Tea Chums

It must be our lucky month for tea-meetings: two weeks after seeing Nada, Mr. and Mrs. GV came to visit, despite dark skies and heavy summer rain.

We scuttled around college quads under the cover of umbrellas, then headed back to base...

Duck and cover

...for some warming teas. Setting up the teaware on the dining table, we had a good view of rain pummeling the outside of the house, windows whipping the leaves of our cherry tree in the front garden. The rougher it is outside, the cosier it is indoors - especially with friends.

I'll never get used to moving my tea-table - I'm a creature of routine

GV has some incredible cups, pictured above, which my imperfect memory suggests are Qing Dynasty. They made some great cups back then. These four little friends were particularly dense, meaning that they retained heat forever. I particularly loved their wide aspect, which promotes cooling of the soup. As you may remember from previous articles, I'm used to tiny little brown cups (pictured at the end of this article) with partnering wenxiangbei [aroma cups]. However, I could easily be converted to cups like these!

Let's fire up the tetsubin and push away the cold...

Ninja Zen photography courtesy of Lei

We started out with the bingcha version of the famous 2004 Taihe cake that GV bought from Zhou Yu himself (respected owner of the Wisteria Teashop in Taipei). I previously tried the maocha from this "benchmark" cake, and was struck by its thin character. The cake is infinitely more potent: the same reedy, straw-like nature, but with strength and texture that I found to be absent in the maocha. The face of the cake is covered in huge, long leaves all aligned in the same direction such that their stalks are parallel.

GV noted that the 2004 is Zhou's favourite, with the quality falling off rapidly in successive years, until cessation of production in 2006 at which point he became unimpressed with the farmers. To try this cake at our own tea-table was a great privilege, but to do so with tea-friends was a singular luxury.

Next up: a beautiful 1970s roasted Baozhong, from the shop that made the "Wang process" famous, where tea is roasted using wood burned beneath holes in the shop floor - rather than conventional charcoal roasting. The result was a sweet, fruity flavour, where the roast was complementary in its sweet-chestnut character, rather than dominating.

A dalliance with the delicious 2009 Nada "Yiwu Mahei" proved a little green for the physiology of our guests, so we headed into the star appearance...

Hushed tones as the 1960s Huangyin is opened

Heavens, our guests seem to have some insanely good tea. Nada spoiled us with 1930s liu'an, and GV spoiled us with this landmark tea from the "masterpiece" era: the 1960s "Bazhong Huangyin" [BAH-DJONG HWANG-YIN, 8-zhong yellow-mark], which follows the famous red- and blue-mark cakes.

The notes at Houde, where this sample comes from, indicate that it falls into the era between the mark-cakes of the 1950s and the "qizi bingcha" [7-sons cake-tea] era. It is one of the first, if not the first, cake with the now-familiar CNNP wrapper, with zhong-cha characters in the centre, but with pinyin romanisation of the upper and lower character strings.

Crikey, that's a lot of Huangyin

We used the whole 10g sample (pictured above), brewed in a lovely pot of GV's (pictured below), which he bought in Shenzhen. The pot's mottled skin began to glow under the rinse. It looked very happy to be brewing Huangyin.

Huangyin seems to like it hot

The leaves are large fragments of big leaves, with a mild shicang [wet storehouse] aroma. The particulate nature of the tea entirely blocked my filter - that is, it totally sealed the filter preventing passage of the tea. Later infusions became much cleaner, courtesy of the big leaves.

Burgundy

The soup is rich and dark. I've been drinking this for most of the next day (a Sunday, thankfully), and even after 25 infusions, it remains dark red. This is a hugely potent tea. The longevity is greater than anything I've encountered to date.

The tea that never dies

It's also one of the sweetest old teas that I've ever encountered: the aroma and flavour are sweet, sweet, sweet in their woodiness. As you can see, the soup has a shining clarity about it.

It's surprisingly forgiving to brew, too

Thick and chunky, it dwells in the throat forever, resounding long and sweet. Even the very first sips in the session the next day feel significantly narcotic. Something is at work in this tea, and my pulse rate decreases noticeably.

I breathe out a whole world of cares in one long sigh...

Note the yellow miniscus and depth of colour in the centre

During the next day, the malty, sweet character continues undaunted. After two days of drinking, I box it up to take into my office to keep me company during the coming week. A remarkable experience.

After such a treasure, there was only one way to finish the evening: the mighty huoguo [HWOH-GWOH, hot-pot], a dish traditionally made of napalm into which one dips chunks of food, rather like a fondue.

Thanks again to Mr. and Mrs. GV for braving the weather, and for great generosity in making the tea-session so special with their presence and tea. I look forward to a repeat performance on the "away" venue!


