Oh, wow. In your shoes I'd have been so tempted to wind him up even further:

"No, I'm sorry, we can't hire you. Why? Too much humility! Excessive tact! Nauseatingly refined manners! We crave abuse! Arrogance! Abominable condescension! The thing is, here at Chateau Smegma, we produce horrible wine. We take tremendous pride in ruining even the most prestigious and delightful social occasions. A mere sip of Chateau Smegma '29 makes even the sturdiest wine snob explode flaming goo from every orifice. We relish encrusting life's finest emotional crescendoes with sensations of bloated and rotten dread. That's what we do here. The Great Recession? That was us. Back pain? Us too. There's no inherent reason mosquitoes sound so goddamn annoying. We caused that. Original sin? God's tribute act to Chateau Smegma. He told me that just this morning. Toothache? Believe it or not, that was actually Mr. Rogers. I know! We had to triple-check that. But gum disease was definitely one of ours. This organisation must be staffed only by the finest exemplars of psychological pus and corruption. And you, sunshine, quite simply do not cut the mustard. You're the Woman's Weekly of wankers; the Nickelback of nutjobs. We know you think you possess the most refined and superb arrogance but you do not. You lack heft. You lack bite. If you'd entered the room on a litter, borne aloft by 128 wobbly-buttocked youths of all genders, then we might have been receptive to your demands of salary expectations. Next time, perhaps? But don't you dare reattempt application by cheapening out with only 127 wobbly-buttocked youths. Believe me, we'll count them."

Something like that, perhaps?