2011 Essence of Tea "Queshe"

I should drink more lucha.  The real obstacle is drinking it before it dies, because I usually cannot get through large quantities of green tea within a year.  One solution would be to resort to drinking it in my office, but that is rather an ignominious fate for good tea.

The only other Sichuan [ser-chooan] tea that I've had before is Zhuyeqing [bamboo-leaf green], which is a bulbous, tippy tea that hangs vertically in the water, rather like a seahorse.  It's also one of my favourites greens, and not widely available outside China.

So, then, particularly thanks are due to Mr. and Mrs. Essence of Tea for kindly providing me with a sample of this most unusual tea: a queshe [choo'air sher, "sparrow tongue"] tea from the same province.

I'm used to "queshe" being used to describe a grade of Longjing, and so it is quite exciting to try an entirely new variety of tea - new to my limited tastes, that is.  As shown above, it is a light yellow, which has a hint of brown about it.  This suggests roasting to me, and, lo and behold, it has a lot in common with the roasted nature of Longjing.

Like good lucha, it is grassy, fresh, and this sample is quite full in the mouth, reminding me that these are good leaves.  As with the Essence of Tea 2011 Xiping Tieguanyin, it is perhaps a little light for my tastes; I get the impression that Mr. and Mrs. Essence like their teas to be fine, delicate, and rarefied. 

The "sparrow tongue" is shown above.  Coincidentally, the same phrase is used to describe a common move in taijiquan, whereby one spreads one's arms in a forward motion, simultaneously warding off an attacking strike, and directing a counter-attacking push to the opponent's centre of gravity.

The price is £28/100g, which is along the same lines as wulong pricing.  I almost never buy tea that isn't pu'ercha, and so such prices seem rather lofty by comparison.  It seems that the market will bear significantly higher prices in wyulong and lucha, perhaps because their provenance is (generally, across most vendors) more opaque, which can be attributed to the lack of "branding", due to the nature of lucha and wulong.  Perhaps pu'ercha benefits from such branding - a 2008 ABC cake from XYZ factory is traceable and has a history, whereas a "200X wulong from PQR region of KLM province" is less so.  Certainly, pu'ercha customers benefit, at least.

Essence of Tea products try hard to relieve this opacity, and are generous in the information that they provide: this "queshe" was bought in Dashui village in northern Sichuan.

Thanks again to Nada for a thoroughly enjoyable session with a type of tea that I'd like to encounter more; Sichuan greens seem, from my N = 2 sample, to be really rather nice.

2010 Zhenruchanshi "Chancha"

It's time for a change of pace.

This tea has been given as a gift three times, and is rather special.

"Zhenru Chancha"

A friend of the (Chinese branch of our) family happens to be an architect, who performed some work for Zhenru Chanshi [Zhenru Zen-Temple], in Jiangxi province.  This is, in itself, one would imagine, "good karma".  

The abbot of the temple gave this lucha as a gift.  The friend then gave it to my wife's cousin, who finally gave it to my wife.  It has had quite a journey before coming to rest at our humble tea-table, and I feel that its significance grows with each giving.  (I'm a sentimental type, after all.)

"Chan Cha Yi Wei" - "Tea Zen, One Taste"

Pictured above, the interior package reads "tea, Zen - one taste", which has become one of my favourite little sayings.  We often associate Zen with Japan, and yet it is sometimes easy to forget that the first 700 or 800 years of Zen (a.k.a. Chan) took place in China*.  Indeed, Zen/Chan became the dominant form of Buddhism in China during the Tang and Song dynasties, making it live comfortably alongside Daoism and Confucianism as China's effective national philosophies.  

Most modern Zen Buddhists these days identify themselves as being either Soto or Rinzai, yet these are actually 9th-century Chinese schools: Caodong and Linji, respectively.  The Japanese names are merely transliterations of the characters.

I remember that the first cakes from Nadacha (predating Essence of Tea) were named after this phrase, and I was pleased to see the same phrase carved into the mantel above a charming tea-house in central China.

*If we take the start of Zen/Chan to be the teachings of Daruma/Damo/Bodhidharma, acknowledging the supposed "lineage" of 26 patriarchs between Bodhidharma and Mahakasyapa, the latter being he who famously smiled at Buddha's twirling flower.

