NUTS (and BOLTS) TO THE METALLICA SOMM
By Alan Goldfarb
Jan. 18, 2024
Waiter, taste the soup.
“Is there something wrong with the soup, monsieur?”
Taste the soup
“But sir, what tis wrong with the soup?”
Taste the soup.
“OK sir, but there’s no spoon.”
Ah haa!
That’s the sort of scenario I envision if and when (I hope it’s when), the robotic somm that was introduced recently meets its (her/him/they?). What will happen if there’s no spoon, I mean, what if the monsieur or madam believe there’s something wrong with the wine? Will Robinovino (that’s the name our tricked-out wine server has been given) take the wine back, no questions asked? (Come to think of it, that might not be a bad thing. How many times has some full-of-themselves somm come back and rejoindered snidely, “I find there’s nothing wrong with that wine, madam.”) If that would happen to a man, shrinking under the table is likely to ensue.
Case in point: At the venerable Benoit French bôite on W. 55th Street in Manhattan many years ago, wine glasses that I thought were too thick and clunky for the wine I had ordered, were placed on the table. When I asked the somm if he had better glasses, he sniffed, “Only with $100 wines, sir.” This is true! I couldn’t believe it.
But what if that snide twit were Robinovino? The Riedels would have been put down faster than a Robin Williams punchline.
So, am I in favor of Robin the Sommelier? Of course not. For all the obvious reasons. But not so obvious.
Consider: When asking the robotic wine guy what wine should I order with my foam of molecular rutabaga, it might suggest, robotically, a Greek Assyrtiko. Which will probably work. But I was hankerin’ for a Agiorgitiko, which would likely render the whisp of root veggie, sour. But that’s what I want damn it; and no metal and bolted guy/gal/thingy is going to t ell me what to drink. So there.
Or consider this: What if, on some really warm day in San Francisco, the red, you surmise, was kept too warm? But when you ask Robin Hood to chill the wine down, it might reply, “But sir, this is a red wine. We never, here at Café Baltabazaar never, ever put our red wines on ice.” Who you gonna call, Ghostbusters? And come to think of it, Robin Red Breast, my husband would like an ice cube in his wine. Thus, I’m puttin’ my money down right now, that that hunk of a metal man would purse his lips in disdain. Only he ain’t got no lips.
So, in the end – which is where I’d like to kick that that pile o’ algorithms – aside from the fact that a machine is going to pour wine into my glass is as abhorrent as a boatload of sushi rolling down the counter.
Which conjures up visions of Lucille Ball at the chocolate factory. Those sushi rolls rolling by me faster than Lucy can keep up and that wine overflowing my glass when Robin Leach springs a gasket. Rich and Famous will be flooded deep into the Poor and Unknown.
No, give me the master somm of somms, who the worst thing they ever did was cheat on the exam. It’s only human.