Why Is He a Sommelier—and Why Is He the Captain Now?
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In recent years, saying you're a Sommelier has become a pretty common thing.
The other day in Chile, I saw a post from a major TV network saying, “Today is International Sommelier Day. Say happy Sommelier day to that friend who considers themselves a wine connoisseur.” And that’s when it hit me—people have no idea what a Sommelier actually is. So let me tell you a little about my journey in the wine industry, how I became a Sommelier, and why most people aren’t Sommeliers just because they know a little about wine or took a course. I’ll lay out the good and the challenges that come with carrying this title—so maybe next time you’ll use a more accurate word for that friend who is a wine connoisseur. |
"Yeah, I have a friend who's a wino. Maybe he's a Somm."
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To start, Sommeliers are kind of like a gang.
In Fact, The first time I heard the term “Somalian pirates,” I heard it wrong and thought: "Yeah, that makes sense— Sommelier Pirates. Lawless, stubborn, speaking in their own language, and intimidating to outsiders." Obviously, the news wasn't about that—but I could totally make the connection. Now, you might be thinking, "What part of this beautiful craft could possibly be considered gang-like?" |
Here’s how it all started for me (You decide later if it's "Gang-ish"):
In 2009, there was this lady pouring wine at a restaurant. She had on a business suit, nice blouse, red tie, and a pin that said “Escuela de Sommeliers de Chile.” So I stopped her and asked how she got it. She said she attended the School of Sommeliers of Chile, finished the course, and earned the pin. I asked if there was a school near where I lived.
She said nope—only in Santiago. Very exclusive.
Hard to get into...
... And on top of everything: "Costly".
And for me, that was all the motivation I needed. I’ve always believed a person’s value is tied to the challenges they’re willing to face. And that applies to anything. Whether you're a mom juggling kids and school prep every morning or someone dragging yourself out of bed to work in the freezing cold—resilience comes in many forms.
In 2010, I applied to the School of Sommeliers of Chile. They told me to wait for the next round of interviews, where I’d have to explain why I wanted in.
Almost a year later, I sat down with the directors and told them I was a tour guide taking people to wine country, but I didn’t know much beyond what I overheard at tastings.
I just wanted to learn.
They gave me a shot.
By June 2011, I was in a class with around 48 others—bartenders, servers, whiskey lovers, history buffs, even a guy who’d never touched alcohol (which is still weird today).
There were also a few from wealthy backgrounds, who clearly wanted the title more than the knowledge itself.
Our first day set the tone: three directors, each more intense than the last.
One said bluntly, “If you're here for status, to improve your bartending, or just for general knowledge—you’re wasting your money.”
The course was about $1,500 USD, which, in Chile at the time, was no small thing. Minimum wage was around $377 a month. A few people considered walking out—but no one did.
Classes were intense. Mondays were long. Wednesdays had back-to-back lectures. My favorite was tasting class, taught by the guy who became Chile’s top Sommelier—twice. He had us tasting everything from water to white wines, then reds, breaking it all down step by step. But it didn’t stop there. We also had biology, chemistry, history, geography. Every class came with 20 pages of material, and Fridays brought surprise tests. No warning, no mercy.
Up at 4:20 AM, back home around 3 or 4 PM.
I spent hours on the bus reading.
That first week, almost everyone failed. I was one of the few who passed the history and geography test—Perks of being a Tour Guide who obsessed with history 5 years prior.
In 2009, there was this lady pouring wine at a restaurant. She had on a business suit, nice blouse, red tie, and a pin that said “Escuela de Sommeliers de Chile.” So I stopped her and asked how she got it. She said she attended the School of Sommeliers of Chile, finished the course, and earned the pin. I asked if there was a school near where I lived.
She said nope—only in Santiago. Very exclusive.
Hard to get into...
... And on top of everything: "Costly".
And for me, that was all the motivation I needed. I’ve always believed a person’s value is tied to the challenges they’re willing to face. And that applies to anything. Whether you're a mom juggling kids and school prep every morning or someone dragging yourself out of bed to work in the freezing cold—resilience comes in many forms.
In 2010, I applied to the School of Sommeliers of Chile. They told me to wait for the next round of interviews, where I’d have to explain why I wanted in.