Long and beautiful leaves with a pungent aroma that fills the room when the packet is opened

Zen bookishness aside, the photographs of the Zhenru Temple on the box convey a sense of peace and solitude.  "Zhenru" itself is a Buddhist phrase meaning, approximately, "intimate understanding of reality".  The temple was built on a mountain now named "Yunzhushan" [cloud-dwell mountain], in Yongxuxian [forever-practice county] of Jiangxi province, well within lucha territory.

That pungent aroma is of sweet candy, yet seems naturally sweet.  My seldom-used gaiwan gets a turn at the tea-table once again.

Later infusions tend towards a sweet yellow

How surprising is the vivid green of the soup!  It is almost fluorescent.  The sweet, candy-like aroma remains in the aroma-cup for what seems like an age.

In texture, it is thick and gloopy; in flavour, green, vegetal, and sweet.  Unlike many lucha, it produces a strong, mouth-watering ending in the throat that tends towards that which I love so much in good pu'ercha.

Like good pu'ercha, it has a pronounced cooling sensation in the mouth, indicative of the excellent quality of the leaves.  A hint of Biluochun creaminess, a hint of Longjing roastiness.

I feel particularly grateful to the three gift-givers: the abbot, the friend, and the cousin.

2007 Yongxi Finetip

Many thanks to CB for this most unusual green tea, sold by The Whole Leaf where it goes for about $7/oz. I've been meaning to post this review for just under two months, and a steady stream of tea reviews landing in my inbox from CB herself prompted me into action!

It comes in a charming little black zip-lock bag, decorated with lovely Chinese art. It's easy to go overboard and get vulgar with the Chinese art and crazy amount of seals/calligraphy, but this is nicely understated. I appreciate the effort on their part. You can catch a glimpse of it in the background...

The leaves are very curious indeed, being tight, green snails that are very glossy, as if made from wax. Don't they look charming? They are similarly glossy to the touch. The aroma is fresh, classical lucha.

While there is a certain zesty energy on the tongue, the flavour is standard grassiness.

The wet leaves are charming, being entire tip systems, elegant and curled.

This tea is quite a looker, if not one to absorb you in its flavour.

2007 Molilongzhu

I thought that I was deterred from ever considering molihua [jasmine flower] tea after being subjected to horrifically unpleasant versions of it from (Anglicised) Chinese restaurants and ethic-free supermarket chains. Invariably, these teas were scented as cheaply as possible, using heavy jasmine oil, which also had the happy side-effect of allowing the producers to use even more terrifying leaves to make the tea than they usually would.

It is safe to say, Western "jasmine tea" is pretty much the bottom rung of the ladder in my estimation, right next to Tetleys/Typhoo/PG Tips/Lipton teabags.

You can well imagine my reaction when Lei produced a small container of molilongzhu [jasmine dragon-pearls] from her recent trip to China. Always happy to be proven wrong, and trusting Lei's constantly fine judgement in such matters, we sat down to a jasmine-scented session.



These were 18RMB/50g [~£1.30, $2.50] from her hometown.

N.b. I have been asked to point out that, in the photograph, the flower was a wind-fall, and not plucked for the occassion - something about which there is a certain amount of sentiment [if you know your Hongloumeng, I am reminded of Lin Daiyu burying dead flowers]...

Brita-filtered water @ 70c in 9cl gaiwan; ~5g; 1 rinse

Dry leaf:
Tight "pearls": perfect spheres with streaks of silver interwoven, from the tips. The aroma of actual molihua (rather than the tell-tale artificial scents derived from oils) radiates from the leaves, and the small cylinder in which the tea is stored has taken on the strong aroma.

"Don't be misled by the low price", sayeth she, and I nod sagely.

This is an 8 a.m. tea. It is raining hard outside, as it has for many days (resulting in much flood damage and untraversable road) across Oxfordshire. The leaves of the bushes and the petals of the pink flowers outside the lounge window are heavy with raindrops. We huddle around the tea-table and set about greeting the morning with our tea.

