2007 12 Xiansheng "Weizhongwei Menghai"

1. Crispin
2. Douglas
3. Ponsonby
4. Butch
5. Thaddeus
6. Hubert
7. Wilhelm
8. Edgar
9. Aloysius
10. Wee Jim
11. "The Suitcase"
12. Oberon

These may or may not be the names of the Shi'er Xiansheng [12 Gentlemen], but wouldn't it be nice if they were?

Purple-clad, deluxe, freshly-minted thanks to our roving Yunnan monkly chum for provision of this buxom pair (and thanks to Scott for post and packing):

During his time in Kunming, Nada has been impressed by the thorough "geekiness" of the 12 Gentlemen with respect to pu'er. I appreciate their simplicity, and their small annual output: I am a big believer that a premium brand can maintain its high quality over a small number of different productions each year, but, once the number of different offerings becomes too large, quality must be sacrificed.

The calligraphy on the above wrappers reads "weizhongwei" [taste within taste], and the Menghai cake is pictured right.

The cakes are tight. TIGHT. Good grief, are they tight. I can see those tasked at with compression at Xiaguan raising an eyebrow or two over the uberfusion that has occurred with these bing. They must have used some serious machinery to get these flinty little beasts pressed. The term "iron bing" really isn't strong enough.

Below, I have shown the profile of this heavy little discus.

Getting leaves out of this cake is not at all easy. I'm a fan of loose compression because I don't like to mangle my leaves. Also, looser compression (and resultant increased movement of air) seems to provide more rapid aging - all of our tightly compression Xiaguan teas are aging much more slowly than their looser peers.

Below, evidence of my attempts to get some leaves out of this cake. Patience is the name of the game. I am reminded of the story from Chuangzi, in which the butcher effortlessly passes his knife between muscles and bones, causing meat to fall off with no force. In contrast, I feel as if I am chipping away like an amateur miner.

Well, perhaps not quite that bad: I use the very tip of the pu'erdao to edge into the circumference of this disk, and wiggle gently, trying to insinuate my way between strata. Not using force is the key, and to attempt access in many different sites around the edge. Eventually, a section lifts off, as shown above (the dust around the outside is evidence of my initial failed attempts).

(N.b., later sessions reveal that one side of the cake is very definitely separated from the other. It feels as if the mold was half-filled with leaves, tightly compressed, and then the mold filled to capacity with more leaves for a second pressing.)

The resultant chunks I place directly into the rinsed teapot, rather than attempting to separate them into their constituent leaves - hot water will do a much better job, without the possibility of tearing.

Eventually, we get to drink some tea! The soup is pure and clean, gratefully-received evidence that I have not torn too many leaves. The colour is absolutely yellow, unequivocal and straight, indicating that the 12 Gentlemen have not been knobbling around with the processing.

There is a great deal of energy in the mouth, and a superb sweetness packed in with some fine Menghai mushrooms. Vibrant, clean, and impressive.

It stays long in the throat, ringing with sweetness.

Boatloads of chaqi leave me feeling that the quality of the leaves is fine. The above shot shows the shrivelled remains of some leaves I intended to photograph, but were then abandoned as I went out for a picnic with my dear wife.

The 12 Gentry are totally uncompromising: the soup is blindingly yellow, being brutally raw, while the leaves are then further chopped down to size, in the Old School method. There is absolutely no concession to "drink it now". It makes quite a change compared to lots of modern cakes (and I totally adore both modern and traditional young shengpu, as regular readers will know).

A tasty bing. Repeated sessions bore similar fruit - tasty tea, and configured for the long haul.

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Addendum
June, 2013

"What's that, at the back of my shelf, squatting behind the lapsang?" I thought to myself.

Of course, my old friend, the 12 Gentlemen "Menghai"...

2007 seems like long ago, but it was only six years.  How much has changed in the interim!  Has the cake changed, too?

There is just one portion removed from the cake, evidence that it has remained untouched since I bought it (well, since Norpel bought it for me) some time ago.

The leaves look quite dark now, and carry a forthright "plummy" scent that suggests this cake is not in the state in which I left it.

The rinse is a yellow-brown colour, which is certainly different to the dazzling yellow of its early days.

The aroma cup holds a scent that is typical "Menghai": dark, low, and sweet.  This particular cake's scent is long-lasting and gradually, after so very long, it folds into a brown-sugar lengxiang [cooling scent].  This duration is remarkable.

In the intervening years, this cake has changed a great deal - something that is slightly hinted by the change in colour, shown above, to a solid orange.  The soup is instantly cooling, testimony to the fact that the leaves are of good quality.  The base has settled into a low sweetness, with a rich and humid feeling to it.  All the while, the tongue buzzes uncontrollably, especially at the tip of the tongue.  It tastes, records my journal, "rather like a fizzy and cooling version of a good Changtai cake from their decent period."

Then, something odd happens.  It feels as if I have woken this cake from the middle of its pupation: it is at an interim stage where it has not yet attained the woodiness of age, but where it is absolutely different to its original character.  The extremely tight compression has not preserved its youth in any way, which is worth noting.  While the youthful flavours have settled and deepened, the raw bitterness of its youth remains in quantity - this cake needs more time, but has the contents to become a good aged cake.

My journal simply records "ick".