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. 

The Plaza de España, Seville

        The first sound that catches my ear is of castanets being shaken by a street vendor. Across the square someone is playing Unchained Melody on panpipes, a song which seems quite out of place in Seville. Then I notice the clip-clop of horses circumnavigating the central fountain. All this overlays the low hum of tourists chatting to one another.

        We are in the Plaza de España in Seville, one of the city’s less heralded sights. Indeed, I’m sure when I first visited eleven years ago it had been essentially forgotten. It is found beyond the old tobacco factory, at the end of an avenue of lovely orange and plane trees, where parakeets chirp to each other and policemen stand around stroking and feeding snacks to horses.

        It was built for the Ibero-Americana Exposition in the 1920s, and looks very striking. A long crescent of columns stretches between two towers. The red and yellow flag of Spain flies over the central building, and there’s a moat crossed by handsome single arch bridges whose balustrades are painted blue and white. You can rent a boat and row yourself along the water is you so desire.

        What I like most is the series of paintings that extends the length of the crescent. The predominant colours are blue and yellow, and the images are painted on tiles. Each shows some episode from Spanish history, such as Columbus departing for the New World from Huelva and explaining his plans to the King in Salamanca.

        Many of the paintings are dedicated to scenes from the reconquest of Spain by the Catholic Kings. They show the Christian army bivouacked below the dramatic cliffs of Cuenca, and the surrender of the Muslims in Granada and Málaga. It crossed my mind that in politically correct Britain these pictures might be controversial, arousing the ire of some too-easily offended busybody.

        We take our leave of the square to the sound of Strangers in the Night being played on panpipes.

The Bars of Seville

    Seville is one of my favourite cities in the world. I recently spent three nights there, and I could have stayed another week. There is something wonderfully languorous about Seville, no doubt due to the intense sun and enervating heat. The climate engulfs and eventually overwhelms you, so that you must partake of that ritual of the south, the siesta. If a sleep doesn’t appeal, the obvious alternative is to go to a bar. And there are a lot of bars. 

My first experience of a bar in Seville was not auspicious. The establishment in question, Bar Europa, was rather empty when my uncle and I wandered in on a February evening and ordered a couple of sherries. We were at the counter and I grabbed a stool, an action which seemed to upset a local man nearby, so I offered it to him. He had a weird and agitated manner, and didn’t seem mollified by my gesture. The bar staff appeared determined to ignore this nuisance, and after quickly finishing our drinks we left. Afterwards, I suggested to my uncle that the guy was looking for a fight, although he was of the opinion that he was trying to make a move on me!

          That incident, which occurred many years ago, came back to me during my recent stay. My travelling companion and I visited a bar in the touristy Santa Cruz neighbourhood one evening. It was busy with locals and foreigners and so loud that we had to stand outside in order to have a conversation. We were nursing a manzanilla and a white wine and enjoying the lovely evening weather, when a very drunk man put his sherry down on our table. He said ‘Skol!’ and raised his glass vaguely in our direction. I assumed he was Scandinavian on account of this greeting, but my friend rightly marked him as a Spaniard.

          The man raised his glass a couple more times, as if acknowledging an invisible drinking buddy. I think we were both filled with a sense of foreboding that he would, inevitably, try to draw us into a conversation. And so it panned out. My cousin gamely made an effort to respond to his questions, but it was gibberish. At one point we figured out that he was attempting to ask us what we wanted to drink, but he was determined to ask it perfectly, and fumbled around on his mobile for a couple of minutes before he found the translation. When I told him I lived in Scotland his glazed eyes lit up and he said ‘whisky!’ He shambled uneasily towards the bar to buy one for me, but the bar staff sent him packing. Soon after, we took our leave. I’m sure the drunk Spaniard has no recollection of ever meeting us.

          Still, I think such inebriates are a rarity in Seville. I have never seen anyone I would describe as drunk in my favourite bar, Hijos de E. Morales, which is found on Calle Garcia de Vinuesa, not far from the cathedral. Perhaps it’s to do with the measurements. If you ask for a beer you get a caña, which is about 200ml in size, and the many varieties of sherry (fino, manzanilla, oloroso, palo cortado and so on) are served in small glasses.

          Morales is small and has only a few tables, but most customers prefer to stand. Like the place in the Barrio Santa Cruz, it attracts a mixed clientele of young and older Spaniards, as well as tourists. You can order local specialities like garbanzas con espinacas (chickpeas and spinach) and eat them while standing beside the wooden counter. Gruff and ageing barmen look you firmly in the eye and bark out ‘dime’ or ‘digame’ (‘tell me’) before taking your order. When they give you your change they slap the coins down on the counter and slide them towards you. It’s loud, indeed another of those bars where you may have to take your drinks outside if you wish to hear what your friend is saying, but the patrons are good-humoured.

Still, we could not entirely escape the cliché of the British tourist, for on two occasions we finished the night in an Irish pub, drinking enormous glasses of whisky. There was football on big screens and sunburnt British women drinking rosé, and we could almost have felt at home. But stopping on one of the bridges that crosses the Guadalquivir river on the way to our hotel, we turned round and looked back at the old centre of Seville, where we saw the awe-inspiring bulk of the Cathedral and the majestic Giralda tower lit up against the night sky.