10s, 15s, 20s, 25s, 40s, 60s+:
Judging from the infusion times, this tea seemed to have a certain endurance you might surmise, and right you would be for it lasts a particularly long time - this is a novelty for molihua lucha, in my (previously-recounted) horrific past experiences.

The hulu [gourd-filter] is entirely redundant as there are no stray particles from this tea at all. The smell of rain-washed flowers from outside mingles seamlessly with the similarly floral aroma from the gongdaobei.

The brew is solid yellow, and there is an interesting "low" flavour under the expected floral character, something like rich nectar.

The overall impression is solid lucha mixed with, dare I say it, "Hubba Bubba" - the chewing gum from the 1980s that I used to enjoy as a child. It is the precise, exact flavour of Hubba Bubba.

Thunder rolls, and rain falls loudly from the gutters, front and back.

It may be of interest to note that I tend to brew lucha without the gaiwan lid, following advice obtained independently from sources in both Lei's hometown and on Maliandao. I have not yet run a qualitative comparison, but it does seem to assist in avoiding "stewing" - simply because of the lowered temperatures, I assume.

Wet leaves:
Bud, tips, and a few leaves, all joined by the stem and rolled up tightly. Very attractive indeed - and a good grade, hence the high price (relative to the cost of other goods in Henan Province).

Overall:
"I can see why hardened tea-drinkers might think molihua as being simple, but it is lovely." Indeed it is, accustomed as I am to the palate-numbing excesses of English supermarket jasmine. This is good tea, and again I quietly note to myself that Lei really does know how to buy a fine leaf.

My prejudices to molihua lucha are shaken.

2007 Xinyang Maojian

This tea taught me a great deal. Brewing many types of lucha is easy, as it can be fairly forgiving. Xinyang Maojian ["furry tip" from the Xinyang region] is not one of these teas - it is very unforgiving.

Getting the best out of this tea required experimentation, but the results were rewarding. In its fickle nature, but not in its flavour, it reminds me of many Japanese teas that I have ruined in the past.

First of all, why should we bother? The answer is this tea's status as one of the Shi Da Ming Cha [ten great teas]. Arguable and indefinite as this list might be, that it always contains Xinyang Maojian is testament to its perceived quality in the eyes of tradition.

As regular readers might recall, Lei is from Xinyang territory (in central Henan Province), and the majority of her local tea-shop is occupied by varying grades of this leaf. For the purposes of education, we compared a low, "daily" grade (25 RMB/50g - approx. £1.50 or $3) to the very highest grade (60 RMB/50g) - both of which were designated "organic" by the shop owner. "Don't be misled by the apparently low prices - this is very expensive tea for Henan."

Lei recounts her happiness of the time she was browsing the wares in the tea-shop when a local farmer-worker [effectively what amounts to a "peasant" in the difficult economy of rural China] came in to buy Xinyang Maojian. She was deeply impressed that appreciation of good tea cuts across all social classes. I often remind myself what low calibre of tea the general populace of England will accept, despite their relative affluence, and look on the farmer-worker with a similar degree of sincere respect. "Money can't buy good taste", they say.

Brita-filtered tap water @ 70C in 9cl gaiwan; 1 rinse

In the photographs, the top grade and bottom grade appear on the left and right, respectively.

Dry leaf:
The top grade is all tips, and is a beautiful, gentle green. The low grade is cut with some darker, larger leaves, and contains more fragments. The illustration shows a yellowish tint to the top grade, which is misleading.

Bottom Grade:
This tea is very easy to brew. Only a small number of leaves are required (~4-5g), and the flavour is the pleasantly sour, grassy character of some Xinyang Maojian. The soup is typically cloudy. It is very hard to overbrew or underbrew, and a generally pleasant flavour is obtained no matter what.

The shopkeeper brewed this in the manner that the majority of Chinese drink their tea: a small number of lucha leaves, in a glass of hot water.

Top Grade:
This was the challenge, and the education.

Brewed "conventionally", in my normal manner (~5g leaf in the gaiwan, with 80C water), the result was pure ku, with almost no flavour. It was deeply, sincerely unpleasant. This can be seen in the photograph, where the colour of the soup is a light brown, without much appeal. Well can be imagined the character of the pinmingbei [tasting cup].