Almost a year later, I sat down with the directors and told them I was a tour guide taking people to wine country, but I didn’t know much beyond what I overheard at tastings.
I just wanted to learn.
They gave me a shot.
By June 2011, I was in a class with around 48 others—bartenders, servers, whiskey lovers, history buffs, even a guy who’d never touched alcohol (which is still weird today).
There were also a few from wealthy backgrounds, who clearly wanted the title more than the knowledge itself.
Our first day set the tone: three directors, each more intense than the last.
One said bluntly, “If you're here for status, to improve your bartending, or just for general knowledge—you’re wasting your money.”
The course was about $1,500 USD, which, in Chile at the time, was no small thing. Minimum wage was around $377 a month. A few people considered walking out—but no one did.
Classes were intense. Mondays were long. Wednesdays had back-to-back lectures. My favorite was tasting class, taught by the guy who became Chile’s top Sommelier—twice. He had us tasting everything from water to white wines, then reds, breaking it all down step by step. But it didn’t stop there. We also had biology, chemistry, history, geography. Every class came with 20 pages of material, and Fridays brought surprise tests. No warning, no mercy.
Up at 4:20 AM, back home around 3 or 4 PM.
I spent hours on the bus reading.
That first week, almost everyone failed. I was one of the few who passed the history and geography test—Perks of being a Tour Guide who obsessed with history 5 years prior.
The teachers were serious. We had winemakers, journalists, and long-time industry professionals.
We even had the only Master Sommelier in Latin America at the time as our teacher and school director. That title focuses more on perfection—and it's notoriously hard to earn.
We also learned about the WSET (Wine & Spirit Education Trust)—a British-based education system that awards wine certifications in levels. People with WSET training often have solid, broad knowledge. Some probably know more about global wine theory than many Sommeliers. But being a Sommelier is also about service, restaurant presence, real-time pairing, and deep regional knowledge.
Some teachers kept it simple. Others made your brain hurt.
Either way, you had to go home, look it up, and make it stick.
And all of this was leading to one thing: the service test.
Theory was important—but the service test made or broke you.
You had two chances to pass. Fail both, and you’d be kindly told this wasn’t your path.
We even had the only Master Sommelier in Latin America at the time as our teacher and school director. That title focuses more on perfection—and it's notoriously hard to earn.
We also learned about the WSET (Wine & Spirit Education Trust)—a British-based education system that awards wine certifications in levels. People with WSET training often have solid, broad knowledge. Some probably know more about global wine theory than many Sommeliers. But being a Sommelier is also about service, restaurant presence, real-time pairing, and deep regional knowledge.
Some teachers kept it simple. Others made your brain hurt.
Either way, you had to go home, look it up, and make it stick.
And all of this was leading to one thing: the service test.
Theory was important—but the service test made or broke you.
You had two chances to pass. Fail both, and you’d be kindly told this wasn’t your path.
The Final ExamThe pressure was real. You dressed the part (Burrgundy tie and suit), walked in, and faced four top professionals.
They named a dish, and you had to suggest the right wine. Then they challenged you: “I don’t drink red.” “I hate whites.” Now what? You had to stay cool, adapt, explain your reasoning, and finish strong. When the tests were done, people came out crying, relieved, or euphoric. I lost a point for forgetting to print my name on a paper—still bugs me, but I'll never forget an important life lesson "Discipline is the most important thing in everything". I passed. One of only 11 to do so. Fifth highest score, if that means anything at all. |
Final Test day, I felt like a scared teenager
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So yeah, when someone calls themselves a Sommelier casually, it raises my eyebrow.
This isn’t about ego. It’s about rolling with the punches. It's about leaving the egotistical maniac in the rearview mirror. It’s about honoring the service, the tradition, the romanticism, and everything you give up to earn the title.
... Or as I like to call it: “Navy SEAL training for winos.”
This isn’t about ego. It’s about rolling with the punches. It's about leaving the egotistical maniac in the rearview mirror. It’s about honoring the service, the tradition, the romanticism, and everything you give up to earn the title.
... Or as I like to call it: “Navy SEAL training for winos.”
