Some teas refuse to go quietly into the night.
I fought long and hard with this tea, and left the tea-table victorious, but only just.
I am a slave to Douji. They could sell cardboard in circular shapes, wrap it up in an old-style wrapper, and I'd probably buy it. So, you can get some idea of the howlingly bad awfulness of this cake when I tell you that I didn't enjoy it whatsoever.
Douji do a lovely job in selling either (i) very nice single-mountain tea, which seem to be very decent representations of the mountains from which they claim to be produced, and (ii) cheap-and-very-cheerful little bricks, which are often creamy, sweet, and highly enjoyable. The latter, such as their "Shangdou" and "Dadou" recipes [upper-Douji and big-Douji, respectively], have also come out as full cake productions of late.
I've never tried "Xiangdou" [fragrant Douji] until now - thanks to my Viking friend, Terje, for the introduction.
From its opening to its conclusion, it is uncompromisingly nasty. It isn't the gruff, butch, take-me-or-leave-me uncompromising nature of, say, the benchmark Dayi recipies. This is the tough, unpleasant, rude, acidic, sour nature of a plantation tea that is pure, unadulterated roughness. It hurts to swallow it. It burns the throat. It wrinkles the lips and feels like the Zen koan "swallowing a hot iron ball". It's entirely, wonderfully, unashamedly rotten.
If you like sucking low-grade battery acid from the unshaven armpits of French women, who have spent the previous five hours perspiring over epoisses and foie gras, then this is the tea for you.