Chiayi's First "Tea Bar"

A tea seller that I've known for several years now has just recently started a new tea enterprise.  He has started lots of different ventures since I've known him, from the website he had me translate in the hopes of capturing foreign markets; to the Ali Mountain "green tea" that he ground into a powder to cold-infuse bottles of water; and to the black tea he was making from oolong, which could be mixed with black sugar and milk. 

The last time I came to see him and his wife, he excitedly showed me a magazine of a shop up in Taipei that brewed high quality tea right in front of their customers using traditional clay tea pots, and then siphoned it into bottles for customers.  It looked labotorial and beautiful with lots of glass beakers and funnels; it was a true blend between the traditional approach and the modern coffee shop.  I liked the idea as well, so last night when I saw that he had finally opened his "tea bar" I stopped by to take a closer look of the set-up.

The science:

They brew about 15 grams (a bit more than a 1/2 oz) in about 800cc of water for 4 minutes.  They prepare a beaker with crushed ice and strainer that sits inset in the beaker.  After pouring the hot water onto the ice and whipping it, they funnel it all into a 800cc bottle that they mechanically fasten a lid to from a tool hanging from above.  When I asked if they sold any of the teas hot, they mentioned that they all were immediately iced because it otherwise would continue to ferment.  I liked watching the whole procedure and didn't mind waiting 4 minutes.  Like the article that the boss had showed me before of the bar in Taipei, they had acheived a nice laboratory, industrial look, which suggested a new, modern context for tea.

The critique:

The tastes were good but not great, and we ended up drinking only half of the tea, which made me feel wasteful.  Too bad they weren't selling in more drinkable sizes, let's say 470cc (12 oz, a "grande"); to throw away the tea if you can't drink it sends the message that it wasn't good, even if that's not what your tastebuds told you.  I'd rather be left wanting more.  The tea also needs to compete not only with coffee but also with all the other cold brew tea stands out there--both are products with very strong flavors (usually spiked with sweetness, or strong in other ways like coffee).  With no added sweetness, the tea brewed in this new way needs to be really good to stand out.  A new recipe might be 470cc of 10 grams for 5 minutes, making a stronger-flavored tea.  I might even suggest putting it into a paper coffee cup and serving it hot.  I'm not particularly afraid of it fermenting after the brew, especially with such a fine strainer for the tea.   

I think its a fun venture and I'll most likely be back to see if their business thrives in the new year.  Perhaps this model, or some variation of it, would be a viable business model back in the states. 

Roasting tea in Ruili

Although my house is a wreck (so many things in boxes intended for America, Baihe, or the trash) and all our schedules have been thrown by the holiday season, I have found some sanity in the carefulness of brewing tea. Now it is impossible, for the reasons I have just mentioned to do a full, deliberate tea brewing at home--what with a baby who can now with one swipe clear most of whats on the coffee table onto the floor--so it is no wonder that my most recent experience with tea took place away from home in the mountains of the Alishan region in a small tea farming town called Ruili, where I went to find a particular homestead after getting their name card at an event the weekend before. Luckily when I arrived not only was the family there but also they were in the midst of a day-long roasting and taste-testing of their oolong, which was to be entered into a national competition.

   

Many farms participate in national competitions, sending tea selections in quantities of 22 kilos. One of those kilos is a gift gratis to the organization that runs the testing, while another kilo is used for the actual taste testing. The remaining 20 kilos, if they make the cut, will receive a special grading and will be given a fixed price. A tea master will taste hundreds of teas every day, while at each pass the number of teas dwindle until there is just a handful left. The single top tea from an entry pool of over a thousand will received the highest honor and will be able to be sold at a premium price.

The tea rankings for Oolong look something like this:

特等將 - the top honor - only one tea selected

頭等將 - second highest grade - only the top 4% make this cut (only 30 teas)

頭等將二 - third highest grade - only about 50 teas make this cut
頭等將三 - ...

There are more grading levels but why worry about them (besides, I can't say this list is too accurate!). The teas in the top four percent can be sold for about 230 US dollars per kilo while the one entry that wins top slot is sold for multiple times that rate. Most tea roasters will say that there's a lot of luck involved, not only that you get a good crop of tea, but also that the judge specifically enjoys your tea. That said, everything about the brewing method contrives to make the process as precise as possible, trying as it were to counteract so much uncertainty.

