Somm Confidential: Coke, Clout, and the Performance of Palate

Let’s get one thing out of the way: not every somm is a fraud.

But enough are that you should keep one eyebrow permanently raised.

You know the type. Black apron, pristine glassware, tone like they’re reciting scripture. They swirl, they sniff, they monologue about “garrigue” and “minerality” like they were born in a limestone cave. But here’s what you won’t hear on the floor at your favorite fine-dining spot:

Some of them are coked out. Some are dead broke.

Most are underpaid, overworked, and fronting for an industry that runs on perception.

Because being a sommelier isn’t just about tasting wine — it’s about performing it. It’s theater. One part education, two parts ego, three parts improvisation. You’ve got 10 seconds to look like you know what you’re talking about, and if you don’t? Good luck keeping your spot on the floor.

We know these people. We've seen the somm with encyclopedic knowledge crumble under pressure when a VIP asked for “something bold” and the cellar was empty. We've watched the golden boy with the Court pin sneak away between courses to rail a line just to make it through service.

Here’s the dirty secret: a lot of the time, the wine doesn’t matter.

What matters is how it’s sold.

So that whispery reverence around the $300 Bordeaux?

That’s not your palate talking. That’s theater. That’s myth. That’s a sommelier performing value — sometimes out of genuine belief, sometimes just to keep the tip percentage high enough to pay rent.

Now, don’t get it twisted. There are some absolute beasts in the game — sensory ninjas with 10,000 hours in blind tastings and encyclopedic memories of vintage charts. They live and breathe wine. They can name the subsoil of a vineyard by smell. But too many others learned enough buzzwords to fake it and rode the hype train into jobs they were never built for.

And when those guys crash out of the industry?

They call Bruno. 

They become fixers, importers, black-market brokers.

They start selling juice anonymously, under NDAs, through shell companies and Shopify stores.

We've been on the other end of those calls.

We know which somms really had the chops — and which ones just had the look.

What’s the point of this story?

It’s not to trash the profession. It’s to strip away the fantasy.

Wine isn’t holy. It’s human.

And sometimes the guy pouring your $400 bottle of Burgundy just got dumped, hasn’t eaten in 18 hours, and is praying you don’t ask him to pronounce “Pouilly-Fuissé.”

Respect the hustle — but don’t fall for the act.

Cheers,
Bruno