Bailin Gongfu, Again

Maybe one of the reasons I love tea so deeply is because I just love it- all of it. Unlike everything else in my life, it's effortless for me to approach it with an open, nonjudgmental mind, and with very few exceptions (hello, Bi Luo), I always find something in a particular tea that makes me want to keep drinking it.

Some teas, though, do rise above the rest. I think this is because of a purely emotional reaction or attachment to the taste, or the content in which I'm exposed to it. I am extremely lucky to work in tea, and to do so with a pair of tea masters (even though they would both probably cringe if I called them that- and I do, too, but there is no better term). Many of the mindblowing teas I've experienced in the past two years have been prepared and handed to me by one of them.

Their approaches to making tea are quite different: one methodical, one intuitive. I was thinking about this today while drinking this year's spring harvest of Bailin Gongfu, a traditional-style fine Chinese black tea from Fujian, studded with silky, golden buds. Right around last year's harvest of this tea, I went out to visit one of them. The day before I left for the trip, one made me Bailin here; and while out there, on a hike in Muir Woods, the other had packed me a thermos of that same Bailin. (I know, I'm lucky.)

It seemed more than a coincidence. In both instances- a quiet early morning moment off a downtown Manhattan street of brick and concrete, and the sylvan depths of an old growth forest on the Pacific Ocean- the rich, roasted chocolate and apricot-pit sweetness transcended the beauty of the place.

Even today, sitting at home on my old couch, the Bailin sings through two, three, four infusions. This tea is so of the place it's made and of the place it's consumed. The locations and maker may shift, as will the taste, subtly, but it's always right for where you're drinking it.

Tableside Tea

I have an old friend who I only get to see every few years. It's more his fault than mine, because he lives in Berlin.

But when we do get to spend time together, we quickly get down to business: how many meals can we squeeze into a day? Besides the obvious benefit of eating well, it's always reassuring that gluttony extends well beyond American borders.
 

Smoked apple tea with thyme

Humans like to indulge. It's genetic. Sure, so is hunting down and devouring a mastodon- but try to tell me you can't imagine some caveperson carving the discarded tusk and charging 15 rocks for an aromatherapy back scratch. The preponderance of fleas alone would make it worth the price.

So dropping $100 for lunch at Eleven Madison Park (11 Madison Park), on a Monday isn't even a choice. It's a requirement.

The food was beyond description; I'm not even going to touch the meal other than to say it's arguably the finest restaurant in Manhattan. Go, then you can fight me about it.

What truly floored me was the tableside tea service. I have to disclose that I work with Eleven Madison to provide the teas, so I'm hardly an unbiased drinker. But the level that they've taken it to is unlike any other restaurant in the country: the tea menu is extensive, but thoughtfully balanced, and more importantly, you can have it prepared with a gaiwan, through multiple infusions.

I know and adore all the teas offered, but I went with one I rarely get to taste- the 1994 Orange Stamp Bingcha- a sheng, or green, pu-erh.

Yes, it was so good that I asked if I could take the leaves home with me (and I unabashedly did). But what stayed with me far longer has been the thought that this level of tea service is possible in the West.

But people need to demand it. Just imagine how incredible your tea tastes at home, when you're focusing on those little leaves and how to treat them as well as you can so that they relinquish every last bit of fragrance and flavor that the tea producer has painstakingly preserved. Why can't every high-end restaurant pay the same amount of attention? It's done with each ingredient, the wines, the coffee- it's time it happened with the tea.

Tieguanyin in Hot Places

I've been on my annual summer trip recently, in the Appalachian Mountains. It is green and gorgeous and so lovely to see trees instead of people and buildings- as well as my only chance of the year to scamper around a roof.

Tea, as usual, comes along for the ride. This was the first time I can say that I've prepared it on a construction site in above-100° temperatures, and I'm happy to say it might taste even better this way. The light, sweet floral notes of this greenish Tieguanyin seemed to match the landscape- and it may have cooled me down a little bit. As soon as I fully recover from the sunstroke I'll let you know.

 

photos by Colin Bell

Phoenix Morning

It's almost summer, no doubt about it.