Following is a video of Mr. Lin and his father as they compare two oolongs they are roasting side by side in different machines with their entry from last year, a tea that took the 頭等將 grade.  As you can tell every slight aspect of the tea soup's color, initial scent, and taste is important.  The brewing method is rigid: three grams of tea in 150ml of boiling water brewed for six minutes in a competition "cup" made of porcelain.  Six minutes after the tea has been poured, when the leaves have cooled off, they also smell the leaves as well.  Everything counts.  The most of what I noticed under discussion (half was in Taiwanese) concerned the tea soup's, it's clarity and color.  One looked greener and one looked more yellow they told me, but I could not for the life of me discern such slight differences.  When they asked me which one I liked the best, I chose (unwittingly) the tea they had submitted from the previous year! 

Around their rather large living room, that opened up onto a rather plain and concrete porch (surrounded though by flowers, and looking out over the gray and misty mountains) they had huge recognition placques from previous entries.  15 or 20 were hung showing that they had earned the 頭等將 status, and only one, placed prominently over the cheif brewing table, showed 特等將, which means one year at least they grew the golden egg! 

I asked them how this competition tea was different than what I ended up buying--their common oolong.  As far as I could tell, for the competition they sorted the tea to get the rolled leaves more uniform, and also plucked extraneous stems which apparently confuse the taste during roasting and then brewing, but I don't imagine that it's grown in a seperate field or under different conditions.  I was also surprised that there was no initial "wash" for the tea leaves during the taste-testing.  When you use a tea pot in the Chinese tradition of brewing, for those who don't know, one always washes the tea and dispenses with the water almost immediate.  People usually emphasis the fact that it washes dirt or impurities from the leaves or that it wakes up the tea leaves and heats the tea ware to make the initial brew more pure.
So I might be under a false assumption that you can apply the "tea-tasting method" to any tea, that is brew 3 grams in a competition "cup" made of porcelain with 150ml of boiling water, but I've had a lot of fun doing that with all of my teas--what a delight!  The usual method that I use, which requires you to brew the tea for breifer periods 6-7 times is like a fine dissection of the taste, a pagent of the teas flavor that evolves and is lived and is relished.  Using the 6 minute method, however, really gives you a full taste of the tea.  I've even used it for some tea packs of oolong someone gave me that I've otherwise been brewing red rose style in an open mug.  Much better to drink directly from the competition cup after brewing it--rather more like drinking espresso out of a demitase.  A quite different tea experience!

A Park at Evening, Chiayi

Every time I step into the Wen Hua Public Park in Chiayi I know that it's my favorite place in the whole city and--barring the beaches at Kenting and the mountains to the east--my favorite place in Taiwan.  It thrills with innocence and shuffles with all faces and sounds.  Although situated in the middle of the city, right next to one of the busiest streets (a night market), it's large with winding paths, allowing you to walk aimlessly, passing through green spaces filled with cricket song and where young couples and old walk alone or with their small dogs.  Then there is the intermitant sound of children playing unheeded in the center of the park, a grassy area that is scooped out from the center of the winding paths, creating the illusion that you walk upon the edge of a large pool filled with dark grass, running footsteps, and glimmers of iridescent frisbees and sky rockets propelled by invisible, laughing bodies.  Other scenes include large groups practicing Gongchi, a type of Tai-chi; an area where fountains spout in constant variation from a flat concrete surface so that children, or anyone daring enough, can play among them; a large boardwalk on one side where musicians can perform, dancing couples can gather, old people can sit, and where artists can hawk their work.  Tonight, on the boardwalk alone, there was a couple performing classic old songs, such as Deng Li Jun's "My heart is as the moon" on harmonica, an artist who was selling spray-paint paintings of pandas (he was a foreigner, too!), a group performing various Taiwanese songs (dancing and singing), crowds of people, and a pushcart selling coffee that has been grown in Taiwan.  And this was a regular Wednesday night, 8:00ish.

