A Cup That Cheers

"Don't spoil good tea by bad preparation. Let every cup you make be a cup that cheers."

I recently came across this little tea how-to gem, from 1941, and yes, sat through the entire ten minutes. (Seems like people had a longer attention span back then- including me, as I started writing this last week but got caught up in baby porcupine and Public Enemy videos.)

It's also coming from a guy in lab coat with a cool British accent, so pay attention:

The advice on how to brew a good cup is surprisingly accurate, even 70 years later- although the sections on how to best sweeten and milk large quantities in urns may be slightly less applicable. No one likes an urn.

"Remember: tea is not a manufactured article which can made bufflebuck, and served at will. It must be made every time it is required."

Cake Out

Yes, I made That Cake again.

Yes, there's only this much left.

Yes, I had it for breakfast. But I did pair it with a different tea this time, Oriental Beauty- a highly oxidized oolong from northwestern Taiwan, rich and honey-sweet in both flavor and fragrance. If you could curl up in its lap, you would.

Oriental Beauty was actually developed in the late 1800s in an attempt to emulate Darjeeling tea- but although both are fine examples of how delicious a bug-bitten leaf can taste (a small leafhopper insect attacks the plant before it's harvested, changing its chemical components), I doubt you'd mistake one for the other. There's a smooth, complete roundness in the Oriental Beauty that's a very different structure than the stacked and layered curves of a Darjeeling.

And if the idea of eating shapes is unappealing, just make the poundcake. You can get anything down with a slice of it.

Quiet World

The best cup of tea I've had in a long time.

On Loneliness, Desire and Hand-Rolled Gyokuro

The longer you're in a city, the more alone you feel. I don't think it's necessarily in a bad way- it's just inevitable that as you're surrounded by people every day, you're faced with how many of them you don't know. It's not an unnatural state, but it can at times lead to a feeling of missing out or wanting to be somewhere else. Just a few blocks away something better must be happening.

So when I do find myself lost in an engaging experience and not thinking of anything else, I relish it. Such was a tasting I had recently with a few friends that I met through tea (the kind of people you can sit around with and talk about leaf varietals for a half hour, and realize that no one is melting from boredom).

And while I am utterly surrounded by tea at work- no, I'm not complaining about that- it's always a treat when something new shows up, like this hand-rolled (or temomi) gyokuro from Yame, Japan, that we had. The matte tone of the elegant, needle-shaped leaves is due to this process; even though these producers could easily break you in half, human hands can't produce the same amount of friction or pressure as a machine (but it sounds way cooler).

I'm a sucker for gyokuro, since it's the tea that got me into this whole mess, but I've rarely had a hand-rolled variety. This one had its characteristic powerful, brothy intensity with salty, bittersweet flavors that last far longer than you think possible. As one of my friends described it, it tasted like it had no beginning or end- it was like stepping into the middle of a plot and being told, "figure it out, kid."

We tried some Japanese black tea as well, which makes up less than 1% of the country's tea production. This one was from Mie Prefecture, near Kyoto, and when my friend asked the farmer why he started making black tea, he replied because he liked it- probably the best reason to do anything.

The flavor was full and somewhat astringent, like a strong Ceylon, but the smell of the leaves and the liquor were unmistakeably Japanese (deep green, seaweedy). Interesting to taste, but it's still hard for me to drink non-green Japanese tea. It almost feels like going to a steakhouse as a vegetarian- sure, the potatoes can be good, but you're kind of missing the point.

Maybe a little missing out is good, though. Satisfaction can so easily lead to stasis.

Gaiwans I Have Known

It doesn't matter where I am. It's with me.

Lush Life

Another beautiful, sweet cup of Bailin Gongfu while watching the sky lighten into dawn.

And listening to Joe Henderson. This is why I love mornings so.

The Obsession Runs Deeper Than I Thought

I found an old diary when I was visiting home last year- it's one I've paged through several times, because it's absolutely hilarious to see what an eight-year-old mind endured.

Among a lot of embarrassing entries which will never be revealed, I came across this little gem:

There it is, recorded for posterity in 1985: My favorite beverage is tea. It's also interesting to note my abhorrence of bananas, which persists to this day, and that I'd love to have a meal where I could eat all the food I wanted. Clearly, I wasn't about to be tricked by a children's book publisher into a monotone plate.

Mr. Melon remains a bit of mystery- I think it was a watermelon candy, which as evident from my favorite foods list, probably was shunned in favor of the real thing. And coffee, as we all know, is pretty gross.

It's no surprise, then, that I greet another morning with a cup of my old friend. I almost can't remember ever doing otherwise.

Thirteen Proprieties for Tea

"Third condition: Tranquil and elegant sitting area. When drinking tea in quiet and tasteful surroundings, a calm and quiet atmosphere, may you be at ease and unconcerned about the affairs of the world for a moment."