Late edit: day five, over 60 infusions later, and the Huangyin soup is still thick and woody, orange-yellow in colour, and giving a heavy chaqi that makes me feel exceedingly calm. Five days!

1960s Guangyungong

My plan for this week-end was simple: write a magazine article, complete some work for my supervisor, learn some new choir music. Then, the College porter presented me with another large parcel containing (you guessed it) tea. So much for my plans!

There's something wonderful about Sundays. I remember, as an undergrad, the week-ends didn't really mean that much to me - they were largely similar to the weekdays. Years later, and the week-ends are oases of time, and Sunday is the sweetest of all. This morning, standing in the sunshine as I stepped outside the College after Mass, I looked up and down the road and watched all of the other College doors opening as the Sunday Service in each one finished at about the same time. Our neighbours to the south, Blackfriars, look particularly impressive, being bona fide monks, in full black robes. It's interesting to see Dominican monks rubbing shoulders with a modern city - they look removed from a past time.

And so, today's tea. Also, removed from a past time, this sample arrived with us courtesy of Houde. Guang notes that the 60s cakes were partially cooked (as with shupu), hence their less exorbitant pricing (though a bing still goes for $1150). Unlike the 70s versions, these leaves are all from Yunnan, as Guangzhou was the sole distributor for 60s cakes under the planned economy of the PRC at the time.

~15cl Caledonian Springs @ 100C in a 35cl shengpu pot, ~5g of leaf, no rinse

Dry leaves:
A mixture of truly black leaves with some of a dark chocolate shade. There are some yellow leaves mixed in, which is usually not a good thing, though even these have become dark through the decades. Looking at the photograph, you can see the leaves appear rather primitive and messy, being thoroughly chopped. White dusting and a damp aroma are clear evidence of wet storage. The initial impression is a basso profundo note of rich, old libraries. The compression is fairly loose, and so avoids the extremes of hindered aging through tight compression (c.f. 1980s Xiaguan Zhubao Tuocha), and simple exhaustion of flavour due to lack of compression (c.f. 1960s Gaoligong Maocha).

15s, 10s, 15s, 20s, 25s, 30z, 35s, 60s, 90s, 120s:
Pure, orange soup which darkens to a rich orange with later infusions, but never becomes anything darker - I was half-anticipating something rather burgundy.

The wenxiangbei reveals little in the way of scent, initially, with a long vanilla aroma becoming evident later. The lid-scent is quite "alkaline", and contrasts with the deep, rich plum scent of the leaves - opening the pot reveals an aroma which smells as if a deep pit has just been opened.

The texture of the tea is marvellous, and is the first impression from the pinmingbei: it is so very smooth - everything it touches is coated in a fresh oil.

Now, then, the flavour. Truth be told, this tea isn't particularly special in its flavour. Bear with me through this potential blasphemy, for it seems that this is not the real purpose of this tea. The flavour itself is wonderfully smooth, surely a testament to the decades, but is not captivating in any rich and profound fashion. Yes, it is very appealing, but it is mainly characterised by a long, slow sandalwood taste, with a gentle "bookishness" lingering in the nose. The patience is excellent, as the progression to the throat is gradual and smooth.

The real purpose of this tea seems to be the chaqi. It truly does feel like a tonic, a magical potion, a draught of some rare elixir. It is a qi delivery vehicle (or stimulant, if you define qi as being already present in the body). Even after the first cup, my body was buzzing and swimming. The physiological response is absolutely striking. It's so clear that even Western science should have no problem in detecting it, even if unable to explain it. Putting aside the old debate about qi, and concentrating on what I observe, it's fascinating to see how my body reacts to even the smallest amounts of this substance.

Drinking this tea, it is possible to understand where the interesting theories underpinning Traditional Chinese Medicine might have originated. Shengpu is considered a "cooling" energy - drinking this tea is like taking freshly-plucked mint onto the tongue. There is a distinct and obvious drop in temperature on the surface of the tongue, toothpaste-style.

After three infusions, I have to pause - my head is giddy and I feel quite tipsy. Putting aside the pot, I head out to the garden for some taijijian [t'ai-chi sword], wondering what the effect of the qi might be on my form.

This pattern repeated itself until the end of the day, taking three infusions at a time, and then resting for some other activity.

The aroma in the wenxiangbei really came alive in the fourth infusion, being a camphor initial scent, quickly becoming the previous vanilla, and then settling into a long lengxiang of dark, low sugar scents. At the same time, the flavour developed into something more tasty, still sandalwood, with the aroma of dark fruits sitting in the nose. The tea opened like a butterfly.

