San Cristobal ‘La Punta’ – Gutierrez Colosia Amontillado and Oloroso – Ode to La Venencia

It was one of those neat coincidences that I picked this up out of a box of randoms I had in the humidor. Been doing some stuff on sherries and one I took to a wine lunch invited some research.

The lunch is run by a local medico mate and he does so with an iron fist. Stuff up and your invites to future events might become a little thin on the ground. Plenty angling to take an empty seat. This one, all wines are usually served blind to avoid preconceptions, required wines we considered to be of Grand Cru status. They did not have to be formally acknowledged but we had to defend our choices.

A magnum of Pol Roger ‘Sir Winston’ 2002 was unanimously declared Grand Cru worthy. A Lafite and Sassicaia, a Rayas and a Rousseau, likewise. A couple of VPs – by chance both a mate and I had brought Warres – a 1963 and a 2016 – and the comparison worked a treat. It is all great fun.

One of mine was the Equipo Navazos ‘La Bota de Manzanilla Pasada, No 80, Bota Punta’. Some among you will have no doubt that such a wine demands ‘Grand Cru’ status, while others will be horrified at the thought. And so it was on the day. Personally, love great sherry.

Manzanilla is, of course, the version of Fino which comes from the bodegas in Sanlucar, rather than Jerez. Proximity to the Atlantic gives a salinity to the wines, a bracing, refreshing oyster-shell note. A chilled glass on a warm afternoon – heaven.

This one was also a Pasada and a Punta. Pasada is the version that has been aged for considerably longer and is much more complex. Closer in style to an amontillado. Punta was a term I had not come across. It is the name they give to the barrels (or butts) which sit at the very bottom row of a solera at the very end of the row – they are not used as part of the solera but will be eventually bottled individually. Their position means more humidity, though as they are usually filled more than the usual 5/6ths, there is less flor. Also, apparently (and I swear I am not making this up), because of their positioning, they are opened for tasting more regularly and this means more dust mites fall in. The acidity in a dust mite’s stomach apparently gives a slight citric character to the wine. Seriously.

So basically, these barrels are at the tip of the row and I have discovered that punta means tip.

And so we move to the cigar, the San Cristobal ‘La Punta’. The tip! Because of the shape? Any ideas?

Really enjoyed the cigar. Quite rich and nutty from kickoff. Reasonable construction. Hints of toast and of caramel (not carmel). Nicely balanced. I had it at 92. I see there is a fair bit of love for these on the forum. And so there should be. It turned out to be an inspired choice for the drinks.

Being in a sherry frame of mind, I grabbed two from the small but old (1838), and much revered, producer, Gutierrez Colosia, from the small town of El Puerto de Santa María, the third of three forming the famous sherry triangle. The bodega, which has a terrific restaurant attached, is near the mouth of the River Guadalete.

I went with their Amontillado and their Oloroso. Two lovely sherries.

The Amontillado had some enticing complex and nutty notes, rich and well-balanced. 92, but I suspect it may have worked even better if the cigar was more moderately flavoured.

The Oloroso was even better. Darker, there was even a touch of a green edge from the older material. It offered more leathery and walnut notes. A sort of dry caramel, if there can be such a thing. I thought 93, but if you had to make a cigar to match the La Punta, or a drink to match the Oloroso, I can’t imagine how you could improve.

Allow me a personal indulgence. If you enjoy sherries, there is a (and yes, no doubt I have banged on about it before), a tiny place in Madrid you must visit. It is, without question, the best hole-in-the-wall bar in the world. Would I lie to you?

For almost a century, ‘La Venencia’, a small, drab, dusty room down a narrow back alley off the Santa Ana Plaza in the El Barrio de Las Letras district of Madrid has attracted locals and a few visitors, who were most likely introduced to the place by those locals (there is a place in the hottest part of hell for the dimwit who recommended it in a ‘visit Spain on the cheap’ guidebook).

‘la venencia’ is the Spanish name for the elongated tasting tool sherry producers use to take a sample from a barrel. Some years ago, an equally drab building, directly across from the bar, apparently a regular home to Gertrude Stein when she was in town, was torn down and replaced by a ritzy hotel. Sit for a moment, watch the patrons, as they hop in and out of their limos. They never notice the old bar. Feels a bit like watching the Muggles in Harry Potter, never noticing the magic around them.

Founded back in 1922, this old bar was once word-of-mouth stuff only. Then, as mentioned, around ten-fifteen years ago, someone mentioned it in a guide for British soccer hooligans touring Spain. No one was happy – not the regulars, the place itself and certainly not the travelling fans who discovered the place only served sherry and they couldn’t even get a beer.

A Spanish friend first took me there around the turn of the century and I fell in love with the place. I visit it every time I am in Madrid. Step inside and there is an old wooden bar, one man working behind it, hundreds of dusty old sherry bottles on the shelves behind him and, at the end, a collection of ancient barrels. There are a couple of tables with rickety chairs and a small area up a few stairs, only used by couples preferring their own company or when the bar overflows. That is pretty much it. The dirt brown walls are stained by decades of smoke and life – the only parts not grimy brown are where plaster has flaked away, leaving fresh wall exposed. There are a few posters celebrating Sherry festivals back in the early thirties and fifties. Presumably, they had other priorities in the interim. The floor, as with most of the place, is under untold years of dust – it is almost like the rings of a tree. What could this layer reveal?

As mentioned, the only thing you can order is sherry, plus some very good tapas. Pressed salted tuna (mojama), great anchovies, Iberico jamon, Manchego cheese, chorizo, preserved meats, but each glass of sherry arrives with a bowl of nuts, olives or chips. All depends on which sherry. The owner scribbles your bill in chalk on the bar. At the end of the evening, he tallies it up and then your cash (no cards) is deposited into an old-fashioned cash register, which is operated by an old wooden lever. There is a decrepit dial phone attached to the wall. Who knows if it still works.

