Wine Sommelier Levels: How to Judge a Person by Their Lapel Pin

Let’s start with the obvious: the word “sommelier” sounds like it should be followed by a dramatic bow and possibly a legal disclaimer. But behind the fancy pronunciation and restaurant whispering lies something simpler: a sommelier is a wine nerd who gets paid to tell you what to drink. That’s it.

Except not quite. These aren’t your uncle Dave’s “I know a good red” types. Sommeliers—real ones—know their tannins from their terroirs and have strong opinions on things like lees ageing and how long to decant a 1998 Barolo. They’re trained to make wine lists, advise guests, manage cellar stock, and, most importantly, make you feel like it was your idea to buy the £120 bottle.

But—and this is where it gets delightfully hierarchical—sommeliers come in levels. Because of course they do. You thought wine was confusing before? Wait until someone tells you they’re “Level 2 certified” and expect you to know what that means.

The sommelier certification path is essentially Hogwarts for wine people. Each level gets harder, more obscure, and exponentially more difficult to pronounce. And yes, there are actual exams. Blind tastings. Theory. Service. It’s like school, if your curriculum was 80% drinking and 20% pretending you’re not drunk.

So why do people do it? Prestige, obsession, and maybe a bit of masochism. Becoming a sommelier isn’t just about loving wine—it’s about being really good at talking about it while pouring with the grace of a ballet dancer in a blazer.

Which brings us to the wine sommelier levels. Because if there’s one thing the wine world loves more than Burgundy, it’s a ladder to climb.

Why Do Wine Sommelier Levels Exist?

Simple answer: gatekeeping. Slightly longer answer: because in a world where anyone with a wine fridge and a thesaurus can call themselves a connoisseur, the sommelier levels exist to separate the TikTok winefluencers from the people who actually know what malolactic fermentation is.

Much like martial arts, there’s a belt system—except instead of black belts, you get lapel pins. And unlike martial arts, you’re not allowed to kick anyone who mispronounces Châteauneuf-du-Pape, no matter how badly you want to.

The official ranking structure comes from a couple of bodies, most famously the Court of Master Sommeliers (CMS) and the Wine & Spirit Education Trust (WSET). Think of CMS as the high-pressure, performance-driven route with bow ties and service exams. WSET is more academic—great for those who’d rather write essays than open Champagne with a sabre in front of a crowd.

These systems exist because wine is complicated, the industry is competitive, and people genuinely want to prove they’re not just making things up. Also, there’s a bit of an ego boost in telling someone you’re a Level 3 or (brace yourself) a Master Sommelier. It’s the wine world’s way of flexing, minus the gym selfies.

But don’t be fooled: sommelier levels aren’t just for show. Climbing them requires serious commitment. Think flashcards. Think blind tastings until your gums are raw. Think waking up in the middle of the night muttering “Schist soil” in your sleep.

Each level is a mix of theory, tasting, and service. And each jump between levels? Steeper than a vertical Riesling. So, let’s break them down, from the humble entry pin to the mythic final boss of wine exams.

Level 1: The Lapel Pin Participation Trophy

Ah, Level 1—the “I went to wine summer camp” of sommelier certifications. This is where it all begins. And by “it,” we mean the slow descent into a life where you judge people for ordering Pinot Grigio with steak.

Level 1 is essentially Wine Fluency 101. You’ll learn the major grape varieties, the basic wine regions, how to open a bottle without crying, and why no one takes Blue Nun seriously. It’s an overview, a vocabulary builder, and a polite nod that says,

“You sort of know what you’re talking about.”

The exam is usually a mix of multiple choice questions. No blind tastings. No service demonstrations. You don’t even have to wear a waistcoat. It’s beginner-level stuff, which is to say: harder than it looks if you’ve only ever shopped by label design.

But here’s the kicker—passing still earns you a shiny lapel pin. Which is like giving someone a trophy for showing up at football practice… and we’re not mad about it. Everyone loves a bit of validation. Especially if you get to use it to intimidate the dinner party host pouring warm Chardonnay into a coffee mug.