Wet leaves:
Unremarkable, looking for all the world like a particularly diced shupu, as you can see for yourself.

Overall:
I cannot honestly say that I like this tea for its flavour - even at its peak, after the fourth infusion, it was still just smoothly pleasant, rather than being outrageously delicious. The purpose of this tea seems to be in the qi, which is so pronounced that it feels like some beautiful, harmonious tonic - I initially wrote "narcotic", but narcotics could ever be described as harmonious.

I don't believe that this is worth spending vast sums of money to obtain. I had entertained the idle ambition of buying a bing prior to tasting, but the sample has convinced me otherwise - though the qi really is fascinating, it is not quite satisfying in its flavour, which is largely quiet and familiar, though always smooth. There is some aggravation in the throat, and it feels generally high and a touch simple in its presentation. The price is clearly a function of its rarity, and I believe not in line with its actual merits - good though it is.

1960s Gaoligongshan Shengpu

It's a beautiful spring day, and so we've spent the afternoon in the University parks. It's exceedingly quiet, excepting the deafening sound of birdsong.









It's a good environment to take a little tea, and enjoy some good unpasteurised cheese. The star of the cheese-board is the raclette pictured left. Thanks once again to Phyll, for the very tasteful cups; as you can tell, they have taken pride of place in our daily routine.

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From RoyalPuer.com, this sample was provided by the ever-generous CB (a.k.a. Sspeakfreely). At $115/100g, it is one of the more expensive teas that we've come across, and is of course one of the oldest. In fact, this tea is older than me, which is somewhat sobering, as it's becoming ever-harder for a tea to achieve.

Previous reviews note its liveliness, a flavour of cherries, and the tastes of the "forest floor". I've used this latter phrase myself from time to time, and then realise that I've never actually had the pleasure of dining on whatever constitutes a forest floor. There is, however, still time to change that.

This tea originates from Gaoligong Mountain, between Yunnan and the Vietnamese border. Xiaomao notes that gaoli is typical of the Li minority for whom that region is home, meaning "High Li". The gong character refers to tribute, typically enough for tea from that area. RoyalPuer.com indicates that this tea won a (the?) gold medal at the 2005 Shanghai "Tea King" competition.

So much for the background. In the presence of a tea this old, we are slightly more respectful than usual (and I like to think that we are usually fairly respectful of our tea). This entails drinking as many infusions as the leaf wishes to give, and treating each with our full attention.

Pot for old shengpu; Caledonian Springs @ 100C; moderate quantity; single rinse.

Dry leaves: the colour of dark chocolate. 1-2cm twisted segments. Sweet and fruity aroma. One or two tiny flecks of brilliant white on some leaves - evidence of poor storage?

1. 10s: Orange-red, not as dark as one might expect. Excellent clarity. Very sweet beidixiang, sticky. Geraldo's comment about cherries is accurate. A very smooth feeling on the cheeks, afterwards.

"Very smooth, absolutely no harshness, yet sweet. Like an old Zen master."

2. 12s: Slightly deeper colour as the leaves expand. Surprisingly energising, just like the Zen master in Xiaomao's observation.

"Still woody and earthy, but in a round and smooth way."

3-8. 15s, 20s, 30s, 45s, 90s, 120s: becoming markedly less potent around infusion 5, it is interesting to note that, even when receding in flavour, the quality remains excellent. It becomes a sweet song, heard from a greater and greater distance.

Used leaves: dark, dark, dark. The leaves unroll without much resistance, and are not brittle, so unlike the shupu that attempt to short-cut their way to such heights. There is only one way to the top of the mountain, and there are no quick alternatives.

Overall: what a delightful experience. Truly old shengpu is so very smooth - a pebble on the seabed. A smiling Zen master. We decide to obtain some more for our supplies. Thanks again to CB for the kindness.

We had... a captive audience.

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Addendum - 18 May, 2007

Revisiting this tea confirms many of the observations above, excepting that this is not a strong tea. The maocha aspect has, possibly, enabled faster aging, but the overall effect is very gentle. One must not be shy of using a good quantity of leaf; similarly, it benefits from longer infusion times, and rapidly runs out of potency.

Its lack of compression has, perhaps, weakened its endurance. If buying this tea, ensure that it is kept air-tight, in order to retain what strength remains in these gentle old leaves.

I notice that my original review did not note its obvious wet-storage, immediately visible in the white, dusted appearance of the leaves, and confirmed in the "wet" flavours.

The aroma is particularly special, being almost vanilla-and-cream when brewed at sufficient strength - conservative infusion will render the wenxiangbei empty.