A Tea Reader (11 page)

But the
Cha-no-yu,
as Hidéyoshi and Sen-no-rikiu settled it for ever, carries these ceremonials to a grave perfection. To be quite orthodox the tearoom must be very small, one of but four and a half mats, roofed, if possible, with a single finely grained plank, or else thatched with bamboo grass. The few honored guests should be called to the pavilion by wooden clappers, washing their hands first in pure water. No discontented person must be present, nor any scandal, or flattery, or unkind words be heard. The host himself should mend the fire, light the incense, brush the mats, fill the white-pine ewer, and lay the ladle of red-pine; as well as see that the single picture is hung and the single flower-pot fairly set in its place. The tea should be of the finest green powder, from a beautiful but common little jar; placed in a cup of ancient design holding, perhaps, half a pint. The “honorable” hot water is poured upon it, and then stirred in with a small bamboo whisk, which article itself, like the tiny spoon of the same material used for taking out the tea powder, must be of a certain form, and, if possible, ancient, and famous for its artistic origin.

Even about the boiling of the water there is orthodox tradition, there is solemnity, I had almost said there is religion. The
sumi
¹⁴
in the brazier must be piled up in the outline of a glowing Fuji-San. The kettle of beaten iron must have no touch of modern vulgarity in its shape, the water must be drawn from the purest source, and—at the moment of use—in the third state of boiling. The first state is known by its low murmuring, and the appearance on the surface of the large slow bubbles distinguished as “fish eyes,”
gyo-moku;
the second is when steam comes with quickly rising foam; the third is when the steam disappears in a tranquil, steady simmer, and the fluid is now “honorable old hot water.” This is the propitious moment for the admixture, which being compounded appears in the guise of a light-green frothy compound, delicately fragrant and invigoratingly hot, contained in the antique cup, which, neatly folded in a fair cloth, should be handed now to the principal guest. Drinking reverently from it, he should tenderly wipe the rim at the spot where he has quaffed, but the next guest must drink at the very same place, for such is the “Kiss of brotherhood,” in harmony with the friendly inspirations of this ceremony. The last guest must be heedful to drain the bowl to its dregs; then he passes it round to be examined, criticized, and made the subject of pleasant talk about the old days, the canons of true art in pottery, or any other topic lightly arising from the graceful moment, as the tender fragrance of the tea leaf wafts itself about the air of the little spotless chamber and among the kneeling, happy, tranquil companions of the occasion.

At a glance it will be seen how imperiously these elegant ceremonies, once established and received, have dictated to Japan the pure simplicity of her ceramic and metal work, and how they have passed down into all ranks of the people, constituting a standard of sweet and simple manners and of high-bred tastes which they were quicker to accept than any other nation. Perhaps nowhere except in Japan would it have been possible even for the great Hidéyoshi and the astute Sen-no-rikiu to have indoctrinated a whole people with so pure and refined a passion. But the commonest Japanese have this charming tendency to a delicate sobriety of appetite and taste; they love the touch of art which elevates, the glimpse of grace which dignifies. They have the nature rather of birds or butterflies than of ordinary human beings, and when you send out to your Kurumaya a cup of tea and a saucer of boiled rice, and hear afterwards his grateful words, you wonder whether he is of the same race as that which you left quaffing half-and-half and eating rump-steaks on the banks of the Thames. Of course the austere etiquette of the
Cha-no-yu
is special; but its spirit, as the central ceremony of tea drinking, has palpably passed through all Japan, where everything begins and ends with the
tetsubin
and the teacup. Nor is it too much to declare that to Buddhism, which brought in her religious ideas and the tea leaf, and to Hidéyoshi, who taught her how to honor, enjoy, and infuse it, is due much, if not most, of the existing aspect of social and civic Japan.

Tokyo, Japan, Dec. 19, 1889

1
[Certain British spellings and archaic references have been amended. Ed.]

2
“Ginza” is a shopping district in Tokyo.

