Tales from Jerez

Last week I spent a couple of glorious days in Jerez with Gonzalez Byass. I was particularly excited about going as I lived in Granada whilst at university and haven't revisited Andalucía in six years.

After checking in, I head out with team GB for tapas at the very Spanish hour of 10pm. Striking upon an gem – honest and unpretentious, we sit outside on plastic chairs, drink copious amounts of Tio Pepe and eat the charmingly titled 'Scrambled to the Boots'.

Our boots filled, we stop by bar Kapote for an Amontillado before bed, and host Jeremy Rockett regales me with stories of Times food critic Giles Coren's outrageous exploits on a recent press trip to Portugal, which end in Charles Campion putting him in a headlock.

Before going to sleep, I open the door to my balcony and sit, soothed by the cool night air, watching the stars and listening to the trilling of the cidadas. Luxuriating in the moment, I feel totally transported – a rainy gray London sky to a blanket of stars in a matter of hours.

Shortly after sunrise, we troop onto a bus and are driven out to the Gonzalez Byass vineyards, just outside the Sherry triangle. Disembarking, we're given a few minutes to roam. The morning light over the vineyard is haunting. A layer of mist hangs on the horizon, and spreads across the vines like gauze. The sun is still low in the sky, and everything seems so fresh and full of hope.

Our next stop is the Gonzalez Byass bodega, complete with a fire engine red Tio Pepe train, which looks like it arrived in Jerez by way of the Magic Kingdom. The tour begins in La Concha, a shell-shaped room designed by Gustav Eiffel before he transformed the Parisian skyline, built in honour of la Infanta Isabella, the 'nymphomaniac' queen.

We shuffle on to the barrel room, and I go off in search of artists and writers. French poet Jean Cocteau describes Sherry as 'the blood of Kings' on his barrel, while Picasso illustrates his with a raging bull. In the far corner of the room is a Sherry glass with a tiny ladder leading up to it, set up for the infamous Tio Pepe mouse I'd heard so much about. He makes an appearance one in every five visits. We wait patiently, holding our breath. Nothing. The group moves on but I'm determined to catch a glimpse of the elusive rodent, certain he is close by.

I stand in the doorway in silence and wait, camera poised, finger on the button. After a minute or two, a tiny figure emerges from under the barrel and scurries across the sand. I frantically focus the camera and take a few snap shots of my brief encounter. A second later, he's gone.

After an epic lunch at Juanitos that includes chocos (fried cuttlefish), langoustines and the house speciality – scrambled egg and crisps, Jeremy and I take a detour to Bodegas Tradición to check out their impressive art collection, which includes works by Goya, Velazquez, Murillo and El Greco.

But the painting that will stay with me is that of a cocky bullfighter with a missing front tooth and a black pirate hat, leaning against a wall, cigar nonchalantly in mouth, a dagger ready for action in his blood red cummerband. His robes are so richly rendered, from the regal purple cape he's wrapped in, to the soft brown embroidered jacket and ornate floral waistcoat. It's such a vivid image he seems utterly alive, as if he could leap out of the frame at any moment and ask for a light.

California tasting at Selfridges and Tom's Terrace launch

Things are pretty hectic at Decanter HQ at the moment. We're putting together our Bordeaux guide and July issue – two issues in the time we usually produce one, so heads are down and stress levels are up.

My evening events therefore, are proving a welcome respite from the madness. As soon as I walk down our metal catwalk of a corridor and push the lift button to the ground floor, I feel the tension ooze out of me. And so it was on Thursday night, when I hotfooted it from the office to the towering pleasure dome of Selfridges for a Californian wine tasting, the apogee of a week dedicated to wines from the Golden State.

Rather ironically, in a bid to escape the madness of the office, I'd inadvertently stepped into an equally mad situation. Arriving a fashionable ten minutes late, on making it past the red rope, a glass was thrust in my hand and I was ushered to Table 2, where a besuited man was ebulliently espousing the merits of Californian Viognier. I had to play catch up, swirling, sniffing and swigging my Hawk Crest Chardonnay as fast as humanly possible.

As soon as I'd caught up with the Alban Viognier, we were onto the Meiomi, Bel Glos, Russian River Valley Pinot Noir. We were given less than a minute on each wine – it felt like a speed tasting, which for me, took all the pleasure out of the experience. Wine is something to be savoured, not swallowed in a second. I barely had time to consider what was in my glass before we were on to the next thing. I understand we had a lot of wines to get through, but it's difficult to enjoy them when tasting at such speed.