I stopped my scooter and walked around down the boardwalk, then back, then walked over to the fountain where a small Falun Dafa group was sitting cross-legged and reciting a text and where kids were playing.  I walked through the trees with the crickets and the silent night park walkers, and returned back to the boardwalk and my scooter.  What follows is a recording, and a point by point guide, of all of these events.  So, my suggestion: turn off the lights, or close your eyes, and....listen.
 
A Park at Evening, Chiayi: http://www.ourmedia.org/sites/default/files/ia/original/96Kbps MP3/JosephNabholzAParkatEvening_Chiayi/ParkateveningChiayi.m4a

0:00 a harmonica rendition of "My heart is as the moon" and the sound of my scooter as it idles on the side of the road
0:17 my keys as I turn off the scooter
0:28 a woman begins speaking on a microphone who stands next to the man playing the harmonica
1:15 another group performing Taiwanese songs, which becomes more and more clear as I walk closer
1:37 the former harmonica group, now rendering another Deng Li Jun song, "In my dreams," grows louder as I return in that direction
2:02 a dog barks, ushering in the sounds of water as I approach the fountains
2:35 faintly, the sounds of a group of seven, reciting a text near the fountains
2:47 crickets emerge as I approach a path with arbors
3:08 footsteps
3:50 the group playing harmonica as I return full circle
4:35 my keys, and subsequently the scooter as I start the ignition

Climbing Yu Shan

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Here. Some 44 photos with extensive commentary.

Traveling Around the Island

Today is the second day back in the routine of waking up and teaching. Last Sunday I was in Taipei, and the three or four days preceding that I was wondering around the island with Hun Lye and Kevin Lane (who both now are in Tibet). The trip was significant for me on many accounts. One, which seems only symbolic, that we traveled around (encompassed) the whole island, in fact had many opportunities to show me my digestion of my experience here as a whole. Managing driving and arrangements, for instance, and being the designated "ben di ren" (local person) I probably spoke more Chinese those four days than I normally do in several weeks otherwise. That was both a great opportunity and a revelation, proving to me in more concrete terms, what exactly I have learned, and not.

To go into detail what we did, without a worked narrative, might be tedious. Suffice it to say that it was a splendid trip for me. Encompassing the island was a significant enterprise. For it also allowed us to immerse ourselves in all sides of the island.

Beginning with Chiayi, the first day and night, the lesson was in the culture that dominates most of the island. We saw swing dancing and entertainment in a park on a Tuesday night, as well as tons of food stalls, tea stalls, and exercise parks. Wednesday, we traveled to the mountains and saw tea production first hand, from the very picking (migrant Vietnamese workers getting paid 60NT per kilo of raw tea leaves), to the roasting and rolling, and to the drinking of the tea itself (as expensive as 6600NT per kilo). Here were guys smoking cigarettes, chewing betel nut, and drinking Heineken all the while bending over mounds of fresh tea, sending out the most delirious aroma that stuck to our clothes and imaginations long afterward.

Wednesday night and Thursday morning, we spent at Foguangshan, the largest and probably most significant monastery in Taiwan, where I stayed four years ago as part of a school program, and where Hun also has connections. Here was Taiwan in its strangest manifestation, where massive buildings were being constructed over night and where nuns with beaming diligence performed all significant labors, from pouring concrete, to amassing and compiling volumes of Buddhist art. An island of incense and activity.

Thursday evening brought us to Taidung on the east coast, quiet and filled with indigenous and Hakka groups. Friday brought us up the coast, seeing some of Taiwan's most beautiful coastlines and laid back towns, and we spent the evening and night in Rueishui, where, besides carbonated hot springs settled into the mountains, we enjoyed some of the best Hakka cuisine in the area. Friday brought us through Haulien (we stopped for their famous dumplings, bought the delectable moji treats and traditional millet wine) and all the way up to Taipei, where I dropped Hun and Kevin at their hotel, and journeyed on to where I was staying, at a friend of Fiona's new apartment in the north part of the city, where she and all her friends were absorbed in playing Mahjong.

The video below follows the same progression as above.

