Judge Not, that Ye Be Not Judged

People who write about tea are a famously grumpy bunch.  A number of us, as far as I can tell, are students or academics or similar, and we are therefore not in the profession of suffering fools gladly.  This can lead to the impression that we are miserable, grouchy, Grinch-like individuals, who like nothing better than to steal Christmas.

Although I try to maintain an optimistic outlook*, I was particularly grumpy when I sat down to this session.  This is because, at the time of writing, it is August, I am sat at home with a cold, and am generally feeling quite grim.

Against all the odds, this session with shupu from Teasetter truly lifted my spirits.  I would like to recount the story to you, Gentle Reader, if you will bear with me.

*My students call me "Dr. Who", only partly because of my dress-sense.

The tea world is filled with hucksters, charlatans, swindlers, mountebanks, and scumbags.  It seems that everyone wants to start up a little business on the side, buying cheap tea from China, obscuring it with a suitably evocative name (presumably so that customers cannot buy it elsewhere for the actual, cheaper price), and then selling it at a significant profit margin.  Every web-site is dazzling white (in the "Apple" style); everyone claims to be selling something unique.  They typically last a year or two before the owner gives up, and goes back to the "day job", or perhaps focusses on selling something else.

Wulong is the prime focus of this industry, given its untraceable origins and accessibility for novice drinkers; pu'ercha (usually labelled "pu-erh" as if we were writing via 19th century Wade-Giles) is by no means immune.

Clockwise from top: 2010 "Ethical Agriculture's Wild Grown Pu-erh" [sic], 

2011 "Old Capitol" [sic], 1992 "Sweet Fragrance Pu'ehr Tea" [sic]

You will, therefore, excuse me if I am rather prejudiced concerning new ventures that seem to fit this pattern.  This is merely because we have all seen far too many of them come and go.

It is against this backdrop, while grumpy for the reasons listed above, that I sat down to drink three 4g samples of shupu from Teasetter.

All three samples mixed, with fannings removed

I started browsing the company web-site, and alarm bells started to ring.  It was then that I came to realise that I was viewing the web-site through the rheumy, yellow-encrusted lenses of my own prejudice.  I watched the company's Youtube-hosted instruction video, and was confronted with the honest, sincere face of a young man, which was as free of guile as any innocent soul could ever hope to be.

It also made me realise that the world of tea is much greater than the tiny niche that I inhabit.  If people wish to recommend using a microwave for 3-4 minutes to heat the water, then why should they not?  The whole affair smacks of passion and personal commitment, and I rather like it, grammatical errors and inkjet printing included.

Napolean famously called the English a "nation of shopkeepers", which he intended to be an insult.  However, the entrepreneurial instinct is to be congratulated, I think.

I suspect that the primary market for Teasetter is the USA (the tea may only be purchased in "oz", which Google informs me is approximately 28g).  Certainly, the customers of Teasetter are pleased: there are 128 people who "like" the company via Facebook, and reviews quoted on the web-site rate the teas as being "100/100".  Ultimately, if it contributes to lowering the body mass, blood pressure, and cholesterol levels of your average Westerner, then such ventures are to be applauded.

As far as the tea that I tried, when mixed all together, it was absolutely delicious.  The session lasted a good hour, the tea had no signs of exhaustion, and it remained thick, sweet, and highly invigorating - a welcome cure in between cups of "jiangtang" [ginger soup].  I look forward to seeing Teasetter convert more Americans to drinking decent tea.

1992, 1997, 2004 Wuyi Shuixian

As an undergraduate, I had odd tastes. Sometimes, people are kind and call it eccentricity. One such example were the walls of my rooms, covered in colourful prints by Dali - the arch-hierophant of surrealism. It was an interesting sight to behold through the ever-present morning mists of Bacchanalian torment.

One of my crowning joys was the Metamorphosis of Narcissus, for whom readers will not need reminding of the myth in which the reknowned beau Narcissus fell in love with his own reflection, and was metamorphosed into a flower. Dali had a typically crafty slant on this subject which has proven so rich in inspiration for some of my favourites poets and artists (Ovid, Keats, Waterhouse to name just three):


Do please click on the image to view the enlargement, if you're unfamiliar. As with most of Dali's paintings, it rewards close inspection.

Of course, the subject is shown leftmost, the kneeling figure of Narcissus, looking down into his own watery eyes. On the right is his metamorphosis, a stone hand holding a hatched narcissus papyraceus, echoing the outline of the infatuated boy in the visual playfulness so beloved by Dali (and his undergraduate admirers).