Alerted by the overwhelming ku, we tried again with this tea during another sitting, using fewer leaves (~3g). The result was similarly unpleasant, and lacking in any charm whatsoever.

For the third sitting, I treated it as a young shengpu: lots of leaves (~8-9g), with as short an infusion as I could (~3 seconds, after putting down the kettle, and putting the hulu [gourd filter] onto the gongdaobei). I used cooler water (70C).

The result was exceptionally delicious. The ku had gone, and a beautifully rich flavour of flowers and wild grasses filled the mouth and nose. "This is amazing, it is just right. It is like a rich and delicious food, cooked perfectly."

Suddenly, finally, the mystery disappeared, and the quality of the leaves shone through. It seems that good Xinyang Maojian is worth the effort, as it is disjoint in its character to many of the other lucha that we have previously enjoyed.

Overall:
The low grade was a fairly generic, grassy affair. The true charm came from the top grade, which filled the mouth with sumptuously rich flavours, and evoked an image of the flowering fields of a warm English summer, such as we are currently experiencing.

I am grateful both for the opportunity to taste a good example of this genre, but also in evaluating the differences between the top and bottom grades, and in learning (with some necessary persistence) how to coax the hidden delights out of the expensive leaf.

2007 Biluochun Organic

I walk alone, in the University Park behind our house. The tall trees are a green cathedral, its vaulted ceiling filled with song from a hidden choir of birds. The warm, humid air is heavy with the incense of cut grass and cow parsley. Where the sun penetrates the dense canopy of branches, yellow butterflies cross the sunbeams. Everywhere, stirred by the breeze, a congregation of drifting cotton-cloud seeds. I whisper a prayer of thanks in this, His eternal Church.

This verdant little tea fits well with my mood, after my walk. A sample from TeaCuppa, this is listed as "Premium Organic", apparently from the Dongting region itself, near Taihu [Lake Tai]. Biluochun always reminds me of a beautiful painting of Taihu filling an entire wall of an old Chinese restaurant that Xiaomao and I used to enjoy when in Manchester.

The parents of a friend gave us a beautiful biluochun (bought from their home in Suzhou), which has always been the standard against all other of that type are compared. This is a tough standard, as it was a truly beautiful tea. Will this 2007 organic leaf reach those heady heights?

Caledonian Spring @ 70-80C in 9cl gaiwan; ~3-5g; 1 rinse

Dry leaves:
Observe for yourself. This is one of those teas that stopped the clocks and held my gaze with its very real beauty. It is pretty, even for biluochun, one of the most visually appealing teas to my taste. It is a mixture of whole, rich green twists and pure silver whole tips. It is a green-and-white treat.

My first indication that something might be amiss is the aroma of the leaves: it is not just smoke, but very distinctly the acrid smoke of cigarettes. Neither Xiaomao or I smoke, but we are intimately familiar with the aroma, and this is it. Is it the chahe? I removed some more leaves from the bag, placing them in the palm of my hand. Still I sense smoke. It is vegetal, and definitely part of the leaf-scent, but clearly smoke.

My heart still filled with hopes for this beautiful leaf, I introduce the leaf to the damp depths of the cleaned gaiwan, hoping for the signature biluochun aroma ("barbecued corn", as Xiaomao puts it), but there is none. I feel myself raise an eyebrow.

10s, 15s, 20s, 25s, 30s:
Something is most definitely amiss. The colour is that of lime cordial: a light jade. Where is the definition in the colour? What does this bode for the character of the tea? Suspicions are further aroused with an absence of beidixiang, though a lovely candy lengxiang quickly arrives. The lack of patience in the aroma could suggest similar in the flavour.

Courtesy of the tip-fur, it is a smooth brew, feeling very fine on the lips and tongue. The fore-flavour is the unmistakable fishiness of sencha. I raise my eyebrow once more. A note of smokiness, as noted in the dry leaves. The flavour is rapid in its progress to the throat, as if fleeing, ending in a gentle sweetcorn taste intertwined with that rather unwelcome fishy guest.

Amusingly, the lid-scent is that tell-tale scent of Chinese supermarkets the world over: the durian fruit - heavy and deadly, to those that know it.

Used leaves:
Plenty of tips, but the mixture grade of basis leaves is larger and torn at the edges - is it machine picked? The leaves lack colour, being very pale.