Camping III

During Chinese New Year (days after April arrived in Taiwan), all of us went camping in the inner mountainous region of Taiwan. The views should have been fantastic but sadly the trip was overcast with mist and rain and we couldn't see anything. This made a strange and often times eerie back drop for our adventures. Visiting a farm, for example, we found ourselves standing in the rain, with literally hundreds of other people holding umbrellas, standing on a grassy hill, looking at a stage that could not be seen, listening to a man and woman chattering on microphones and, apparently, shearing sheep(their words of course we could not understand), and all and all feeling slightly jilted (and the frequent thought of--"is this real?") In this and two other blogs, I have or I will post some video that I took at that time and just now put together. (I've already posted photos of the trip a while back.)

Camping II

During Chinese New Year (days after April arrived in Taiwan), all of us went camping in the inner mountainous region of Taiwan. The views should have been fantastic but sadly the trip was overcast with mist and rain and we couldn't see anything. This made a strange and often times eerie back drop for our adventures. Visiting a farm, for example, we found ourselves standing in the rain, with literally hundreds of other people holding umbrellas, standing on a grassy hill, looking at a stage that could not be seen, listening to a man and woman chattering on microphones and, apparently, shearing sheep(their words of course we could not understand), and all and all feeling slightly jilted (and the frequent thought of--"is this real?") In this and two other blogs, I have or I will post some video that I took at that time and just now put together. (I've already posted photos of the trip a while back.)

Camping I

During Chinese New Year (days after April arrived in Taiwan), all of us went camping in the inner mountainous region of Taiwan. The views should have been fantastic but sadly the trip was overcast with mist and rain and we couldn't see anything. This made a strange and often times eerie back drop for our adventures. Visiting a farm, for example, we found ourselves standing in the rain, with literally hundreds of other people holding umbrellas, standing on a grassy hill, looking at a stage that could not be seen, listening to a man and woman chattering on microphones and, apparently, shearing sheep(their words of course we could not understand), and all and all feeling slightly jilted (and the frequent thought of--"is this real?") In this and two other blogs, I have or I will post some video that I took at that time and just now put together. (I've already posted photos of the trip a while back.)

Kenting

We spent a day in Kenting National Park, which is the southern most tip of Taiwan. Upon high hills, or peculiar jutting shelves of coral rock, you can see the ocean (in fact a convergence of three oceans) on all three sides. Or you can swim at one of the many beaches where you may find the most particular and peculiar shade of teal waters, very clear, and just the right degree of warmth.



Also look at my brother's footage here:


http://www.flickr.com/photos/posetopose/sets/72157623522853716/

Visiting Taiwan, Part III: Sunrise

Here: a video sequence of the sun rising and a random shot of some clouds later on that day.



The transcript is NOT available. Photos, however, are available by clicking here.

Visiting Taiwan: Part II, Yu Shan Sacred Tree

My friend Jane Shuput visited over the Christmas/New Year holidays. Together with Fiona we spent our time exploring some of Taiwan’s most impressive, scenic retreats from Yu Shan National Park to Taroko Gorge. Besides mountains and geological wonder, we ate plenty of Taiwan’s varied cuisine, explored the streets, spoke bad Chinese, and welcomed in the New Year on a stranger’s roof in Taibei. The following adventure happened on Jane's eighth day in Taiwan, in Yu Shan National Park.

“After all,” he said, “life and death must look pretty much the same after you’ve been around for twenty-seven hundred years.” They walked down the timbered path. The tree stood tall, ancient with one tender white branch pointing directly toward the sky. As they walked about the elevated railing—that is he, his girl friend, and his friend visiting from Paris—the obvious, though not insignificant, correlations to history and time came to them. This tree tendered carbon from the air in a world where the Greeks hadn’t yet flaunted a pillar. More—when it rose from the earth, unaware of its endless journey, those men were still scrambling for an alphabet. Consequently, their two heroic songs that have meant so much to western culture and thought were still only echoed in the hills. The Great Wall was constructed when this tree was a stately peer, respectably some 500 years old. Even the woods about it must have flickered and passed away like flames that did not do more than tease its sides. Were seeds made the same back then? When it was young could it grasped a fate stretching out before it—tedious—and unremarkable—old before it was matured? What had led this tree to grow this big, this long? Was there some joke he did not get?

