The Good, the Bad and the Tea Leaves

Everything moves in cycles, my mother never tired of telling me when I was growing up. It used to drive me crazy, but now, I often find myself agreeing with her.

It even applies to tea. Of course, there's the obvious analogy of the Camellia sinensis leaf cycle of bud, growth, harvest, processing. Beyond that, though, tea has been up and down for me lately.


The lecture I was lucky to attend a few weeks ago at the American Museum of Natural History was one of the ups. I haven't been to many tea-centric events, and it was a treat to spend an evening immersed in listening and tasting. The talk was divided into the history of the Silk Road- unfortunately, not too much on the specifics of the tea that was transported over it for thousands of years- and a more general lesson from Sebastian Beckwith of In Pursuit of Tea on the different types of tea, its cultivation and culture.


Much of the ancient Asian history was new to me (such as the role tea played for 13th and 14th Buddhist monks, not just as a stimulant for meditation, but also as an aid to Zen's practice of inner self-examination) but most of the teaspeak was not; however, judging from the sold-out audience’s fervent questioning at the end of the lecture, tea was indeed a hot topic for them.


The attendees' average age may have skewed toward the grandparently, but I was pleased- and surprised- to feel such enthusiasm from them. For a few hours, none of us tea freaks were out of place.

But the cup never stays half-full for long.

Last week, I stopped in my favorite tea store, Ito En, to replenish my precious uji gyokuro and okimidori sencha. I've tried teas from many other places, but nothing has ever quite measured up to its Japanese greens; when the clerk would open the carefully sealed bags, gently shake the leaves and invite me to take a deep sniff, I'd close my eyes and the essence of spring and green would absolutely fill my head.

I discovered Ito En in a Saveur article- on uji teas, I believe from early 2001- that I was reading while on a heaving, crowded subway on my way to a miserable new job. I had only been in New York for a few months and was still trying to adjust to the gaping humanity that exposed itself at every step; somehow, the author's description of the veiled leaves' delicate treatment transported me that morning, to a silent, tranquil place. I twisted for more room so I could I flip to the sources page in the back of the magazine, and found a Madison Avenue address that was just north of where I worked.

On my lunch break that day, I walked into Ito En, strode to the ancient wooden counter in the back, and asked for an ounce of uji gyokuro. The clerk gave me thorough instructions on proper brewing, and the next morning, before I steeled myself for another day, I made a cup.

And it was the best tea I'd ever tasted.


In the years since, I've gone back again and again, dragging pretty much everyone I know at least once. So when the clerk told me the store was closing down at the end of that week- two days ago- I felt stunned.

It will still be possible to order online, but the loss of my ritual, and sanctuary, cuts deeply.


Goodbye, Ito En. I'll miss you.

A Sip of History: The Silk Road and Tea

It's almost effortless to buy tea today. It's sold practically everywhere, from supermarkets to drugstores, or- don't even get up from the computer- simple to purchase online.

But it wasn't always this easy.


Picture the Silk Road, an extensive trading route from China through central Asia to the Middle East, which was established roughly around the 1st century B.C. Caravans of horses and camels laden with goods stretched over 4,000 miles; bazaars and trading centers studded the path. Precious items and ideas flowed for millennia along the well-worn trails, but one of the most significant exchanges was that of tea.

It was another world from the flat, screen-dominated one most of us occupy, but you can get a taste of it now at the Traveling the Silk Road exhibit at American Museum of Natural History. Even better, explore tea's cultural and historic impact over cups of the same varieties that traversed this ancient route with Morris Rossabi, professor of history of City University of New York, and Sebastian Beckwith, owner of In Pursuit of Tea, at the "Silk Road and Tea" lecture and tasting, this Wednesday, March 24, at 6:30 p.m. (camels optional).

I hope to see you there. And for those of you not up to a 1,000-mile journey, I'll be posting a review and images after the event.

Tickets for Silk Road and Tea are $20 and available online; the Traveling the Silk Road exhibit runs through August 15.

Winter Picnic

February hardly seems the time for a cup of tea outside. But on a brilliantly sunny afternoon in Central Park, what could be better? I've had enough of huddling inside this winter, and the city has been so softened by luscious blankets of snow that an alfresco cup was irresistible.

So the other morning, right after I woke up, I made chai, poured it in a thermos, and thought about what else to take along.




Something durable and portable would be required (especially if you end up on a little two-hour detour through sales racks at Saks positively vomiting bargains, on your way up 5th Avenue).