Overall:
A leaf that promised much, but ultimately did not reach my tough standards for biluochun. It appears truly beautiful, and yet carries neither the complexity of aroma nor the appealing progression of flavour that I have come to love in biluochun. I could not tell if this were biluochun were I drinking it "blind". It could be the mixture grade of larger, torn leaf that is letting this tea down, giving it a smokiness and fishiness where one would hope for signature biluochun. I praise the organic farming standards employed for this, but the result is not to my liking.

Concerned that my conclusions might be the result of chance, and eager to give this tea a fair showing, I spent a second session with this in my office, and reached a similar outcome.

---

Update:
Revisiting the 1960s Gaoligongshan shengpu, I have added further notes to the end of the review.

---

Addendum:
(24/07/2007)

Following the original tasting, TeaCuppa were kind enough to send a second sample, this time sealed in an air-tight foil bag [many thanks].

The tea looks very similar, being larger-leaf than one might expect from a biluochun, but this time smells pungently of rich maofeng (much like another TeaCuppa tea, the 2005 Banzhang Maocha).

Brita-filtered water @ 75C in 9cl gaiwan; ~5g leaf; 1 rinse

7s, 12s, 18s, 30s+:
The soup is pale throughout. Initial infusions taste specifically of the rich, grape-like maofeng character that we noted in the aroma.

Lei passes through on her way to her laboratory, and quickly grabs a cup in passing: "This doesn't taste much like biluochun!"

The final infusion sees a touch of the rich, almost "barbecued corn" that one might expect from biluochun, but it remains low.

The overall character is decent, if quite timid. I directly compared this with some of the top-grade biluochun Lei recently brought back from her hometown, and the difference is quite pronounced.

2006 Hachiju Hachiya Sencha

There's no place like home,
there's no place like home,
there's no place like home...

Much like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, I'm glad to be back. As usual on returning to the south of England, the weather becomes dramatically more pleasant. Residents of the south always tease our northern counterparts that they live in a cursed, dark land where the sun never shines...

To celebrate the coming of 2007, we're drinking up our 2006s - much like everyone else, I imagine. This sencha is one we've enjoyed before, but hasn't yet made it into the Half-Dipper archives. It's from Kaori teas, in Covington, Kentucky, and arrived with us courtesy of CB - thanks again for the sample!

9cl gaiwan; Caledonian Springs @ 80C; 2 scoops; single rinse.

Dry leaves:
Very sharp and brittle needles of tea, with that glossy sencha shine. A nutty aroma. The "Hachiju hachiya" name allegedly refers to the fact that they were picked on the 88th day of spring, traditionally considered an optimal time for gathering. These tasting notes come from my journal archives, back when this tea was a little closer to that optimal freshness.

15s, 10s, 15s, 20s, 45s:
Cloudy yellow soup. This is, perhaps unsurprisingly, a very fishy tea. "Tender and creamy", says Xiaomao, "almost like porridge". It ends on a pleasantly sour note.

If you're familiar with Chinese seaweed (the actual waterborne plant that grows in thick strips, rather than the curly "seaweed" cabbage that one finds in Chinese restaurants in England), then you're already familiar with this tea. It's like drinking seaweed.

There is a delicious oiliness about the texture of this tea.

Overall:
This is fine sencha. Surprisingly, it held its flavour well between the original tasting (December 2006) and recently. The 88th-day picking is listed by several vendors as its superior grade of sencha, and there certainly is a specialness about the definition of this tea's flavours.

Not unusually, this tea faded after the third infusion, but was fresh and delicious up to that point. I recall an article at Rec.food.drink.tea searching for a "fishy" sencha: this is definitely for you, lovers of sea-tea. We found this sencha to benefit from a decent heat, perhaps 85C, which is against the grain of traditional wisdom (60-70C is usually recommended).

2007 Tenbu, 2007 Tenbu Fuka

Thanks to Dr. Bushberg & Co. at T-Ching for arranging this tasting of the fresh 2007 shaded-growth Japanese teas. Grown relatively low-altitude (compared to other major tea-growing nations), the leaves flush under shade for the final few weeks before picking, allegedly to emulate "wild" growing conditions.

