with playful anticipation.
“Ah, my trainee has arrived,” she says. “Please carry this bottle, and follow me.”
We set the bottles down on the counter at the other end of the dining room. Then she balances a large silver tray on her fingertips, places twelve long-stem glasses on it and moves off—quickly and silently, like a panther. I barely keep up with her, holding nothing but my effort to make a good impression.
Dupont leads me through the kitchen, already buzzing with evening preparations like the backstage of a theatre, with set movers going in many directions. Someone whisks by with a large bowl of ice, and around another corner we almost run into a cart of fresh fish being wheeled in. Glasses clink out of the dishwasher, and the kitchen is filled with quick exchanges of “Bonjour!” and “Salut!” trailing in the air like friendly sky-writing.
Of the seven waiters, Dupont is the only woman, and she fills a role traditionally held by sneering grey men who used to terrorize the beaujolais crowd in fine European restaurants. Dupont is the New World in this traditional restaurant: she’s young (twenty-nine), friendly, and knowledgeable but not arrogant—willing to guide the helpless rich who haven’t had time to learn about wine, but who certainly have the money to spend on it.
Dupont manages an inventory of some 12,000 bottles stored in three cellars: one upstairs and two downstairs. We walk down to the largest cellar, a warehouse room of row after row of boxed wine, from pétits châteaux to Californian castles. The second is smaller and temperature-controlled—it holds some of the oldest bottles, including an 1823 Château d’Yquem worth more than £4,500. She offers to let me hold the bottle, which is now as brown as maple syrup, but I decline, recalling the bartender who, three years ago, accidentally dropped a bottle of Château Pétrus worth £5,000.
We go back upstairs to the third cellar, part of the dining room: a glassed-in, temperature-controlled room with dark oak shelves to display the bottles, candy-store style. Lying on an oak turntable is a vertical of Château Mouton-Rothschild from 1945 to 1997—the label for each year painted by well-known artists, such as Riopelle, Picasso, Warhol, Chagall, Dalí, Balthus, Miro, Moore and Cocteau.
Dupont takes four bottles over to the part of the kitchen that’s open to the dining room. She and the chefs are creating the fall tasting menu: on the plates are duck foie gras terrine, fig confit and warm spice cake; lobster à la nage in a pepper squash and pistachio oil emulsion; crispy pan-fried Mediterranean sea bream fillet, cep mushroom and artichoke tian; boileau deer cutlet in parsley and truffle crust with maple caramelized endives, celery fries and sweet-and-sour venison jus; and warm apple puff pastry with iced cinnamon parfait topped with roasted pine nuts. (My mouth is very amused.) Dupont pours samples of the wines from France, Italy and California that she’s picked to match the dishes, and we all try them. She delights in diners who choose this tasting menu, since it means they’ll try a different glass of wine with every course.
After we finish, we head back to Dupont’s office, which she shares with the mâitre d’, the banquet manager and several others. Beside her computer sits a stack of about a hundred purchase orders. Dupont orders some £10,000 worth of wine every month; and while buying is fun, managing the inventory is less glam. She monitors which wines aren’t selling so that she can feature them at “special prices” or pour them by the glass. The mark-up here is about twice the retail cost, though less at the high end. In the industry, that’s considered fair—especially in a fine dining establishment such as this, where someone has to pay for those velvet curtains and brocaded tassels.
Dupont sits at her computer to edit the wine list for out-of-stock wines—something she does daily so that customers aren’t disappointed. “Can you comment on these for the guests?” she asks, pointing to the wine list. The notion that I can talk intelligently about some 300 wines is absurd.
“No problem,” I say.
When the lists are printed and eased into their leather casings, we make three deliveries: to the mâitre d’s station; to the casino’s other restaurant, where diners can wash down the all-you-can-eat buffet with fine wine; and to the bar downstairs, where they can watch the game and quaff the Mouton instead of a Molson.
It’s only 5 p.m., and already my feet are tingling. (I’m hungry too—my nervous energy has long metabolized the tasting menu samples.) We head downstairs to the staff cafeteria where my hopes of nibbling on more foie gras are dashed: when you dine at Le Baccara, you can rest assured that you are not subsidizing luxurious staff meals. After filling ourselves with something remarkably chickenlike, we go upstairs to freshen up. I repair my lipstick, and Dupont straightens her bow tie—she wears a tuxedo. (I’m wearing a starched white shirt and black suit, an ensemble that looks like it comes from the 1988 Fall Undertaker Collection.)
We all meet in the kitchen—chef, mâitre d’, servers—to review tonight’s specials. Sommeliers have to know as much about the menu as the waiters do, since they match wine with the food, and could also be ambushed by a diner with a question on how a dish is prepared. Dupont reviews the wines by the glass, and the mâitre d’ tells us that the restaurant is fully booked. Some of the servers ask questions, and then it’s over. Thankfully, there’s no group hug; but we do wish each other “Good service!” in the same way that the Roman soldiers wished each other “Strength and honour!” before battle in the movie Gladiator.