The solution: a classic granola bar. Whether hiking or hopping on the subway, these bars- adapted from one of my favorite cookbooks, the lovely Heidi Swanson's Super Natural Cooking- are ideal to take along.


They're chewy, gingery, not too sweet, and exponentially better than any packaged granola bar. And no matter where you end up trekking, the oats and nuts will keep you steady- and counteract the effects of drinking 18 cups of chai (or carrying 18 shopping bags).

Ginger Granola Bars
Makes: 16 to 24 bars.

1 tablespoon almond oil
1 1/4 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
1 1/4 cups chopped toasted almonds, walnuts or sunflower seeds (or a combination)
1/2 cup oat bran
1 1/2 cups unsweetened crisp brown rice cereal
1 cup dried cranberries, coarsely chopped
3 tablespoons finely chopped crystallized ginger
1 cup brown rice syrup
3 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon fine-grain sea salt
1/2 teaspoon lemon zest (optional)

1. Grease a 10x12-inch pan with the oil. In large bowl, mix together oats, nuts, oat bran, cereal, cranberries and ginger.

2. In small saucepan, combine brown rice syrup, sugar, vanilla, salt and lemon zest. Heat over medium heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture comes to a boil and thickens slightly, about 4 minutes. Pour over oat mixture and stir until thoroughly combined.

3. Spread into prepared pan and let cool to room temperature; the bars can be refrigerated for longer storage. Cut into desired serving sizes.

Even if all you can manage is a takeout cup, a snowsuit and a five-minute sit on a sunny bench, have some tea outside, soon. It's worth it.

Ichigo, Ichie: One Time, One Meeting

I recently attended my first chanoyu, or traditional Japanese tea ceremony, at the transcendent East Village teahouse Cha-An (230 E 9th St.). It was sublime, but I've struggled greatly with how to best describe it.


After a few days, however, it's struck me: that's completely missing the point. Chanoyu is, at its essence, about letting go of the outside world and absorbing the moment. It's not about perfection or permanence: in fact, the two basic concepts, as established by the 1500s tea master Takeno Joo are wabi-sabi, or the singular beauty in imperfection, and ichigo ichie, a celebration of the unique and ephemeral nature of every encounter.

The only way to understand chanoyu is to experience it. Yes, I realize that sounds like some pseudo-yoga (or -Yoda) platitude, but it's true. Keep in mind the Japanese tea ceremony was developed and formalized centuries ago by Zen Buddhist monks, so it can get away with concepts that may sound ridiculously New Agey to modern ears.


The dichotomies are enough to make your head spin: The rituals of the tea master are so choreographed and simple, yet these ancient motions take decades to master; the setting is so minimal, yet the beauty it exemplifies is more stunning than the world's most opulent ballroom. But as soon as you leave the outside world behind, as you've implicitly done with your first, unshod, whispering steps on the tatami mat, and begin to focus on your immediate senses, all those thoughts fall away.


Your eyes adjust to the muted, paper-screened light and you begin to feel the heat of the small, intimate space rise. The only sounds are of the water softly bubbling in the cast-iron kettle, the steady stream pouring from the bamboo ladle into the bowl, and then the precise and insistent whisking of the matcha into a silky froth. You feel the texture of the clay as you cradle the bowl, and the weight of the emerald-green liquid inside; then finally, the warm touch of the tea on your lips before its deep, heady, vegetal flavor fills your mouth.


It's not doing the experience justice, but that's all I can write. You just need to go.


Cha-An performs a 30 minute tea ceremony for two to four people Sundays, by reservation only (212.228.8030; $15 per person, cash only).

The Best Afternoon Tea in New York City

It's not where you think.


As promised with yesterday's blueberry coffeecake muffins recipe, here's where to go and linger over a perfect pot and pastries that you will swear have come from the gods: Locanda Verde (377 Greenwich St.).

I think I have found my spirit baker, and it is pastry chef Karen DeMasco. It's almost embarrassing to admit I've tasted- OK, inhaled- practically everything offered here, but it is all absolutely irresistible: lemon-rosemary scones, olive oil coffeecake, pistachio-huckleberry tart, apple cider donuts, pumpkin spice bread, even a straight-up buttermilk biscuit slathered with quince butter.