To one of these, his friend responded, “how had the mountain allowed it to grow this big, this long?” This was stirring for another reason. On the drive to the site, the road was here and there destroyed where God might have taken his finger and clawed it a length down the mountain, here where rockslides had upturned the earth and rock and everything in their path. This tree, for example, was evidence that no such rockslides had touched this hill for almost three thousand years.

Some Taiwanese tourists came down and took the pictures of themselves at the base, no doubt they were photos of faces each with a similar gray background. No one seemed in any hurry. I stayed in the shade of some other trees and looked at the giant from another angle. The giant made me think of other giants: whales, rhinoceroses, and Roman Galleys. My girlfriend approached and said, “Do you like this side of the tree?” This was an appropriate enough question. The top hill side of the tree was covered in thick mosses, ferns, even various other saplings of other species that had decided to take resident there on that ground, as reliable as the mountain itself, and on the bottom side it was bare and dead. Huge grooves ran up the length of truck, light gray, like no other substance imaginable, neither something fibrous or mineral. “Yes,” I said. “From here I can see every aspect of the tree.”

The more I thought about it, the more the tree seemed like a freak of nature, and I suddenly realized my analogy that had been hidden in my mind but all the time active and latent—I saw the thing as a freak creature, sole of its kind, mis-matched to the world: a Frankenstein. And what weird passion is that—what weird meaning to stand so alone against time, until time itself becomes irrelevant and identity disappears?

Slide show: click here.

Visiting Taiwan: Part I, New Years in Taibei

My friend Jane Shuput visited over the Christmas/New Year holidays. Together with Fiona we spent our time exploring some of Taiwan’s most impressive, scenic retreats from Yu Shan National Park to Taroko Gorge. Besides mountains and geological wonder, we ate plenty of Taiwan’s varied cuisine, explored the streets, spoke bad Chinese, and welcomed in the New Year on a stranger’s roof in Taibei. Here is a medley of footage I took New Year’s Eve. Jane and I met up with Fiona in Taibei to celebrate the New Year. Climbing from rooftop to rooftop we finally found a suitable place to see Taibei 101 burst into flames.



One can also view some photos I took by clicking on "All Photos" to the right.

Feng Huang Shan Video Series

A Cloudy Day: Taiwan

Ho Ho Ho

Hiking 鳳凰山

So far as I can tell the Chinese word for both "climb" and "crawl" is the same. When Fiona and I went hiking a mountain last weekend, the distinction made little difference, for half the time it seemed we were crawling up slippery rock, or wobbling cross rotting bamboo-and-nail bridges, or pulling ourselves up difficult paths by knotted ropes.

It began simply enough, passing through campgrounds on paved roads, then for a short time on a logging trail. But then, turning abruptly into the weird mixture of tropical forest, bamboo, and black rock we began a more direct and rocky ascent. Our group consisted of a very fine mixture of folks--some authentic, experienced hikers (you could easily see it in their careless grins) a family with a teenage girl, a very unhappy looking twenty-something girl, Fiona and I, and a 75-year-old man, who looked like it might be his first mountain hike (yet maybe not his last). I was too excited taking photos at every turn (the only person so inclined) and since we were in no hurry, we were mostly at the back of the pack with the unhappy twenty-something, the man, and a guy with very serious knee supports who every once in a while stopped stock-still as if listening, his front leg perched upon a rock, heroically. At first I thought he might be listening intently, or simply consuming nature with his senses, but I think it was just that he was taking breaks, every now and then.

A bamboo forest is odd. Like a pine forest, it admits only its own kind and its own ecosystem, completely contained and in an equilibrium of silence so deep that it extends and permeates. I've heard before that bamboo may be thought of us a reminder to prudence, or diligence, as it never extends so far without first putting another support. And yet, as I gazed high above, these crazy reeds have grown so tall that their very weight pulls themselves back into lovely curves that are easily, freely tossed by the winds. And then again, should we not reflect on the human result of prudence?