-Feng Ke Bing, Thirteen Proprieties for Tea from Annotations of Jie Tea (1642)

Honey Sweet

You'd think the worst thing about being sick is how is makes you feel (really horrible). But equally as bad is how it makes you sound (really boring). So enough of all that talk.

One of the brighter moments over the haze of the holidays was preparing one of my absolute favorite teas in the kitchen where I grew up. I suppose that's what defines a home: a place that no matter how long as has passed since you've been there, you still know where everything lays. And in this kitchen, each cup, even every counter surface has such a patina of memory on it that I'm surprised they're not more visible than a few faded stains.

Jia Long was certainly not something I ever tasted growing up, unfortunately, but it's such a richly scented, deeply sweet oolong that the first time you do, it instantly becomes a visceral memory. Even in the cold air of New England in December, the aroma- like warming honey- filled the room. Everyone in my family who walked by while I was making it stopped and said, "What is that?"

As we sipped together, I told them about visiting the teahouse and farm of Mr. Chen, the incredibly talented farmer who makes this tea in northern Taiwan. As evocative as it is to taste here, having it prepared by the producer himself was transcendent.

His tea farm was also stunning, the scent of the leaf mingling with other heady tropical aromas, of wild ginger flowers and neon pink dragonfruit growing like weeds out of cracks in a stone wall.

I'm still surprised I was able to leave.

Punishment Cookies

Pleasure and pain: you'd think being home sick for awhile wouldn't be so bad. But when it's pneumonia, and two weeks, you start wishing to be anyplace but in bed.

I can't verify the diagnosis because x-rays and tests are a bit out of my budget. However, this illness is an intense one, and brings with it a complete lack of appetite- for food and tea. Yes, it's that serious. So in order to claw my way back to health, I've been choking down ridiculously expensive oolongs and punitions, or punishment cookies, every few hours.

I read about these simple French sugar cookies in an article about Poilane bakery, in Paris. The focus of the piece was the baker, and the bread, but the mention of a small basket of these treats by the register- offered to every patron- haunted me for all of two days, until I found the recipe and made them my own.

Punishment Cookies
Makes: about 4 dozen

10 tablespoons unsalted butter (Kerrygold is my preference)
1/2 cup (125 g) sugar
1 egg, at room temperature
2 cups (280 g) all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1. Put butter in a food processor and pulse, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed, until smooth. Add sugar and process until thoroughly blended; add the egg and process until the mixture is smooth and satiny. Add flour and salt, then pulse several times until dough forms into clumps.

2. Gather dough into two balls; press into disks and wrap in plastic. Refrigerate overnight or at least a few hours. When ready to bake, heat oven to 350°. Roll out one disk at a time to about 1/4-inch thick. Using a round or flower-shaped cookie cutter, cut and place cookies on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Gather scraps and gently re-roll to cut more cookies. Repeat with remaining disk.

3. Bake for about 8-10 minutes, until cookies are set but still pale. Let cool on sheets for a few minutes, or transfer to a rack to cool completely.

Or watch this video of them being made by the original crazy Frenchman, by hand - truly, a work of baking art- and then feel lucky that things like cookies and clear lungs exist.

Pu-erhFore Art Thou

Today is the anniversary of the Boston Tea Party. I've blathered on about it in the past, so no need to get into all that now- there is more current tea news to report.

There it was, in a New Yorker issue from few weeks back, in black and white: an offhand reference to pu-erh. No addition of the words "tea" or even "drinking," and no further explanation. This is A Big Deal.

Yes, it was italicized, which all good copy editors know indicates a foreign word not in the dictionary or popular lexicon. But still, it was there, and quite casually at that. I almost shouted with delight as I read it walking up the subway stairs- but then an old man coming the other way let loose a gentle river of vomit right as he passed me, which evened things out a bit.

I was wearing boots, though, so it failed to dampen my spirits too much. And perhaps celebration of just the word in print is premature- it may yet take as long as it took me to appreciate pu-erh (well over 10 years), but people will slowly figure out how delicious it is. It's inevitable.
 

Oh Gyokuro

One of the my favorite things about my life in the past few years is that marathon tea-drinking sessions are a regular occurrence- and they are often preceded with a casual invitation along the lines of "Hey, want to come over and taste the first-prize-winning gyokuro from Kyushu? I have some killer sencha, too- I think it won third prize."

Let's just say it does make this whole aging thing seem more worthwhile. Sure, five years ago I could have sprinted across nine lanes of oncoming traffic without feeling like someone just shot a poison arrow into my right knee- but I was drinking tea alone, for the most part, and with much of what ends up here only playing out silently in my mind.

Now I often get to enjoy tea with people who are as equally obsessed with it, but the frequency doesn't lessen the impact.