Trailing Dupont is like being a passenger in a Mercedes driving through the country—the ride is so smooth, and you’re so caught up with the scenery, that you don’t really pay attention to the curves she negotiates. To watch her in action is to believe that some people are just born with effortless grace. She deftly handles tired tourists, flirting businessmen, chi-chi gold-choked women, and nervous dates. She never gets flustered, and she is always in control—even though the diners may not be conscious of it.
You’d think that Dupont comes from generations of sommeliers. But in fact, her parents didn’t drink much wine, nor did many her friends in Kingsley Falls, a village where she grew up. Still, she was drawn to the dazzling world of restaurants—a world that promised mini-dramas at every table, a chance to try on different personalities nightly, days without a set routine and skills that would allow her to travel. Her passion for wine was awakened several years ago by Jacques Orhon, who came to teach wine appreciation to the staff at Le Baccara. She decided to take his in-depth course in St-Adèle to become a sommelier.
I follow her to a table of two couples who’ve been studying the menus for about ten minutes. “Good evening,” Dupont says, her hands clasped in warm appreciation of their visit. “Have you had a chance to look at the wine list?”
Their glances ricochet from one to another and then back up to her for help. She asks them if they’ve chosen their meals—they’re all having some sort of game dish. Leaning slightly toward the man with the list, she points to a few wines, describing each and how it would complement their meal.
Although Dupont’s knowledge runs deep, she doesn’t get too esoteric: she knows that most customers aren’t looking to earn a sommelier certificate over dinner. Still, she shares a fondness every time she recommends a bottle; and if the diner is interested, she’ll tell a story about the wine—the sun-drenched hillside where the vines grow, the family who runs the winery. The man makes a choice, and without missing a beat, Dupont asks if they’d like to start with a glass of champagne. Sold.
Out of earshot, I ask her how she knew what price range to recommend: the wines run from £20 to £5,000-plus. Was it man’s cufflinks? His wife’s ring? No, she says. When guests don’t give her hints about price by mentioning wines they’ve enjoyed in the past, she discreetly points out three wines, at different price points—but only the person holding the wine list can see them.
Dupont presents the bottle to the man, confirming the grape, vintage, winery and region. She whets their appetite by saying that the wine’s rich dark fruit will dance with their game dishes. Then (to my relief) she rests the bottle on an elegant wood pedestal near the table to open it.
Traditionally, sommeliers used to taste the wines before pouring it for customers, to ensure that it wasn’t corked, faulted, or worse, poisoned. (That’s why they wore a silver cup, called a tastevin, on a chain around their necks—rather than because of a lack of talent for accessorizing.) But this practice has all but disappeared now, and some patrons get nettled at what they perceive as freeloading if they see the sommelier nipping into their bottle—even though losing a few drops is worth it if the sommelier takes back a bad one. Dupont still tastes old or rare wines that need decanting, but not the ones that customers drink right away. She pours for everyone at the table and then practises the punctuation of elegant service saying, “Enjoy.”
As we stand together off to the side, I notice that Dupont constantly monitors all twenty-five tables, though without seeming to drill a hole through anyone’s forehead. (I’m learning the art of invisible service, and so far have mastered arranging myself like a tall ornamental shrub.) “A good sommelier knows when to approach a table,” she says. “You don’t want to interrupt a conversation, and yet the service must flow at the right pace. And you must also know how to break off gently with customers who want to chat a lot, because if you spend too much time with one table, others suffer.”
It’s 8 p.m.—time for me to flap my tiny wings. Dupont gives me a firm, motherly nudge. “Be confident, you are the sommelier,” she whispers. Wishing I had taken some liquid courage, I approach my diners. They’re sitting at a table beside the window, and the big man with the wine list has his back to me. I’d have to be spider-woman to get behind him on his right, the traditional side to serve customers. Then I recall Dupont’s advice: try not to frighten customers by suddenly looming over their shoulders. I decide to approach him from the left.
Fortunately, the man knows what he wants—a big bordeaux, Château Talbot, at £250. Ka-ching. (Hmm. I silently scold myself for not asking to be in on the tips. In fact, Dupont doesn’t share in the tips either—she’s on salary, as are most sommeliers in fine dining restaurants. This reduces their incentive to sell you a vinous Porshe.) In these establishments, the wine usually makes up most of the bill.
After taking their order, I get the stemware. As I balance it on the silver tray, I wonder when that tremor developed. The listeau, a white linen napkin, is draped over my right forearm for classic French service—I’m afraid it’s going to drag all the cutlery and dishware on the table with it as I swoop in to set the glasses in front of the diners. But somehow I place them, even though they wobble like tops before stabilizing.