And hold on to your hot water, because Locanda Verde also has well-prepared, high-quality loose-leaf tea. That may not seem terribly exciting, but in all the tea drinking I've done here in New York City, it's shocking but true: most restaurants- the fanciest, high-end afternoon tea spots included- cannot brew a decent cup. Either they use dusty old teabags or pay no attention to water temperature and brewing time, resulting in a bitter, overpriced drink.

But you don't have to take it anymore. A selection of three pastries ($11) and a pot of loose-leaf tea ($4) here is about half of what you'd pay for a hotel high tea, and it is all prepared with outstanding care. The tea is from In Pursuit of Tea, one of the better large loose-leaf merchants (try the intriguingly lilac-scented nantou oolong, or the springy, vibrant lemon verbena), and the staff is trained to treat it right: the leaves are steeped for the correct amount of time, then removed before the pot is brought to your table.

And keep in mind, this is from a restaurant, not someplace promoting itself as a tea shop. Could this be an indication that chefs and owners realize tea is as precious and venerable an ingredient as organic, locally-sourced produce or sustainably-caught seafood? Let's hope so.


If you live so far from New York that tears are now mixing with your drool, be heartened: DeMasco's new cookbook The Craft of Baking has many of the treats served at Locanda Verde, and they're truly simple and satisfying to make.

All you have to do is bake some cookies or quick breads, plate them on cutting board, and brush up on how to brew a perfect cup. It will be almost as good.

Blueberry Coffeecake Muffins, And Why Tea Crushes Coffee

I had started a brilliant diatribe about coffee drinkers versus tea drinkers a few days ago, and then my sister called last night to tell me about a recent trip she'd taken to a neat little tearoom and art exhibit in Houston, Texas. That really screwed everything up.


OK, so I had only written it in my head. But it was to be a straightforward post, or so it seemed to me until we spoke: coffee drinking is social; tea drinking is not. Coffee is loud and brash, like the president of a sorority holding court at lunch; tea is calm and subtle, like the class bookworm buried in Hardy over her sandwich in the corner of the cafeteria.

But my sister brought up what the owner of this teashop had said about tea being social, whereas coffee is not: tea's unhurried pace fosters intimate connection and conversation, while coffee's immediacy and hyper-specialization precludes anything but an isolated experience.

I'm not sure which side makes more sense. To me, tea seems the only drink for a quiet, solitary state- but that probably stems from an innate need for both tea and tranquillity, and thus a deliberate equation of the two.

And this doesn't mean I'm not going to share tea with any guests to my home- as you can see, I happily did with one of my dearest friends who was visiting for the weekend. It just means that even if I am drinking tea with someone over a lovely conversation, I've likely already had two cups that morning in complete stillness, while watching the sun rise and the steam curl off the surface of the water.


With tea, both experiences can peacefully coexist. And the benefit to a social tea is the excuse it offers to bake an accompanying treat, like these blueberry coffeecake muffins. Something sweet was needed to balance out those bracing cups of Assam, and tender, lemony cakes studded with pecan-brown sugar streusel and plump bits of dried blueberries was the only sensible choice.

Blueberry Coffeecake Muffins
adapted from Karen DeMasco's The Craft of Baking

Streusel:
1 1/2 cups pecans, finely chopped
1/3 cup packed brown sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
Muffins:
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
Finely grated zest of two lemons
1 cup granulated sugar
1 egg
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons sour cream or yogurt
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
3/4 cup dried blueberries

1. For streusel, heat oven to 350°. Spread pecans on a baking sheet and bake until toasted, about 5 minutes. Remove from oven, pour into a medium bowl and let cool. Mix in brown sugar, cinnamon, salt and melted butter.

2. For muffins, line a 12-cup muffin tin with paper cups. With an electric mixer, cream together butter, lemon zest and granulated sugar until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Scrape down sides of bowl, and add egg, then sour cream and vanilla.

3. Sift together flour, baking powder and salt. Add to butter mixture and beat on low until just combined.

4. Using a large spoon, fill muffin cups one-third with batter. Sprinkle 1 tablespoon of streusel on each muffin, then top each with remaining batter. Sprinkle remaining streusel, then blueberries, evenly over tops.

5. Bake, rotating muffin pan halfway through, until just firm to the touch, about 25 minutes. Transfer to wire rack and let stand 10 minutes, then turn muffins out on rack to cool completely.

Too lazy to make them, or even a pot of tea? Then come back tomorrow, and I'll tell you where to take a friend for a transcendent serving of both. (Conversation optional.)

