Sherry

          I think the best bottle of wine I’ve ever had was a sherry.

       Before Covid, one of my former employers managed to secure some gift packs featuring a half bottle each of Bodegas Tradición sherry and Tomatin whisky. The selling point was that the whisky was finished in a barrel which had been used to age the sherry.

The price was great – a steal, in fact – but we couldn’t shift them. This being Scotland, folk were interested in the whisky, despite it being only a half bottle. Nobody wanted to take a chance on the sherry, though. Then some bright spark had a brainwave, we got rid of the gift packs and began selling the bottles individually.

As a sherry fan, I resolved to try both offerings. One of the sets contained a Pedro Ximénez VOS (Very Old Sherry), which had spent over twenty years maturing in casks. This stuff was stunning, and I write that as someone who’s not usually keen on PX. I love dessert wines, but the four hundred grams of residual sugar is too much even for me, and I have a lot of respect for my very expensive dentist. Beyond the typical hit of raisins, there were lovely flavours of coffee and chocolate. Not the elusive chocolate and coffee notes tasters sometimes reach for when sampling red wines, but profound, unmistakable flavours.

The PX merely played second fiddle to the sherry in the other gift pack, however, a VORS (Very Old Rare Sherry) Oloroso, which had been aged for over thirty years. The most remarkable thing about this wine was that it completely changed while I was drinking it. It started with an explosion of nuts which lingered before transforming entirely on the finish, which was endless. I’m a pretty good taster, but I still haven’t managed to pinpoint what was in that second cascade of flavour, and I had about six half bottles!

Alas, despite the sherries being superlative, we couldn’t sell them, except to one customer: me. The half bottles of Tomatin were, needless to say, another matter entirely, and were snapped up by whisky-loving Scots and American tourists, the latter constituting a much-valued clientele in Scotland’s capital.

I trace my enthusiasm for sherry to a trip I made to Seville many years ago with my uncle. One of the first bars we visited was an atmospheric establishment called Hijos de E. Morales, which is close to the city's colossal cathedral. By a wall were barrels bearing the labels Fino, Manzanilla, Amontillado and Oloroso. The gruff and proud-looking men behind the bar would greet us with a loud ‘digame’ or ‘dime’, pour a glass from one of the barrels for about one euro fifty, then slap the change down on the counter. After a couple of lunchtime visits, I quickly learned the value of a siesta.

I have returned to Seville, and Morales, many times since then. If you like sherry, I recommend you do the same. My sole visit to Jerez regrettably involved no more than a change of bus. One day I shall return and remedy that missed opportunity. Perhaps someone at a bodega will even be able to explain what a palo cortado is.