In all my years of visiting this bar, I've never managed to exchange more than three words with the owner, even considering the lack of a common language. He is not rude, but makes it clear he is not there to chat. Even with regulars, he is taciturn in the extreme, rarely sharing much.

Before stricter regulations hit Madrid, as they have done worldwide, this was a great place to settle back with a cigar and relax from running around enjoying what this great city has to offer (without a word of a lie, last time I was in Madrid, just near La V, I walked around a corner and straight into Tom Jones, to which Fuzz, I think, said, ‘it’s not unusual…’). The galleries, museums, Goya’s extraordinary Black Paintings at the Prado, Picasso’s ‘Guernica’ at the Reina Sofia, the bars, the restaurants, the people. Samuel Johnson said that when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life. I'd amend that – when a man is tired of London, he should head straight to Madrid and revive himself.

Cigars are no longer permitted, indeed the bar now shuts for an occasional few minutes whenever the owner steps out for a cigarette, but sitting down with a mouthwatering sherry, a few anchovies and a good book to read, though the light is always dim, is still a joy. Last visit, I'd spent hours walking the streets in 35°C plus heat, so it was doubly welcome.

As ever, there was a brown film of light making things vaguely visible. A few grimy bulbs struggle to provide illumination for the entire place. An old fan turns languidly, as though it really could not be bothered.

After my eyes adjust, I start with Manzanilla. That salty, oyster-shell brine gently envelopes the senses and it dances across the tongue. Crisp, clean, lean, delicious. A good, full, chilled glass, surely exactly as sherry was always intended to be served – at a good bar with friends and a tapas or two. Not as some somm-inspired match for a chef’s Daliesque dream.

The sherries, a choice of five, are all poured from cleanskin bottles. They range from 1.90 to 2.20 Euros a glass, making this amazing value. You can buy full bottles or halves, as well. When the cleanskin is near empty, it is simply filled from one of the barrels. Apparently, our host ducks down to Jerez regularly to select the barrels.

I move to Fino and it is a godsend. I wonder if any drink could have been more perfect at that moment. Full of flavour, yet light as a feather. I have plans to visit on several more occasions before I leave the city in a week’s time, so know I’ll enjoy the full range, but for the moment, I settle back and start to unwind. A local walks in, greetings are grunted, a glass produced and sherry poured, without even asking what was wanted. The local leans against the bar silently, enjoying his newspaper.

The cast of characters which move through La Venencia is all a bit operatic. A few duck in for a quick glass and move on. Some stay for hours. One deliveryman comes in with an armful of pots of orchids, sips on a Fino and is on his way, flowers intact. An occasional tourist sticks his nose in, realises that this is sherry-only territory, recoils in horror and vanishes. Two gentlemen walk in, one looking for all the world like the reincarnation of Lenin in a suit five times too big. Perhaps they are filming something nearby? Groups link up. Late in the evening, there is the post-theatre crowd; earlier, it will have been the pre-dinner throng. The Spanish version of the bar where everybody knows your name.

When, a day or two later, I sample the Palo Cortado, it comes with a bowl of roasted nuts. A much deeper brown, this is a different beast. Old teak and orange rind notes. Wonderfully complex and yet so easy to drink. The Amontillado is another joy. For me, paired with their sardines on bread, it is pretty much my favourite Spanish combination. I try ordering sardines and get a blank look. I make like a fish swimming, to the amusement of the bar, but it does the trick. ‘Ah, anchovy’! Close enough. The sherry itself is soft, complex, dry and lingers wonderfully. Perfect with the oily fish. I think about whether I could move to Madrid so this could be my local.

Naturally, La Venencia was a popular hangout for Hemingway, although I did see one blog question the veracity of this, citing that as there were no pictures of him or any Hemingway memorabilia, how could he possibly have been there? Thereby, entirely missing the point of the place. He was known to drink here with Republican soldiers, no doubt collecting information and stories, as this was a favourite anti-fascist haunt. To the best of my knowledge, Hemingway never wrote a word about this place, nor did he ever mention it in dispatches. Some say it was because he never set foot inside; I prefer to think he was protecting his friends and comrades.

Speaking of pictures, it is strictly forbidden to take photographs, this rule apparently a relic of the Civil War, for, as one of the main places the forces opposing Franco met, any sign of a camera usually meant a spy in the midst. Another rule is strictly no tips – the Republican soldiers who frequented La Venencia saw themselves as ‘equal workers’.

Opening times? They seem to be marginally more regular these days, but when I first started coming here, they were about as reliable as a Madrid street map. You take your chances, but like everything in Spain, no need to go early.

My final visit to La V on that trip to Madrid. It is plus 40°C, so a Fino is compulsory. As I walk in, our friend behind the bar does not seem unhappy to see me. Did I imagine a flicker of recognition? I sit down, feel the stress run off me, and try and catch up on my notes. Oloroso. All walnuts and teak, citrus, glacéd fruit. Lovely, but the Fino is, for me, the star.

As I walk over to the bar to pay for the final time, the owner tallies the bill in chalk and says something to me. In shock, I don’t catch it, but I tell him I will be back, probably in ‘dos anos’. He smiles and shakes my hand. I'm a bit stunned. I feel vindication, acceptance. I feel like I have just received a Spanish knighthood. I can’t stop smiling till I reach the Chuka Ramen Bar, the best ramen in the city, next door.

I love this place. (Calle Echegaray, 7 28014)

KBG.