Manzanilla and My Balcony
I submitted this essay for the Jancis Robinson Wine Writing Competition 2026. The prompt was: A Perfect Pairing.
My front balcony is an unromantic five miles from the Atlantic Ocean. Still, there are days when the dense, salty air is upon us, unfurling itself like a bolt of wet lace. Said balcony is also a burdensome 3410 miles from Sanlúcar de Barrameda, the town where my beloved Manzanilla Sherry is made. The expanse of the Atlantic looms between us, humidity and seabirds our common thread. A life steeped in ocean wind - or the time spent longing for it - makes us practically kin. I’ve learned to bridge the distance with an exquisite pairing: Manzanilla on this very balcony. I always look eastward and toast Sanlúcar, where enjoying a leisurely aperitivo is quotidian.
For many years, Thursdays found me reporting quite early to my Spanish restaurant for chef duties. The biggest of all the prep days, Thursdays are when weekend specials get made, then taught to cooks, explained to servers, printed onto menus, programmed into computers, updated on websites, and posted on social media for good measure. In summertime, we double that prep. Unpack, peel, chop, debone, gut, filet, stem, blister, bleed, simmer…
Sweat trickling, fiddleheads pickling,
asparagus steaming, delivery boy screaming,
potatoes boiling, six cooks toiling,
whisk the sauce, risk the loss,
delegate, hydrate, coordinate, masticate,
tongs, prongs, and ultimately swan songs,
Alas, I sold that restaurant in 2024.
Back then, with my cheffing completed for the day, I’d slip out the back door of my Taberna and board a packed street car, my kitchen scents blending nicely with commuter angst. It’s my Thursday night off, the breather before the weekend’s blare. First, a quick stop at the farmers’ market, where friendly calls of “Hey Chef, what’s on the menu tonight?” and “I’ll have what she’s having!” ring out as I visit my favorite stalls, still dressed in chef’s whites. The final purchase? A big, fat chicken. I nestle her into my chiller bag with the smoked bluefish, the cultured butter, and the olives.
The short walk home is a heart-pounder and a brow-dripper, so laden with foodstuffs am I. My night-off appetite knows no bounds! And, the late afternoon sun can be downright Andalusian in its intensity. The oasis of my balcony, and the Manzanilla I will sip there, shimmers like a mirage. Before that sun-dappled sit, I must unpack the goods and refrigerate the perishables. Then the bird goes into a pan, surrounded with fine nuggets pried from New England dirt and slathered with olive oil and herbs. I give her a solemn nod of gratitude as I condemn her to the hot oven.
Now! I could bask in the luxury of a free evening on my balcony. I pour cold Manzanilla into two copitas while my forever-mate furnishes a bowl of potato chips and another of olives, manzanilla olives, of course. The July air is heavy, a few degrees of humidity shy of liquid. The first sailor-sized sip is like a waterfall of refreshment and puts me right. It always does. Briny and bracing, this almost-clear Sherry conjures up images of kelp fronds belly dancing in the ocean’s sway. Pale green almonds in dewy pods. Crushed shells and chamomile blossoms tinged with tart lemon. Sleek, bone dry and energetic, Manzanilla offers me the pause I so needed, the interlude I so craved.
I exhale and settle into aperitivo time, that civilized space between the workaday crush and the night to come. We re-splash our glasses with more Manzanilla. I’ve softened enough to notice the details around me, like the sweat on the bottle and the motionlessness of the green leaves above me. Herbaceous aromas emanate from my potted plants, a tiny evocation of Spain’s fecundity. The chamomile, Manzanilla’s namesake, gives me a knowing wink.
I crunch a potato chip, douse it with a mouthful of Manzanilla, and then pop an olive into my mouth. I lick my lips and realize I’m experiencing salt on salt, on salt on salt. I kid myself that I’m replacing the minerals expended in my hot kitchen. I can almost feel my electrolytes re-balance. The characteristic tang of the Sherry enlivens me even as the chamomile notes soothe. Iridescent as a fish
scale.
Manzanilla’s character is hard to pin down in worldly terms. The lightest and driest of all the Sherries, Manzanilla is made exactly as Fino is made, which is to say, under a veil of yeast and aged in a solera system of barrels, but exclusively in Sanlúcar de Barrameda. The ocean on her doorstep moderates the temperature, meaning warmer winters and cooler summers, as well as more moist sea breezes year round. The mysterious, magnificent velo de flor is pleased, as it thrives in a narrow band of 18 - 23ºC. The flor grows noticeably plusher and thicker in Sanlúcar, blocking more oxygen and intensifying the anaerobic, biological aging. More pungency and salinity, with less oxidation and heft as compared to Fino, which I also love.
I drank Manzanilla on other days, of course. Early weeknights I’d raise a copita with guests in my Taberna, toasting their health as I shepherded them, like an evangelizer, into the Sherry fold. Fridays and Saturdays, a quick glass of Manzanilla was my nerve-girder before the clamor and rattle of a busy shift, offering a racy, replenishing parenthesis between the mundane tasks of readying a restaurant and the alchemy of hospitality.
The pause. The reset. The palate-primer, the tummy-reviver, the focus-riveter. That’s what Manzanilla is, always. And on sultry summer evenings, Manzanilla spirits me to a place of peace. It may be 3400 miles to the seaside Casa Bigote, my favorite restaurant for bottles of Sherry both popular and rare, but my balcony is my makeshift muse in Boston. Here, I’m enveloped in the golden hour’s light, my bougainvillea blooming fuchsia and my lover at hand. Often times a thin veil of ocean air will slink in like a link to Sanlúcar.
By Deborah Hansen
Chef, Sommeliere, Sherry Master