It's like gyokuro itself: this is the tea that started it all (be bored by the long, maudlin tale here), but this is also the tea that stops me in my tracks. Still. This particular one was a single variety (saemidori) and the flavor was stunning, in the concentrated, endless burst of sweetness it offered. Combined with a rich, cream-like viscosity and utter lack of astringency, it absolutely blew me away. And it didn't dissipate throughout my palate or over time; it just sat there, quiet, still and strong as a pine tree growing next to a rock.

And while we're on the subject of time, something else occurred to me during the gyokuro session. My friend who was brewing it- and fastidiously shaking the last drops from the pot into our cups- remarked that I was so patient. I was sitting there practically holding my breath in anticipation of the first sip, but patient is a word (rightfully) rarely tossed my way.

My response was instant: "But this is so worth waiting for."

More on the sencha soon. I'm still recovering.

Brewing Tea by the Roadside

A friend who I met years ago over Japanese tea (at Ito En) now has his own company, Tea Wing, sourcing some incredible senchas and gyokuro from a farm in Yame, in Fukuoka Prefecture. The matcha from here is lovely, too, especially when enjoyed outside after a leaf-viewing walk through Prospect Park.

 

The tea ceremony itself was informal, which, as a self-taught rather than formally-trained drinker, I enjoyed- when it comes to any tea, actually, I favor accessibility over obfuscation. I had matcha prepared in both traditional styles: usucha or thin (grassy and sweet), and koicha or thick (intensely vegetal, with a texture of melted iced cream). The tea was characteristically both soothing and invigorating, especially after the long walk and about 45 minutes of sleep the night before.

This matcha is also described as having notes of chocolate, moss and meadowgrass; I can't imagine a better diet to dream of.

Brewing tea by the roadside
fragrance rising from the pot
a marvelous refined pleasure
a flavor found nowhere else.
The soft shrilling of the pine wind
moving through the northern fields
billowing steam from the brazier
dispersing into the western clouds.
- Baisao, Brewing Tea at Saiun-ji in Kitano (1675-1763)

Tea by Storm

I'm not very patient- or so everyone who's ever known me has said. I disagree, though. I think I'm just the right amount of patient. But sitting here, waiting for the biggest hurricane since the dawn of time to hit, is testing my limits.

Taking Shiruxiang (石乳香)- a Wuyi oolong from Lock Cha- through a dozen steepings has been helping. I don't like to pick favorites with tea, but Wuyis are actually my most beloved oolongs because they are the first kind I experienced (and I remember exactly where I was, and how beautifully different it tasted than anything I'd ever had). The name of this one roughly translates to "rock fragrance," and it does have a smooth, mineral-earthy flavor that goes on and on (kind of like this storm). It's as close as I can get to licking a rock on a misty mountain in Fujian right now, and that's not such a bad place to be.

The other neat thing to do with a Wuyi is to save the rinse- the quick, few-seconds infusion of boiling hot water that you initially pour over the leaves to wake them up a bit. Instead of discarding this liquid, as you may be used to doing with oolongs or pu-erhs, save it to sip after the tea is done. Here, you can taste where the tea came from; the flavors I found in this one were minerally, with a bright but pleasant metallic note.

Of course, you will need something to eat between infusions. I also will blame this storm for the worst chocolate chip cookies I've yet to make- it must be the lowest-ever recorded barometric pressure, right? I'm not even going to show them. They're edible, but barely. Make these ones instead, a brown butter version from Food & Wine that I discovered a few weeks back and never should have turned away from.

Brown Butter Chocolate Chip Cookies
Makes: about 3 dozen

2 sticks unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/3 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup brown sugar
2 eggs, at room temperature
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups chopped bittersweet chocolate

1. In medium saucepan, cook the butter over moderate heat until it is browned and nutty-smelling, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and let it cool to room temperature.

2. In medium bowl, whisk together flour, salt and baking soda. In large bowl, beat brown butter with both sugars until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs and vanilla. At low speed, beat in the dry ingredients, scraping down the bowl as needed. Mix in the chopped chocolate. Cover and refrigerate overnight.

3. Heat oven to 375°. Spoon small mounds of dough onto baking sheets. Bake about 12 minutes, until the cookies are just firm and golden brown on the bottom. Transfer sheet to a rack until cookies cool.

While we're in the midst of this hurricane confessional: I've also been told many times I focus too much on the past. That one is probably a bit more accurate. But when the wind is starting to bludgeon the walls so much that I can feel them shudder, I don't think that's such a bad quality. Sometimes it's necessary to put the present moment aside and think about something else.

I just found these photos from a tasting day over two years ago, right when I started actually working in tea. I've been thinking about that whole thing a lot lately, and not just because I'm trapped inside for the next week while the world dissolves into a wet pile of entropy outside. Tea is such a part of everyday life now that I can't delineate the two.

I wouldn't change a thing.