Is Level 1 impressive? Not really. But is it important? Absolutely. It’s the gateway drug. The moment you realise wine has levels, and maybe—just maybe—you want to climb them. You start noticing how people swirl their glasses. You start muttering “New World” when drinking anything under £10. And suddenly, you’re insufferable… but in a charming way.

Congratulations. You’re on the path now.

Level 2: Where Wine Gets a Bit More Judgmental

If Level 1 is dipping your toe into the wine pool, Level 2 is doing a cannonball into a vat of Barolo while reciting the 1855 Bordeaux Classification. This is where things start to get serious—and by serious, we mean you’ll be using the phrase “phenolic bitterness” without irony.

Level 2 moves beyond “red wine comes from red grapes” and into the gritty, often absurdly detailed world of wine production, climate, viticulture, and style. You’ll learn what makes a Chablis a Chablis, why German wine labels require a decoder ring, and how altitude, soil, and winemaker angst all influence flavour.

This is also when blind tasting gets introduced—depending on the organisation. You’ll start sniffing and swirling with purpose, trying to differentiate between Syrah and Zinfandel like your life depends on it. You’ll make friends with the aroma wheel and probably develop strong feelings about oak regimes.

More importantly, you’ll begin the transformation from “wine enthusiast” to “that person.” You’ll correct your friends on grape pronunciations. You’ll start carrying a waiter’s corkscrew in your jacket. And worst of all, you’ll start taking wine menus personally.

The exam? Still manageable, but you’ll need to know your Champagne methods from your Charmat. Your Burgundy classifications from your Beaujolais Nouveau. It’s no longer a trivia game. It’s wine bootcamp—with better snacks.

Pass Level 2, and people start taking your opinion seriously. Sommeliers with Level 2 don’t just recommend wine—they explain it. They can map out wine regions on napkins. They know which vintage was a disaster in the Rhône and why that bottle you bought on holiday tastes like regret.

Level 2 is when you realise: wine is infinite. And now you’re too deep to turn back.

Level 3: Where You Start Alienating Dinner Guests

By Level 3, you’re not just into wine—you’re in it. You’ve stopped saying “I like red” and started saying things like

“I’m getting graphite on the nose.”

You’ve stopped buying bottles and started buying EuroCave fridges. You no longer taste wine—you evaluate it.

This level is intense. Whether it’s the WSET Level 3 or the CMS Advanced exam, the demands leap off a cliff. You’ll be expected to know the difference between limestone and clay soils in the Loire, the ageing laws of Rioja, and how to tell the difference between a Saint-Émilion Grand Cru and a very enthusiastic bottle of plonk.

There are blind tastings—real ones. You’ll be handed glasses of anonymous wine and asked to identify grape, region, vintage, and whether it’s been filtered by moonlight. You’ll be tested on theory that reads like legal code. Service sections get fancier, with examiners playing “impossible guest” just to watch you squirm.

At this level, sommeliers start building reputations. You’ve probably worked in a restaurant with an actual wine program. You’re maybe teaching wine courses. You have opinions about natural wine and want people to ask about them. You’re the kind of person who sighs audibly when someone says “dry Riesling is an oxymoron.”

The Level 3 pin is a badge of honour. It says: I’ve studied, I’ve sniffed, and I’ve served. It also says: I’m probably no longer fun at brunch, but damn it, I can explain the difference between sur lie and bâtonnage.

Once you’re here, there’s only one place left to go. The top. The madness. The Everest of ego.

Master Sommelier: The Lapel Pin Worth Crying Over

This is it. The boss level. The final form. The wine world’s equivalent of Jedi Master, Michelin star, and MENSA rolled into one—and with more Pinot Noir flashcards.

Becoming a Master Sommelier (MS) is so absurdly difficult it’s practically masochistic. The pass rate hovers somewhere around 3–8%. People study for years, often with the intensity of people training for the Olympics, but with more spitting and fewer sponsorships.

The exam has three parts: theory, blind tasting, and service. And by “theory,” we mean a no-mercy onslaught of questions about everything—from soil types in Campania to the fermentation vessels of Georgia. “Tasting” means identifying six wines in 25 minutes with almost surgical precision. And “service” means delivering flawless, ballet-like tableside wine service while a panel of examiners throw curveballs, accents, and the occasional insult.