A warning of the dangers of introversion, self-absorption, lack of humbleness.

This entry concentrates on three shuixian, the Chinese narcissus, or "water sprite" flower. Fresh and crisp as the flower, or the self-centred indulgence of Ovid's myth?

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Three samples from Teamasters, Stephane notes that they originate from one Mr. Wang, a sprightly octogenarian with an apparent talent for roasting. Accomplished reviews of these teas have previously featured in the Teamasters blog, Teawarden, and Dodd's place.

These teas are (a) 2004, (b) 1997, (c) 1992, appearing top-to-bottom, respectively, in the accompanying photographs.

10cl nongxiang pot; Caledonian Springs mineral @ 90C; 2 scoops; 1 rinse.

Dry leaves:
(a) Long, twisted; typically sweet aroma.
(b) 2cm dark and twisted - the norm. Usual nongxiang aroma.
(c) Darker brown than its peers, mainly through the absence of the chocolate mid-browns.

12s, 12s, 20s, 45s, 60s, 90s:
(a) Foaming from the rinse, this isn't the cleanest tea. Highly typical roasted aroma, with some charcoal, rapidly turning sweet in the lengxiang. Is this any different to all those roasted tieguanyin?

Sourness. A powdery texture on the roof of the mouth. Quite bland. A simple, tangy roasted tea, with chocolate and malted bran in the aftertaste.

(b) As SD noted, this is much more interesting than its younger brother. Spicy, sweet beidixiang, which turns into burned sugar. Straight medium-orange soup.

Hidden by the ubiquitous roasting flavours is a light creaminess in the finish, which is very welcome. The overall midflavour is dominated by something approximating plain popcorn: a granular, cornlike flavour.

Much better during the third infusion as the frustration of the roasting, which masks rather than complements, is drawn back. More gentle flavours begin to shine, particular the creaminess. Caramel in later infusions.

(c) Pure orange, perhaps lighter than the previous two, which is contrary to expectation, given the darkness of its leaves.

"A very thick texture, so rich." I have to agree; this has a higher viscosity and a smoother feel, perhaps a product of repeated roasting, or perhaps due to its maturity.

"More rounded and smooth. Very pleasant, but not thrilling."

A long, powdery roast - quite akin to the class of bed-time drinks based on malt. "More like tobacco, coffee." Quite satisfying in its smooth, gentle approach and delivery, but there is little complexity.

The roast becomes less particulate, and more fine as infusions progress. It contrasts with the absurd roasting of the ever-horrific wulong from Whittards that we recently encountered.

It seems hard to overbrew this tea; it is indelicate.

The basic roast recedes around the third infusion, making way for something tasting a little more of the constituent leaf, which is enjoyable. A turning-point has been reached in potency, however, and we get the impression that it will be down-hill for the fourth infusion.

I refuse to give up on this particular tea, however, simply due to its primacy. When this tea was being picked, I was completing my GCSEs at school, fifteen years ago. it would be a violence for this tea to come so far, over so many years, to be treated with disregard. And so, we drink. Slowly and patiently and attentively.

The fifth and sixth infusions retain their colour well, though the pleasant smoothness cannot carry it too far.

Used leaves:
(a) Long, dark, standard. A decent grade.

(b) Uninspiring, but it is hard for me to be inspired by the appearance of nongxiang wulong, much like a shupu. No matter how decent, the final appearance is almost always minimally informative.

(c) Quite whole, which is good to see for one so elderly. Not much integrity in the structure, which is perhaps to be expected after so many re-roasts.

Overall:
(a) Unremarkable. Note my bias against nongxiang wulong, however. This is priced fairly, being a "daily tea" priced at "daily tea" levels.

(b) Decent enough, yet like so many others the roasting seems to homogenise rather than add character. I wouldn't like to see nongxiang wulong disappear, but I suspect that it won't be me keeping the tradition alive.

(c) Better. Much better, in fact. The mediocrity of the 2004 has been smoothed, mellowed, enriched, and generally given the benefits of the gentle caress of the passing years. Could we only hope for such an effect upon ourselves. Worth keeping.

So, then, introverted youth or delicate flower? These samples cover the spectrum, with the 2004 very much involved with itself, revealing little to us, while the 1992 is a gentle breeze, turned out towards us. Quite the variety of sensations.