This time, things would be different. For one, the Sommelier Certification Examination I failed was in San Francisco; this one was in Tucson, Ariz. – there, the belt buckles are bigger. Secondly, I knew what I could encounter: stress, performance anxiety, confusion, frustration. Thirdly, I had studied lot more. And I had other advantages.

I now knew what a Pineau de Charentes and Floc de Gascogne were. I knew the styles of Madeira. I knew to cut the foil on champagne instead of fumbling for the little tab. I knew that I should always move clockwise, remembering to pour the ladies first, and finishing with the host – and to avoid pouring out the last drops without permission.

And I knew the tasting would come first. Instead of expecting them to pour me mystery wines as obscure as a Zierfandler from Austria like I thought might happen last time, I knew better.

The white had some nice grapefruit and citrus notes that coexisted harmoniously with mineral undertones. It had to be from France, a cool climate, a Sauvignon Blanc. Nailed it.

But at the last moment I noticed tiny bubbles – this could be a bone-dry Alsacian Riesling.

The red seemed to have a smoky saddle-leather quality. I thought, yeah… saddle leather is a trait often tasted in Sangiovese. I forgot Zinfandel is capable of having a similar profile. I began listing all of the traits Sangiovese has without actually smelling and tasting them.

I felt like I was on a roll. That feeling grew with the written test. “What is the predominant grape in Gavi?” Piece of cake: Cortese. Which AC is Chateau Palmer? Easy: Margaux. For God’s sake, I thought, I want this pin to mean something. Give me a challenge.

As I received my appointment to take the service portion, I went across the street to study with fellow xenophiles (the exam lasts eight hours and there’s a lot of waiting). Suddenly I was a sage instructing people twice my age. They didn’t know what Floc de Gascon was. They didn’t know Pineau de Charentes.

Back at the test, the master sommeliers posed as customers. “I’m having crème brulee. What wine should I have?” I said, “How about an ’88 Chateau D’ Yquem.” He then said, “How about something less expensive?” (My first suggestion goes for about $1,250 a bottle.)

I offered another option. “The ’02 Zind Humbrecht late-harvest Pinot Gris is exceptional – you should have it,” I said. As I glided through his questions with precision, I could smell success.

Soon my fellow test takers and I were discussing plans for a pass/fail party. I figured I’d go, but I wasn’t going to fail. Then, before I could say “Gimmeldinger mandlegarten,” fate had its say.

They called names out one at a time and I couldn’t help but be surprised at some of the people who passed. I thought, That guy couldn’t even pronounce auslese… She didn’t even know what riddling was… Not him, he didn’t even know that Lynch Bages is a fifth growth Paulliac.

My name never came. I did receive a piece of paper, though. It said: “The tasting cost you the exam. You were describing a wine that wasn’t there.” Knowing that I had originally penned the correct white didn’t make me feel any better.

Last time, I failed the service portion and passed the tasting. This time, it was the other way around. Now, I’d passed all three parts but hadn’t done so simultaneously. I felt like ripping each hair out of my head, one at a time. I was totally embarrassed – until I saw a 45-year-old man crying like a child.

One other thing also helped. After I came back to work, my restaurant’s general manager, Gabe Georis, took me to a rare Cheval Blanc/Chateau D’Yquem wine tasting. There, 30 top wine directors in Northern California were tasting some of the best wine in the world. Among them were some of the master sommeliers who failed me, praising the wine – until Georis stood up and mentioned that the wine everyone was tasting was corked. Then I remembered Georis doesn’t have any certification.