I refused to let go of my Pinot, and instead let it linger in my glass while I revelled in its sumptuous, fruit-forward aromas of rich ripe cherries and juicy raspberries. On the palate it was as round as an O, and had massive weight and flavour for a Pinot – easily my wine of the night. The £51 Stags Leap Artemis however, was disappointing, in the way that so many of the California big guns are. I appreciated its classicism and elegance, but it didn't blow me away the way I hoped it might.

We were allowed to devour a selection of cheeses in between sips, from the gooey Reblochon to the robust Manchecho. And it was then that I fell in love... with Comte. I can't believe I've let this sensational cheese go under my radar for so long, and that its creamy, nutty, deliciousness has been missing from my life all these years. I was so taken with the Comte that the next day I went on a pilgrimage to Borough Market with the soul purpose of buying a hunk of the stuff.

Anyway, back to the wines... the final wine of Table 2, a Cline ancient vines Mouvedre, had lovely herbal aromas and attractive wild notes. No sooner had I pinpointed the aromas, than we were ushered to Table 1, the Shafer table, where we tried their 2007 Chardonnay and a rather delicious 2005 Merlot. On Table 4 we tried a sparkling brut rosé by J Schram at £57 a pop, and Peter Michael Le Moulin Rouge Pinot Noir from Santa Lucia for an eye-watering £105 a bottle. Admittedly, very little is shipped over to the UK, but for me the £32.99 Meiomi was the Oscar winner to Le Moulin Rouge's supporting act.

I never made it to Table 3, as I had to dash off to attend the launch of Tom's Terrace pop up restaurant at Somerset House. Making my way there through the back entrance via Temple tube, I walked through the fountains to meet my friend on the other side. The sound of the music, smell of the sizzling food and feel of the cold water on my skin was an intoxicating combination.

The party was in full swing and Lanson in full flow when we arrived – the man himself, fox-featured Tom Aikens was working the room (well, canopied enclosure) under the watchful eye of his gorgeous wife Amber Nuttall, while cranky critic Giles Coren gesticulated wildly to his flamed-haired wife Esther Walker. Perhaps she'd removed an indefinite article from one of his sentences, making it end on an unstressed syllable. I hope not for her sake...

Comptoir Libanais

Never one to turn down a party, on Wednesday night I went to the opening of Comptior Libanais in Finchley Road.

It's the fourth site for this Leon-style Lebanese restaurant, which has managed to win over both Time Out's Guy Diamond (it was a runner up in the Time Out Eating and Drinking Awards last year), and the notoriously harsh Giles Coren, who was charmed by both the lamb kofte and the décor.

There's something distinctly cool about the place. Light, bright and strikingly simple, it looks like it's not trying too hard, which is always good. My friends and I barely had time to perch on a silver stool and admire the surroundings before we were offered a glass of red wine, a bottle of strawberry Fanta and a selection of juices. The Fanta had that wonderful sickly-sweet taste of childhood, while the juices – lime and mint, pink grapefruit, and pomegranate were lip-smackingly fresh.

As for the wine, I was impressed to see six whites and six reds on the menu, including Château Musar 2002. Tonight were were drinking Cave Kouroum 2005 Petit Noir, a blend of Cincault, Grenache, Carignan and Syrah my Lebanese hairdresser had insisted I try the last time he was let loose on my locks. It's from the Bekaa region, on the slopes of the Barouk Mountain. We were drinking from tumblers, so it wasn't easy to asses, but it was bursting with red fruit – cherries, red currants, raspberries and strawberries. The palate was smooth and soft, with silky tannins and a hint of pepper on the finish.

It was an ideal accompaniment to the Middle Eastern food, and boy did they roll out the food. From humous with chickpeas and olive oil, to haloumi wraps, spicy chicken parcels, pine cone shaped falafel, and little bowls of cous cous and roasted vegetables. Sybarite that I am, I tried one of everything and soon started to feel like a stuffed vine leaf. Amidst our gastrotour, a harem of belly dancers emerged in scandalously skimpy outfits. They weaved their way through the crowd, shaking their Shakira-like hips to the rhythm pounded out by the over-enthusiastic male drummers.

Through the throng came orange-clad waitresses with trays of frozen yoghurt with rose water, baclava sprinkled with pistachios, cubes of honey-drenched cake and biscuits crammed with nuts. I was too full to enjoy them, but made a gallant effort to try them all. The evening finished with jars of mint tea and a goodie bag full of Eastern treats – baclava, Turkish delight, paprika, cinnamon gum and a tin of spices.

With its laid-back demeanor, chic décor and tasty, affordable food, Comptoir Libanais have tapped into the zeitgeist and conquered a niche culture-hungry Londoners will lap up. Look out Leon.