So, I have Doogie Howser as a prof. Well, not actually as a prof, but as a teacher. He’s in charge of my current favorite class: French Viticulture.

I love America. No, that’s not true. Any capability I had for love has been burned out of me by several dedicated (well, sort of) years as a physicist. However, I do quite like the place.

Other than the general amusement value that the denizens of this little backwater afford me, I’m also somewhat enamored with your educational system, especially here at the Farm.

Most institutions contend themselves with mere greatness. You know, Nobel prizes, international glory, that sort of thing. Stanford (though I believe this sort of thing occurs elsewhere as well) does things differently. We provide a more holistic approach to learning.

Rather than just infuse its charges with history, science, economics and film studies, the University offers more. We have Hip Hop and Social Dance, we have Fencing and Horsemanship and we have French Viticulture.

Ah, getting drunk for credit. Genius. Well, genius may be going too far. But still pretty darn clever.

Now, I’m not one to turn down an opportunity to drink heavily and fraternize with like-minded individuals, so as soon as I found out about this little gem in the Course Schedule, I signed up.

Actually, that’s not exactly how it happened. A first I was put off by the title — “French Viticulture” sounds like a terribly formal introduction to some obscure corner of Gallic history.

In fact, even if you know what the words mean, it’s still a little misleading, for one doesn’t actually study French viticulture so much as learn how to drink with the appropriate amount of pretension befitting a Stanford graduate.

I guess the misnomer is a deliberate attempt to mislead potential employers about your university days — you’re not an alcoholic, you’re a student of the French wine industry.

The veneer of respectability given by the name is further complemented by fact that the class is under the protection of the French Department (class number FRENLANG 60D). Yes, that’s right. Getting sloshed on a Thursday night really is the best way to learn the French language.

So, inappropriateness aside, how is the class? Well, the inebriation takes place in La Maison Francaise, which, as I’m sure you know, is one of those ridiculous “theme houses” that claim to be the throbbing heart of [fill in the blank] culture on campus.

Five times this quarter there will be 50 of us huddled together in the cafeteria of “La Maison,” wineglasses at the ready and lips puckered as we listen with rapt attention to our esteemed teacher.

Doogie (whose real name is Loren Trefethen — which sounds a little like a mystical knight from some fantasy trilogy) is a recently-minted Stanford grad; and, armed with the irresistible charm of a child prodigy, he’s our guide through the wonderful world of wine.

So far, we’ve learned how to look, smell, swirl, smell again, sip and (my personal favorite) slurp noisily. Despite this professional instruction, though, it’s hard to escape the feeling that one’s playing at being a grown up. Taking oneself seriously whilst packed into a dining hall with a bunch of giggling ex-teens is not easy.

If, however, you do manage to get past the self-respect barrier, then the wine-tasting routine (along with similarly irreverent classes) can set off day dreams of finishing schools and other such refined refining institutions.

While dancing the waltz, contrasting Bordeaux with Burgundy or learning the noble art of fencing, it’s easy to imagine oneself not as striving for knowledge, but rather as taking advantage of the best education that money can buy, in order to acquire the skills to succeed in the upper echelons of society.

On the other hand, those “Princess Diary” moments are fleeting in the heady world of French Viticulture, where the more pressing concern is getting a refill...

Heiresses should email navins@stanford.edu for instruction on how to get drunk with the commoners. The rest of you are unimportant.