This time, things would be different. Of course, I said that the second time I took the certified sommelier exam– and promptly failed again.

Unlike the first test at the Marriott Hotel in San Francisco or the second at Vin Tabla Restaurant in Tuscon, this one was held at the Belagio Resort and Casino in Las Vegas. That meant that at least the backdrop would be dramatically different– the slot machines, prostitutes and people itching their noses evoked scenes from the gangster movie Casino.

And of course, I had an even better idea of what I was getting myself into: an expensive, humbling and painfully long day punctuated by a gut-wrenching moment of truth. This year, in fact, just before the master sommeliers announced the names of those receiving pins and certificates, they mentioned that this exam was unique because the pass rate, 50 percent, was 10 percent lower than normal.

I immediately put my head down to brace myself for the bad news– and began to think how much had changed since the last exam.

In the past few months, I quit my job so I could study more. To further cement my dedication to wine, I booked a six-month trip to France to pick grapes and learn from a country that’s been doing it for centuries (see box, this page).

I knew I’d be fine in France, but I also knew it’d be nice to arrive a certified sommelier, a title recognized internationally.

For months prior, my Weekly buddies blind tasted me each Tuesday night, while I wrote wine-related stories. I risked carpal tunnel syndrome by scribing hundreds of flash cards.

Things were different on test day, too. On the morning of the exam I didn’t use soap because I thought the fragrance might mute the aromas of the mystery wines. I showered, but didn’t brush my teeth or eat or drink coffee, afraid my palate would be coated with flavors capable of masking a wine’s identity.

I also didn’t drink my normal cup of joe because I was afraid my hands might shake too much on pours. (Even though I refrained, my hands still shook. Pouring a $500 bottle of Champagne for master sommeliers is stressful.)

I also reacted to my nervousness by scurrying to buy a mini-bottle of Jameson’s whiskey at the nearby gift shop. After all, sommeliers are supposed to be jovial.

Unlike the time in Tuscon, when I joined other test takers in quizzing one another, I meditated in solitude, staring into the resort’s large, turquoise swimming pool.

Plus, I adjusted my style. I made a double-Windsor knot in my tie, put a white silk handkerchief in my previously empty breast pocket, gave my shoes a polish they hadn’t seen, and cut my hair short. Presentation is more than the pour.

I was also careful not to repeat the mistakes from the first two tests.

In S.F. I removed the cage of the Champagne before the cork was out of the bottle. I failed to move clockwise and kept my pen in my outside pocket, which they don’t like. I didn’t know what a Floc de Gacogne was either, nor did I remember that Chateau Petrus is 100 percent Merlot, with no Cabernet Franc. I should’ve known that since the ’59 ($3,800) was the best wine my lips had ever touched.

In Tuscon, my pours were uneven and I failed to place the napkin correctly on the service tray. For the tasting, I penned the correct answer for the white wine, and then changed it because I lacked confidence and took too much time. For the red, I described a wine that wasn’t there.

But that was then. When it came time to assess the two mystery wines, I knew what I had to do: swirl voraciously to enhance the bouquet, take large sips to expose all parts of the tongue to the wine, and not take too long to over-assess the wine. I felt confident in my detailed descriptors and stuck with them.

The master sommelier posed as a customer and peppered me with questions about aperitifs, cordials, dessert wines, pairings, regions, cocktails, grape varieties, vintages and specific wine producers– all as I served them a bottle of the ’90 Salon Champagne as smoothly as possible.

When the test was over, I bought the Los Angeles Times to take my mind off things. I talked to a husband and wife who were taking the test together and wondered what would happen if one passed and the other didn’t. Then I read my ominous horoscope: There’s more research to be done. The facts are not as readily available as you’d like them to be. Keep at it until you get what you’re after.

Finally it was time to let fate have its say. For a toast, the master sommeliers poured us flutes of Non-Vintage Blanc de Noirs Brut from Domain Chandon ($15). I couldn’t resist thinking: For the $300 fee, we should get something better than what we can find at a mini-mart.

I heard the same generic speech about enjoying the journey instead of rushing to the destination. I started comforting myself: I beat my best and didn’t care who I beat or who beat me. What mattered was that I improved.

They began announcing names. I realized things I’d done wrong and thought the written test was harder than normal. The same sinking feeling took hold. Only now, I realized, that in the past I’d lied to myself about thinking the pin doesn’t mean something. Then I heard my name.

The feedback read like this: Pass– but they suggested I work on Oregon and Australia. Now I have a new excuse to surf Seaside Point (Oregon) and Superbank Down Under. They said my theory was “strong” and that I was “pleasantly mannered.” The former must’ve been the flashcards; the latter, the Jameson’s.

Afterward, they recommended that everyone stay and mingle, but for old times’ sake, I pounded my glass and moved toward the door.

Outside the test room, a woman stood crying. I teared up too.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It took me three times to pass.”