I'm not clear of the relationship between Tenbu [tianwu? / heaven-dance?] and gyokuro [luyu / jade-dew], excepting the latter's infamous rarity, and its primary retention for the Japanese market.


Do please click on any of the posted images for more detail. I am quietly proud of the clouds-and-tea cup shown above-right, attempting to rival the current champion photograph by Doddy...

Received wisdom has it that gyokuro and its ilk should be brewed at particularly low temperatures (50-60C), with a surprisingly large leaf-to-water ratio - large even by gongfucha standards. The first infusion is traditionally held much longer than usual, for reasons that I could not uncover.

T-Ching has recommended infusion parameters (I believe passed on from the distributor) in line with this: 3g of leaf to 200ml of water; infusion times of 60s, 15s, 15s, 15s, 30s, 40s, 60s at 60C. Following Sandy's request that we attempt brewing with the suggested parameters, our first session obliged (using a little less water), but the results were poor. I will be the first to confess that Japanese tea and its brewing is something with which I need more practice.

For the second session, which yielded particularly pleasant results, I reverted to familiar Chinese gongfucha-style parameters: 1.5g leaf in a 100ml gaiwan, water at 60C, with infusion times 2s, 8s, 16s, 30s.

Given the immense amount of chopping that these Japanese teas undergo, it is reasonable to assume that they obey similar laws to chopped hongcha: juices, exposed during the chopping process, are dried onto the outside of the small leaf segments, which rapidly make their may into the brew during the first few infusions. Thus, brewing Japanese teas via Chinese gongfucha methods, we find that the first few infusions are most flavoursome, with a rapid decline after the second. Also, this immediate solubility of the dried juices from the chopped leaf surface results in particularly potent first infusions; we keep the first few brews particularly short in order to avoid excess bitterness. Furthermore, we perform no rinse, in order to avoid discarding all of this dried leaf-juice before tasting.

Results are pleasant, but I suspect not what might be achieved if we had more familiarity with Japanese brewing styles.

Throughout this article, the Tenbu and Tenbu Fuka will be designated A and B, respectively, and appear in photographs left and right, respectively. Excellent reviews of these same teas may be found at palatabilitTEA, Tea Nerd, and the aforementioned Palais de Doddy.

Method: simultaneous comparison in 2 gaiwan-gongdaobei sets; Caledonian Springs @ 60C, no rinse.


Dry leaves:
A: finely chopped, rather dark and homogenous with the occassional twig that appears to have survived the ubiquitous industrial chopping process. Light, grassy aroma.

B: similar, if a touch darker, with a lower bass aroma - also containing a little of the "fishiness" that is sought after by some. From the appearance and aroma of the leaves, we wonder if Tenbu Fuka is a larger-leaf, perhaps lower-stalk, variety, compared to Tenbu. Web-based information on this seems limited.


Tea A appears particularly lime in colour, captured well by the imfamous Dodd photograph, while B is more yellow/green. Could this confirm the suggestion that A is a lighter, tippier grade than B?

A: a creaminess in the mid-taste that melts into a light, fresh grassiness of flavour and aroma. This pollenated grass sits in the nose for the long, enduring aftertaste. A hint of roasting, and a touch of welcome sourness near the finish.

B: Similar in fresh grass to its cousin, but with a richer, deeper base with a constant, gentle aroma and flavour of fish. This is a calming tea, in comparison to the brightness and energy of A.


Overall:
Both teas perform similarly in duration: they are enduring in the wenxiangbei for the first two infusions, before vanishing entirely. Aroma is largely representative of the flavour: there is little complexity in the interplay between them (compared to, for example, zhuyeqing lucha, in which the grass notes of the aroma play well against a reedy, "yellower" flavour). What we experience is straightforward, but definitely fine and pleasant.

For complexity and depth, B shows more variety. The first infusion even has a brief lengxiang, of sticky-sweet candy. We particularly enjoyed the gradual and smooth evolution of deeper flavours in comparison to the more up-front, vigorous, and yet one-dimensional A.

We look forward to experimenting further with infusing parameters, using the remainder of the samples, in order to better approximate that which a Japanese might enjoy from these refined and yet uncomplex leaves.