Pass all three? You get a red pin, the MS title, and the right to judge the rest of us. You’re instantly part of an elite global club. You’ll be offered consulting gigs. You’ll end up in documentaries. You’ll probably be quoted in a New York Times piece about tannin structure.

But the journey there is brutal. Fail one part, and you have to retake the others within a specific time frame. Some people try five, six, even ten times. Some burn out. Others disappear into vineyards. The Court of Master Sommeliers isn’t just an exam—it’s an obsession.

And yet, it remains the pinnacle. The shining lapel pin. The whispered name on wine forums.

And somehow, despite all the stress, it’s still… kind of glamorous. In a very niche, pinot-stained, slightly terrifying way.

WSET vs CMS: Choose Your Own Adventure

So you want to level up your wine game. Do you go CMS or WSET? It depends on whether you like flashcards or flair.

WSET (Wine & Spirit Education Trust) is academic, global, and less tied to restaurant service. It’s ideal if you want to work in retail, education, writing, or just want a really smug signature on your wine blog. You’ll study modules, sit exams, write essays, and walk away with diplomas instead of napkin folds.

CMS (Court of Master Sommeliers) is performance-based, rooted in the restaurant world, and all about practical service. It’s where you learn to present Champagne with a smile while identifying a 2016 Meursault blind. If your dream involves tuxedos, tableside decanting, and memorising 100 Champagne houses, this is the path for you.

WSET tends to be more accessible, especially internationally. CMS is famously intense and more theatrical. Both are respected. Both are brutal. Both will make you insufferable at dinner.

Also worth noting: there are other wine certifications out there. France has its own sommelier schools. The Institute of Masters of Wine (MW) is another Everest, more writing-focused and less service-based than CMS. You don’t have to go one route—but if you’re serious about wine, you’ll probably end up in one of these rabbit holes eventually.

Just don’t do both at the same time. That way lies madness. And wine-induced carpal tunnel.

Do Wine Sommelier Levels Make the Wine Taste Better?

This is the question no one dares to ask out loud. Do all these levels—this trauma, this theory, this red-lapel fever dream—actually improve your drinking experience?

Yes. And also, no.

Becoming a sommelier, or even starting the journey, absolutely sharpens your palate. You’ll pick up aromas, textures, and flavour notes you never noticed before. You’ll understand why some wines work with food and others wage war on it. You’ll learn to spot a flawed bottle. You’ll never again fall for a £40 “premium blend” that tastes like stewed raisins and despair.

But there’s a flip side. The more you know, the harder it is to turn your brain off. You start analysing instead of enjoying. You become aware of everything—oak, acid, extraction levels, winemaker intent. It’s like watching a film after doing a film studies degree. You’ll appreciate the craft, sure, but you’ll also ruin rom-coms for everyone else.

Some sommeliers manage to balance it: wine knowledge and pleasure. Others end up spiralling, forever chasing complexity and nuance at the expense of joy.

So no, sommelier levels don’t make wine better. But they do give you the tools to find the wines that make you happiest. That’s the real point. Not to flex knowledge. Not to pass an exam. But to know enough to chase your own taste, confidently and with flair.

(And if you can pass Level 3 while doing that, more power to you.)

Final Sip

Wine sommelier levels are one part education, one part performance, and three parts existential breakdown. They’re demanding, impressive, and occasionally ridiculous—but they exist for a reason. They help filter out the fluff. They give structure to a world that otherwise runs on vibes and vineyard folklore.

But remember: the real measure of a wine lover isn’t the colour of their lapel pin. It’s whether they know when to shut up and pour the wine.

So go ahead—study if you want. Sit the exam. Rock the pin. Or don’t. You don’t need a certificate to love Burgundy. You just need a corkscrew, a clean glass, and a very short memory of how much it cost.

Cheers to learning, to levelling up, and to knowing that no matter how many initials you put after your name, wine will always have one final lesson:

You’ll never know it all.

And that’s exactly what makes it delicious.