Last week, I won the opportunity to attend the Texas Sommelier Conference, so this past Sunday, I grabbed my blazer and my bow tie, and headed to the Four Seasons in Las Colinas to drink wine all day and learn about different types and regions. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it through the entire day. You see, Dictionary.com sort of failed me when it said that sommelier is a restaurant or bar’s designated wine person. Maybe I just glazed over definition number two, but it seems a sommelier is also defined as a douche who only acknowledges other sommeliers.
If you didn’t already know, I’m not a sommelier.
In fact, I’m not really into wine at all. Sure, I’ll drink it without grimacing, but I couldn’t tell you the difference between Franzia and Carlo Rossi. I would usually prefer beer or whiskey. Plus, a wine hangover is one bitch that nobody wants to wake up with. Still, I absolutely refuse to spit good alcohol in a bucket after analyzing the flavors–and that’s the kind of people I hung out with Sunday.
After arriving way too early (due to my chronic punctuality), I was met with a few competitors, all sporting sharp, solid black suits, and mean mugging my frayed blue jeans. Now, I’m still not sure what these people were competing for, but they all had bags and note cards like they were about to give presentations, and some older guy who obviously found himself amusing pointed me toward the bathroom in case I needed to throw up. Multiple times, one of them would come up to me, look me up and down, and ask if I was competing. I mostly told them no, but decided to say yes once. That guy just walked away, obviously confident in his impending win over me. What a dick. Lucky for me, I went to a private college and then moved to North Dallas, so I’m more than willing to reciprocate. Continue reading