Sencha in Seattle

I paid my first visit to Seattle- and to the Pacific Northwest, actually- a few months ago. The delay in writing about it is all due to fault with me, and none with the place itself.

The food was outstanding- I'd never seen so many vegetables, fruits, cheeses, grains all in season at the same time- tea was plentiful (although I did pack some to take with me, just in case), the weather was gorgeous, and the light, everywhere, was marvelous. My friend who I was visiting agreed when I exclaimed over how subtly different everything, from leaves to water to bricks, was illuminated. Her explanation was that the sky seems closer here.

She was completely right; the clouds seemed tantalizingly within reach, like a pile of meringues behind a pastry case.


Each morning, I'd tiptoe through her kitchen, silently preparing my first cup of tea, and slip outside to a dock steps from her door to watch the sun rise over Lake Washington. Curling around the cup, listening to the waves' hollow lapping under the piers, it seemed to me like nothing else was awake, except a snow-capped Mt. Rainier emerging like a mirage across the water and spiders slowly stretching in their glistening webs. After I finished my tea, on the way back to the apartment, I'd pluck dewy blackberries right off the vine and straight into my mouth, marveling at this world of green and blue well within city limits. And I finally understood how she could leave New York and call this place home for the past four years.

I tried to be diligent about tasting, taking notes and photos of all the other places I had tea over the long weekend, but I really was enjoying it- and eating- too much to stay focused. (Consuming donuts at every meal, three days in a row, didn't help my concentration either.)




So in lieu of a tea-room rundown, I wanted instead to capture the essence of the place, back here in my kitchen. As I somehow managed to stave off diabetes on the trip, I was leaning more toward savory than sweet.


It's been some time since I've made a traditional, slow-rise, knead-for-15-minutes-while-you-space-out-and-revert-to-a-trancelike-prelingual-calm bread. But with those local dried cherries and farro I stuffed into my suitcase (those two pounds of kippered salmon I carried back in my purse were consumed long ago), it was clear what to do.


Baking is a ritual that both comforts and commemorates- one of the most basic, and most satisfying. And so here is whole-wheat farro bread: how I remember Seattle.

Whole-Wheat Farro Bread
Makes: 2 loaves.

1 cup farro
1 tablespoon kosher salt
4 tablespoons olive oil
4 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon molasses
1 cup dried cherries
1 package (scant 1 tablespoon) active dry yeast
1 1/2 cups bread or all-purpose flour
2 cups whole-wheat flour
1 to 2 cups white whole-wheat flour

1. In medium bowl, combine farro and 1 cup boiling water. Cover and let sit 30 minutes, then stir in salt, olive oil, 4 tablespoons molasses and dried cherries. Cover and let stand an additional 30 minutes.

2. In large bowl, dissolve yeast in 1 cup warm water. Stir in 1 teaspoon molasses, then mix in 1 1/2 cups bread flour. Cover with a damp cloth, set in a warm place, and let rise 30 to 45 minutes.

3. With a wooden spoon, beat farro mixture into risen dough until completely incorporated. Gradually stir in 2 cups whole-wheat flour and 1 cup white whole-wheat flour into the dough, adding more flour as necessary and turning dough out onto a lightly floured surface once it becomes too stiff to stir. Knead for 15 minutes, adding flour only if sticky, until dough is smooth and supple. Lightly oil large bowl and turn dough in it to coat. Cover with a damp cloth and set in a warm place to rise until doubled in bulk, about 1 to 1 1/2 hours.

4. Punch dough down and knead lightly for a few minutes. Divide in half, and shape into a free-form boule or pat into an oval, and place in an oiled loaf pan. Cover each with a damp cloth and let rise until doubled, about 45 minutes.

5. Heat oven (and pizza stone, if you have one) to 400°. Bake boule directly on stone or baking sheet, or loaf in pan, for about 45 minutes. Let cool on rack, turning bread out of pan (if using) after 10 minutes. Cool completely before slicing.

This bread is slightly sweet, from the molasses and cherries, but it's balanced out by the whole-wheatiness and chewy, nutty bites of farro. And while it is delightful all on its own, a toasted slice with butter or melted cheese along with your afternoon cup of tea is heavenly.


If you can't find farro, another grain like bulgur, brown rice or oats- or even chopped walnuts- would be an excellent stand-in. Or you can just plan a trip to Seattle to get some.


For more gluteny goodness, check out YeastSpotting.