3
“
Musumës
” means girls.

4
“
Sans gêne
” means without embarrassment.

5
A “
daikon
” is a large white radish. “
Dai
” means large and “
kon
” means root.

6
A “
samisen
” is a musical instrument with three strings, a square body, and a long neck.

7
A “
koto
” is Japan's national instrument and is six feet long and 14 inches wide. It has 13 strings, each on a bridge that can be moved. It is plucked with three fingers.

8
“
Odori
” is a traditional Japanese dance.

9
“
Maiko
” is a girl who dances and is training to be a geisha.

10
A “
kiseru
” is a type of pipe that was often intricately decorated.

11
“
Jinrikisha
” is the origin for the word rickshaw. “
Jin
” means human. “
Riki
” means power. “
Sha
” means vehicle. It is a carriage pulled by one to two people.

12
The Wars of the Roses were a series of wars over the English crown that took place from 1455 to 1485.

13
These are the four great qualities mentioned above: hospitality, courtesy, purity, and tranquility.

14
“
Sumi
” is charcoal.

Immersion

BY
V
IRGINIA
W
RIGHT

I wasn't born into a family or a culture with any sort of tea traditions. I never felt much of a pull toward the lace doilies, pink rose-patterned cups, and delicate formality of the strictly-mannered Western tradition of afternoon tea; although I could certainly appreciate the exuberant logic-puzzle tea parties of the maddest of hatters. But my concepts of tea were mostly contaminated by awareness of the legacy of colonial oppression or written off as the silliness that little girls completely unlike my younger self served to dolls in suburban backyards.

So, unsurprisingly, it was not a Darjeeling, sugared, milked, and delicately sipped from a Limoges tea cup that caused me to become completely enamored with tea and tea traditions. With little fore-knowledge and few preconceptions, my immersion into the tea world required falling accidentally and headlong into it through the doorway of a Chinese tea shop one bright summer Saturday a few years ago.

I'm sure that I had passed this particular tea shop in previous wanderings through the Chinese section of Seattle's International District, but I'd never noticed it or felt compelled to venture into it before. But on this day my friend and I had framed an indulgent day with tea drinking, starting out with an aromatic and evocative pot of jasmine pearls earlier in the day at a teahouse a short distance away. So we walked into the tea seller's shop to see what else we could find out about tea. I liked the place right away because of its unwaveringly clear identity. The furniture, the teas, and everything else in the store had a cultural coherence to them, clearly and distinctly Chinese. We did not feel like intruders, but it was clear that we were out of our element, in a place that was not fashioned to cater to us or to other non-Chinese-Americans. This is a shop where local Chinese-Americans buy Chinese tea. I find that it is often places with this type of cultural consistency that become frequent haunts for me, whether they're restaurants, shops, or other institutions. In the tea shop I was immediately fascinated, looking at all of the wonderful teaware, and the bricks and packages of tea arrayed on the varied and decorative shelves. It was a paradise of tools and vessels, mostly items that I had little to no familiarity with, but I was immediately captivated by their evident specificity and the range in styles and types and materials. I couldn't guess what each item was for, but I could tell that I had entered an environment full of rules and protocols, where the accoutrements of brewing and serving tea had undergone centuries of tradition and refinement.

Shortly after we entered, the woman running the shop asked us if we wanted to sit down and try some tea. My innate distrust of salespersons made me hesitate, but I agreed. We then sat down at the long wooden tea table and watched as she prepared tea for us in the traditional Chinese method called
Gongfu Cha
.
“
Gongfu
” is one Anglicization of the same words as “kung fu” and “gung fu” and means the same thing: in essence, “skill” or “art.” The term's use in reference to tea instead of a form of martial art had been previously unknown to me. Additionally, the only traditional tea ceremony I had ever been exposed to was
Chanoyu
,
the Japanese Tea Ceremony—a practice of formidable precision and refined beauty that requires years of devoted study. This Chinese tea ceremony was something altogether different. It had formulas and correct practices, but was more casual, even in the approach of the server to the guests and the amount of casual dialog encouraged throughout. It was attainable, and right off I found myself wanting to learn more about it. Something in the nature of it resonated deeply with my sensibilities.