As we climbed higher, mountain mist began moving past us, sending a chill not dissimilar to that winter fragrance of snow, a sensation of cleanness and spiritual cold. When we finally reached the ridge of the mountain, we were already surrounded by a mist so thick it just as easily could be called fog. And as we walked I could not help feeling troubled and lost, as if this were a mythical land. Sounds just around the bend were lost, yet those sounds from the town below could, at times, be distinctly heard. Also distance and perspective collapsed and were confused. It was hard to tell how far we had gone, whether we were still had to go up or go down. And when I looked off either side of the trail, the most troubling thing yet (especially on these wet rocks) was an interminable near-drop. When the fogs parted sometimes you could see for a long distance straight down and yet not see the bottom. On the other side a misty bamboo forest that also receded almost vertically away. It seemed we were walking upon a series of rock platforms unsupported by earth of this world, and it continued on, and on, and on, until the ennui of the situation completely overshadowed its complete mystery.

We met finally, all together at the top, drank some cheap oolong tea, and descended again, a journey that seemed twice as long as the original.

Look at my photo album for photos of the trip.

The Pied Piper

Lucky Jumping Water

Coming Soon: 交趾陶 (jiao1 zhi3 tao2)

Morning at the Park

The Daring Young Man, as promised

Last Sunday, I went to a local temple where they had this annual swinging competition to see who could swing the highest. It was this huge swing set made out of bamboo, probably about 40 to 45 feet high. In the center were these two very long bamboo rods, instead of rope, that led down to a skinny wooden bench. At about head height, standing on the wooden bench, there was a hook to fasten in a safety clip that itself was attached to a suit that the competitors put on before mounting the swing (by way of a ladder). Once on, the young boy or seasoned, red-mouthed champion squatted down upon the seat, holding high on the bamboo with their hands. Two men below, with another long shaft of bamboo (notched at one end), would catch the seat of the swing and then in two attempts swing the individual as high as they could. Then, of course, it’s up to the person on the swing.

I could tell by the first person I watched that it was quite difficult, that much effort could be exerted without having much result. Unlike a cord swing that you can twist in your hands to create swing, the bamboo poles were inflexible and could only be manipulated by the piston like motion of the person on the swing. Flexing up, basically pushing up from the lowest part of the swing, and then falling back down after the pitch. I could also tell, by the second person I saw, that much skill could be involved, because despite the difficulties of the bamboo, the man was able to go almost horizontal, at which point it seemed miraculous that it was happening at all, that the man had broken some fundamental law. At the highest pitch, as if to scorn the world, he kicked up his right leg high, and also leaning back so quickly that I thought he might loose his grasp, and the crowd cheered.

It seemed only a matter of time before an older man grabbed my arm and began motioning to the swing. At first a woman nearby scolded him to leave me alone, but soon I was on the stage anyway where there were judges and a woman announcer, and they were asking where I was from. I don’t know if you’ve ever been taken completely in charge by an older man who you doesn’t necessarily speak your language but who nevertheless knows what’s best for you. It’s one of the more sacred experiences of traveling abroad. I remember one time in Greece when I slipped and almost fell in a food market, an old man abruptly scolded me in Greek. A young butcher, with a cigarette in his mouth, informed me that he said, “if you’re going to fall, why walk around with your hands in your pocket?” Of course, I remember thinking at the time. Obvious.

Getting on the swing was by far one of the more exciting things, especially to look down and see a sea of unfamiliar faces looking up at me. But I let fly—or rather I was set fly by the two men below—and after a good go descended the set. A man came up to me later with a video camera asking questions in Chinese and an organizer who helped me into my suit translated, so I told them, the camera, that I was very happy, that it was very good to be on the swing, and that I was an English teacher in Chiayi, which seemed appropriate. They invited me back next year, and an older man, who performed a near horizontal feat himself (ending with the same victory, death-defying leg salute) told me that he would teach me how to swing, and began demonstrating right there for me the basic moves.

They gave me a large, double-layer stainless steel cooking pot for competing and after watching for a bit I wandered off because I felt awkward standing there with this huge box under my arm. I walked around and it reminded me of the carnival grounds at Stewartstown, but no Skeeball. Of course, here there were many more interesting snacks (are criss-cut fries even interesting?) There were also some local booths, and a used books tent that I looked through as well. Saw an enormous Chinese-English Dictionary, and also a Chinese calligraphy book that I looked through. For several pages, it detailed how to draw one smudge resembling the last digit of your pinky. For the relatively small and inconsequential mark, there were six brush movements. I thought, (sigh) “another day.” And then I thought, “but soon—but soon.”