In and Out: Inside the Secret Wine Societies

When my sister and I were 9 and 10, we started a club called Bush-Hide. It had no mission statement, but the initiation rites rocked. They ranged from undignified (rolling in leaves and screaming) for grownups, to daring (you show me yours…) for boys. Clubs, even pointless ones, remind us of our atavistic need to belong or die. There's nothing worse than being out. Just ask the shunned cannibal, declared by his tribe persona au gratin.

You're either on the bus or off the bus, said Ken Kesey. I prefer a unicycle, but I'm still curious about what goes on inside. I've always wondered about those ancient and royal organizations; for instance the mystery of the Mason (not to mention the mystery of the mason jar: how the hell do you get that lid off?) So I accepted with great pleasure an invitation to membership in the 500-year-old Confrérie de Saint-Etienne in Alsace, France.

Alsace is home to some of the most delicious wine in the country. It's also the easiest region to understand. There are only 5 or 6 grapes that count, all of them white, and their names go on the label. Unlike, say, in Bordeaux, whose "don't ask, don't tell" policy regarding grapes works wonders to scare off would-be drinkers who, for some crass reason, were not born knowing the difference between Medoc and St. Emilion.

On the night of the Summer Solstice Dinner, outside the Confrérie's castle, huntsmen in boots and velvet caps play a fanfare. It's an odd welcome; since their enormous horns curl around the body and open to the rear, they greet us with their backsides. We're ushered into the cave - a 15th century room with thick stone walls and vaulted ceiling, set up with wooden benches and a stage.

Then, in they march: terrifyingly stately men in red robes, white gloves, black tricorn hats and what look like bicycle chains around their necks. After some invocations and other priming of the pomp, they lead us, tag-team style, through a tasting of the various Alsation grapes. They quote florid passages from Molière, ("When the wine goes down, you hear the angels sing!") which are then translated to mangled English for the benefit of the Dutch and Danish in attendance.

We taste Sylvaner, fragile, flowery Muscat, ("No good for charcuterie, ice cream or chocolate,") Pinot Blanc, Tokay Pinot Gris and Gewurztraminer ("The only grape that can stand up to Münster cheese, which kills red wine"). Last is Riesling, deemed the king for how acurately it reflects terroir, comes in styles from bone dry to achingly sweet, and ages better than all other whites. After each variety we stand and belt out, "Singe ein, trinke ein, tra la la la la la la," while girls in dirndls refill our glasses. The hunters blast a fanfare and then, improbably, a jazz duo of trumpet and stand-up base play standards like Ain't Misbehaving.

Next come tests. First Level candidates have it easy: pick which of two wines is the dry, elegant Riesling and which the aromatic, spicy Gewürz. Since I'm getting a special award, for some cruel reason I have to skip right to Fourth Level: four wines, different grapes, old vintages and you have to name the year. I'm clueless. Damn! French officials are supposed to be corrupt, but no one will take my bribe. My answers are off by decades. I start envisioning a ceremonial stripping of the wine-writer credentials.

At last it's time for inductions. I'm a little nervous. I've been asked to do my performance piece, Wine in 6 Minutes, when I accept my medal. It combines rapid-fire recitation of global wine vocabulary with elements of tango, trapeze and belly dance. "You can be sure we never had such things in this brotherhood," confides one member.

I feel a little better when a confrère on stage knocks his glass off a barrel and shatters it. Even more so when a female inductee stumbles and Grand Master Jean-Baptiste Adam responds, pointing at a fellow redcoat, "Madame, if you're going to fall off the stage, fall into the arms of this Monsieur, I beg you." Things are definitely lightening up.

Not surprisingly, all Level One postulates make the grade. They raise their right hand as Adam exhorts, "Do you love the world of Alsace? Are you always ready to defend it? Be proud of your honor and be ambassadors!"

Suddenly, I get it, and feel stupid that I didn't before. This ain't brotherhood, it's marketing. It's about building a passionate, world-wide sales force. I'm not being honored, I'm being used. Well, so what? As they kiss both my cheeks and place the heavy purple ribbon with its medal and little wine barrel around my neck, I feel privileged just the same. It's good to be in.