One of the essential aspects of this formative
Gongfu Cha
experience was that as the woman brewed and served the tea she gave us information about it, and about the procedures and how to perform them. First we watched as she poured clean, clear hot water over the teaware, warming and rinsing the cups, the serving pitcher, and the pot and allowing the hot water to run down the table's special draining system. The first tea she served us that day was a
pu-erh
,
and she discarded the initial infusion after just a couple of seconds of steeping, explaining to us that this is a step that needs to be taken to ensure the cleanliness and best taste of the
pu-erh
tea. Some of this initial rinsing infusion was poured over the top of a clay sculpture in the form of a mythical creature that occupied a corner of the tea table. She called him a “five kind animal” and said that his frequent baptism in tea played some part in encouraging good fortune. This creature was similar to the commonly seen three-legged money frogs that often occupy the same role in
Gongfu Cha
,
but I found the five-kind animal considerably more charming and elegant, with his flashy brush of a tail, spiky horns and tiny black bead eyes.

Then the brewing began in earnest with the first drinkable infusion of the
pu-erh
.
She used a small, classically designed, dark reddish Yixing clay teapot for steeping and then decanted the tea through a strainer into a sharing pitcher; from this she poured tea into each of our tiny porcelain tasting cups in turn. She explained about the tea absorption of the Yixing pot and how it would become more valuable in time as it acquired a rich patina of tea outside and in, also explaining why this same absorbent quality meant that the same teapot should not be used for unlike varieties of teas. Tea liquor itself is almost always a beautiful thing, ranging from the barely shaded pales of white teas through the darkest chestnut liquors of black teas; the deep, rich reds of the
pu-erh
we were sampling were particularly dramatic in appearance. This first round of the tea was followed by at least five additional infusions, with the
pu-erh
leaf continuing to yield a lively, invigorating brew. She, of course, drank tea along with us as we asked questions and I began to formulate a desire to absorb as much of Chinese tea culture as I could.

Of course, none of this ceremony and fixation on process is of the slightest value if the physical, sensory experience of drinking the tea is not enjoyable. The milieu surrounding tea culture—the tools, the vessels, the history—are all secondary to the
Camellia sinensis
plant itself. The tea must provide a wonderful drinking experience; otherwise there's no point to any of the rest of it. Each tea should deserve the beauty of its vessel. But we were in a tea shop that specialized in high-quality, traditional Chinese teas, so we were in the right place to discover teas that not only looked good and were prepared attractively, but that also exhibited a wide range of wondrous flavors and characters. The teas we tasted that day were wonderful, rich in flavor and appearance. Some of that
pu-erh
that we tasted first was purchased to come home with us, although I really can't remember precisely what it was—something mid-grade and loose leaf. Subsequent visits to the shop introduced me to some exquisite
oolongs
and fabulous
pu-erh
teas, including the high-grade, lightly oxidized
Tie Guan Yin
that it's probably fair to call my favorite of all teas. Initiated alongside this new-found desire for acquiring good tea was a need for accumulating appropriate teawares to use in preparing and drinking them.

This first experience with
Gongfu Cha
pointed me down many more paths towards uncovering other forms of tea cultures and traditions. I've always been interested in learning about specific rituals and cultural traditions, and studying tea encompasses this basic interest and expands upon it into other realms of inquiry. The variety and the specificity of tea traditions in almost every country in the world is astonishing, and it provides me with rich fields of exploration—a seemingly inexhaustible source of topics for reading, writing and discovery. I find that the diverse elements involved in the inquiries into tea culture involve a great deal of what I'm generally interested in: cultural history, political history, aesthetics, art history, religion, crafts-manship, the science of materials, and at the core of it all lies the purest form of epicurean adventure: drinking delicious tea.