S.M. King explores the return to respectability of sherry.

My nana was a virtual teetotaller. Her single indulgence was a glass of sherry on Christmas morning. Not the cooking sherry, either. The good stuff kept on the drinks trolley in the living room, Harvey’s Bristol Cream.

According to its appellation, sherry must come from a triangular area of the Spanish province of Cádiz between Jerez, Sanlúcar de Barrameda, and El Puerto de Santa María.

Even Harvey’s Bristol Cream comes from Jerez de la Frontera in Spain. It’s a particularly full and rich style of sherry with an intense dried fruit and raisin character. It’s very Christmas pudding really, so my nana may have been onto something with her rare but well targeted food and wine matching. It’s the sort of sherry that is best served over ice, if served at all.

The classic cooking sherry is McWilliam’s Royal Reserve Dry Sherry; a staple in a well-stocked Australian pantry. In the late 70s and early 80s, the Women’s Weekly Chinese Cooking Class Cookbook recipes demanded a splash of dry sherry in place of the more exotic rice wine. I keep a bottle on hand for retro-Chinese purposes, but I wouldn’t dream of actually drinking it.

Many of us shy away from fortifieds, assuming them all to be as sweet and sickly as port wine. Sherry, I’m discovering, is different. Here, fortification takes place after fermentation, which will produce a dry or savoury wine. Any sweetness is a matter of subsequent manipulation.

For me, sherry remains a special occasion tipple. By which I mean I’m not waiting until Christmas to imbibe, but I’m not committing to buying a whole bottle of the stuff either. We’re not quite going steady. I’m still experimenting with different marques that might tempt in restaurants or tapas bars with a sherry list.

Sherry’s status has been boosted by the explosion of tapas bars over the past decade. It’s the drink traditionally enjoyed with tapas. Purveyors of small Spanish plates have been crafting sherry menus.

My gentle introduction to sherry was the variety known as fino. It is the driest of the sherries and the lightest in colour. Manzanilla is a variety of fino that has been popping up on menus all over town. It matches well with the more understated flavours of jamón or calamari.

The middleweight of sherries is amontillado. Heavier in flavour and darker in colour than fino, it tackles saltier flavours like anchovies and olives with ease. Traditionally served with a clear soup, such as beef consommé, it also pairs well with gamier flavours like rabbit.

Richer still, oloroso is more akin to what I expect from port. It is sweet and rich, and for fans of cheese a perfect partner. At MoVida, an interesting choice on the sweeter and heavier side is the Piedra Luenga ‘Organic’ Pedro Ximenez, a dark mahogany drop that is perfect with blue cheese.

According to protocol, sherry should be enjoyed in a small tulip shaped glass called a copita. And here was I thinking the only vessel I’d ever use to contain it is a tumbler. In which to preserve my false teeth. But, no. This tipple is no longer the exclusive province of your Nan. Salut!