I'm up before 5am, and there's plenty of birds to keep me company. It stays light so late I lose all track of time (although that phenomenon does seem to span multiple seasons). All this means more hours in which to drink tea—I do drink it after dark, but usually only an oolong that I've been nursing all day and I can't bear to part with, or a pu-erh that's older and wiser than I am.

The other morning I was lucky enough to have a bit of a gorgeous Phoenix Song Dynasty to start the day. It's a carefully twisted, semi-oxidized oolong from China that seems to reveal more of its green-ness with each steeping. Woody, lightly sweet and intensely fragrant, this is a tea you can get lost in before you even realize what's happened.

But after five cups, I had to break down and have something to eat. I wanted something as floral and lingering as the tea, and this strawberry ginger jam was the answer.

It's something I make every late spring, as soon as those little plump rubies appear in the farmer's market. They're around for just a few short weeks and it's hard to not just eat them out of hand, but this jam helps extend the season a little longer.

Strawberry Ginger Jam
Makes: about 1 1/2 cups

1 small lemon, peel and pith removed, flesh coarsely chopped
5 cups strawberries, hulled, halved if large
1/3 cup sugar
1 teaspoon freshly grated ginger
1/4 teaspoon black pepper

Place all ingredients in a medium saucepan; heat to boiling then lower to a gentle simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally, about 30 minutes or until thick.

This is lovely slathered on olive oil cake for breakfast, or just eaten on a spoon—whatever lets you get back to the tea more quickly.

The Demon Bean

I get asked, "Do you drink coffee?" a lot.

OK, maybe not that often. But it usually comes up with anyone I drink tea with on a regular basis. I don't dislike the idea of coffee—it's just another feel-good plant plus hot water formula—but I find it overwhelming on all sensory fronts. It's strongly scented, strongly flavored, loud to prepare and often to consume. Tea's subtlety, on the other hand, tends to lead me inward, as I watch the leaf unfold and take in its aromas on a wisp of steam. My mind has to quiet to fully absorb the experience.

I can appreciate coffee in a few contexts, though. Since working as a barista (which was interesting due to my intense dislike of espresso) I can enjoy a beautifully made shot once in awhile—and understand how much skill and focus went into producing it.

It's been the best training for my palate as well, as preparing good espresso requires frequent adjustments and constant tasting. Tasting something I like (tea) is easy; tasting something that I really don't requires enough focus to get past my emotional reaction and pay attention to flavor analytically.

And then there's Cafe Du Monde (800 Decatur St.), in New Orleans. I don't get to go there as much as I'd like, but when I am, anything other than a cafe au lait to accompany those deep-fried, diabetic bombs known as beignets just wouldn't taste right.

Records of Miscellanea

"Tea lightens the body and changes the bones."
-Tao Hongjing, Za Lu

Have a Cup of Tea

I recently was sent an old digital photo (hence the resolution) that despite the blurriness, hit me sharply. Initially, of course, it was vanity- because I could see myself drinking tea.



The picture is from a years-ago trip throughout Europe with a slew of touring musicians, and I suddenly realized that this was the first time I was exposed to the ritual and daily enjoyment of tea. My obsession was then still embryonic, but I noticed the way I cradle the drink, thousands of cups later, hasn't changed.

And then I thought that the photographer, and one of the subjects, are no longer here. These old friends both passed away last year, both well before their time.

We didn't get to drink enough tea together, so I made two cups this morning in their memory.

Assam, for my friend from Detroit. Sencha, for my friend from Japan.



Both were incredibly creative, musical spirits. The most time I spent was with them, actually, was on that trip in the photograph. I remember crunching through deserted, icy streets in small Swiss towns with Ichiro; his English was superb but he was very quiet, and the rare times he would speak the words were thoughtful and deliberate as poetry. I also have vivid images of running all over London with Dan, who had a digital camera- this was 1997, so it rather astonishing technology (even if we utilized it to no serious end, like documenting the size of a slug next to a pence lying on the sidewalk)- and having endless cups of milky, sugary tea at everyone's home who hosted us.

The attempt to honor them with words is impossible, at least for this unskilled writer, and I know the tea cannot conjure them. All it can offer is a moment of respect.