I present the bottle to the big man, and he nods curtly, so I take it to a pedestal to open it. Red wines here are served lying down in wire baskets so that the bitter sediment at the bottom of the bottle doesn’t mix in with the wine again. The “basket pour” is considered the toughest in the business: it’s awkward to hold, and easy to dribble. (Red wine seems to have a magnetic attraction to white linen tablecloths and shirts.) I almost pour the man’s sample in his water glass, but just manage to inch it over into his wine glass.
He approves, so I make my way around the table, serving first the women, then to the men, and finally filling the host’s glass to the one-third level that’s considered ideal for swirling the wine to appreciate its aromas. I discover that pouring wine while standing three feet above the glasses is vastly different from doing it sitting down: it’s difficult to tell how much you’ve filled them. I have an urge to check the levels by squatting down like a golfer on the putting green, but realize that this would come off as a roadhouse waitress move.
I’ve nailed every pour and feel like a gymnast who dismounts from the parallel bars with a backwards loop-de-loop, and holds her landing. I stand over the host like a beaming penguin, expecting him to look up at me with a raised eyebrow and say, “Nice pour.” But somehow my virtuosity is lost on him and he continues to talk to his companions.
Dupont has watched carefully, though, and back at the wall she has an appreciative smile and a warm word of praise for me. Also a tip: “You’re tall, so you tend to bend over. If you put your left hand behind your back, you’ll maintain a straight, clean line.” (Uh-oh, I think—the basket aerial pour with one hand tied behind my back. What’ll be next: knees in plié position? But later I learn that she’s right.)
Next, I serve a friendly couple who order an Alsatian riesling. As I open the bottle, they start to debate whether Alsace is in France or Germany. I bite my lip trying not to jump in, until the woman turns to me. “France,” I blurt out, like the kid who’s just been given a familiar word that’ll clinch the county spelling bee. But I’m learning from Dupont’s diplomacy: since her date sided with Germany, I add that the region has been part of both countries over the years, and their wines share some similarities in style.
I’ve never felt this benevolently omniscient, even though I’ve answered much tougher questions in my writing. I realize that it’s easy to appear the expert when you’ve got a wine library and the internet in front of you, but it calls for an entirely different kind of intelligence to draw upon that knowledge on the spot. Earlier, a man had asked Dupont about the line drawing of a lizard on a bottle of Austrian wine. She explained that it’s the symbol for quality wine in that country. Then he wanted to know if lizards live in Austria, or if it was too cold for them. Dupont said that they live only on the warmer terraces where the wine is grown.
I continue working the floor, feeling cocky. I bring a California cult cabernet to a blond woman and her girlfriend. I pour the woman a sample, then pour for her friend, then top up Blondie’s glass—but as I pull back, I leave a telltale trail of crimson pools on the tablecloth.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” I gasp.
She blinks slowly, doesn’t look at me and purses her lips. “Sorry,” I mouth silently, as though I’m in an underwater nightmare.
She resumes talking to her friend, but in a deliberate, hardened tone. I want to take her made-up little face in my hands, turn it toward mine and say, “Look, I’m really sorry, forgive me.” But I realize this might aggravate the situation. (At least she hasn’t called the mâitre d’. Perhaps I’ll wait for her out in the casino.) For the first time, I learn what it’s like to feel servile, to be dismissed.
My wound heals gradually as I work with other tables without incident, but I am still absorbed in own tragedy—perhaps this is why some diners offer nurturing comments. It’s almost 11 p.m.—the time when the kitchen closes, even though the restaurant remains open until the last diner leaves. My feet feel as though they’ve been on a concrete treadmill for 34 hours, and the connecting tendons in my hips are tightening with exhaustion. (Though to complain would make me look like a young nun who hasn’t yet moved beyond the concerns of the body.) But Dupont looks as though she’s just woken up refreshed from an afternoon nap. I ask her to be merciful and fire me, and she laughs. “You’ve had a good service tonight. Go home, sleep well and come back soon—as a customer,” she says.
Lying in bed that night, I reread the entire evening in my mind, and I realize how much Dupont enhances the diners’ pleasure. So why aren’t there more sommeliers in fine restaurants? Partly, it’s because only a few carry wine inventories large enough to be worthy of professional attention. And partly, it’s because restaurant owners aren’t aware of the bottom-line benefits of having sommeliers. But mostly, it’s a lack of regard for the position. In this country, being a sommelier isn’t viewed as a lifelong profession, as it is in France and Italy, but rather as a part-time job to pay for college or to support writing a book. Maybe that’s because we, as diners, can’t yet distinguish between servility and service.
Comments? Suggestions? If you’d like to receive Natalie’s bi-weekly e-mail wine newsletter, just send her a message at natdecants@nataliemaclean.com. It’s free, there are no ads and your e-mail address will be kept confidential.
Copyright © 2003 by Natalie MacLean. All rights reserved. Please ask permission of the author before copying or using this material.
Secret Service
Natalie Maclean
March 2003
Chef2Chef News Desk