The town of 關子嶺
is mostly known as a mountain hot spring resort and, by-the-by to those who have been
there, as a place to eat some of their local barrel-roasted chicken afterward,
or perhaps to buy some of the local produce, such as the milk-sweet guava sold
along the roadside with handmade signs proclaiming its freshness. Last Sunday, the Tainan-based tea
tasting festival 春日茶會 was
held for the first time here at a centrally-located public park. With tea and attendants, ten tables
fully decorated with beautiful cloths framing the tea ware like the matted
fabric in Japanese scrolls will a painting. To the sides, ornate metal kettles could be heard to boil softly on
white clay stands, and orchids, tree branches, or flowers expressively placed on the table
offered balance and poetry to the sublime three-dimensional roundness of the
pots and cups. Wandering from
table to table, one passed through the groves of 桂花
now just beginning to flower, sending their unmistakable scent into the
air.
The great pleasure of attending such events is not just being
able to taste great teas that you probably wouldn't come across otherwise but
also being exposed to radically different approaches to brewing and tasting
tea. Like any art,
drinking tea can become a victim to its own traditions handed down as fast
rules, when the truth of the matter is that drinking is always a creative journey. Tea brewers, like guides, can pull you out of a uncreative rut and really open your eyes to a new way of appreciating tea.
In earshot of a man who was playing the 琵琶 in a delicate and
erudite manner, I sat down at a table attended by the smallest of women with
the softest of voices, and for a while I sat down alone, for no one else had chosen this table when it was time to switch tables. Then a young man seemed to sit down
and save another two chairs for his friends but his friends came only to say
that they were saving a chair for him at their table, so he scampered away. I began to feel a little stupid as the
other tables commenced drinking, and I sat alone at this one. At last, however, others sat down. We were told that we would be drinking 大禹嶺 tea (from the highest and most acclaimed tea growing peak in Taiwan)
and that we would be asked to please place our cups closely together
in front of the pot because she had no 茶海
(actually her 茶海 is in the picture below but apparently by the time we came around she had stored it away) to decant the tea. She would have to directly pour the tea from the pot into our cups at the same time.
Her table was clearly intended for simplicity, at least so she told us, when asked by one drinker, what was her "theme." A brown cloth covered the entire table, then a smaller lighter colored cloth above that to frame her tea set, which in this case were our eggshell white cups, an 茶盂 for disposing water, a small container to hold the tea (not pictured below), and a bronze plate that had had its sides folded up so it could hold the tea and be held for examination (also not pictured below). The tea pot itself was strikingly a 陶壺, that is, pottery, not the traditional red or black clay that is best suited to oolong and puerh teas. Cylindrical with a bulbous throat and a delicate lid lay neatly inset into the top, the pot was the strangest and most suggestively interesting feature of her table. This sat on a large, elegant slab of pottery that like an ancient tablet with its corners slightly raised up, would prevent any liquid if it spilled from running onto the cloths on the table. Also on the clay tray was a small, hand whittled tool (also not shown), one end sharp and the other end flattened, and to one side a dry, squiggled branch with small seeded pods that was there clearly for elegance.
Her table was clearly intended for simplicity, at least so she told us, when asked by one drinker, what was her "theme." A brown cloth covered the entire table, then a smaller lighter colored cloth above that to frame her tea set, which in this case were our eggshell white cups, an 茶盂 for disposing water, a small container to hold the tea (not pictured below), and a bronze plate that had had its sides folded up so it could hold the tea and be held for examination (also not pictured below). The tea pot itself was strikingly a 陶壺, that is, pottery, not the traditional red or black clay that is best suited to oolong and puerh teas. Cylindrical with a bulbous throat and a delicate lid lay neatly inset into the top, the pot was the strangest and most suggestively interesting feature of her table. This sat on a large, elegant slab of pottery that like an ancient tablet with its corners slightly raised up, would prevent any liquid if it spilled from running onto the cloths on the table. Also on the clay tray was a small, hand whittled tool (also not shown), one end sharp and the other end flattened, and to one side a dry, squiggled branch with small seeded pods that was there clearly for elegance.
Whatever you might think about the description of this table, in
relation to the other tables it was sparsely aesthetic; indeed, as she claimed,
simple. And this is the great
difference in perspective between a tea drinker and outside eyes. To the latter such
preparation looks extravagant, in the worst case, pretentious. But from the perspective of the one
brewing the tea, they have tried very hard to achieve the exact opposite, and
especially, to put the drinker in a pleasant, settled state of mind wherein
they can directly appreciate he tea without distractions. The art is supposed to put you in the
present moment and experience.
Thus the setting of a flowering park. Thus the man playing exotic melodies on his 琵琶. But here comes another
contradiction. The tea drinkers who
attend these events have spent considerable energy trying to understand the
rules behind the art--from what it means to use a metal kettle to brew your tea
(as opposed to a clay one) to the chemical processes happening in your mouth to
experience such things as 回甘. Or else they are tea fanatics in some
form who will not so much be eased by the simplicity and artfulness of the
ceramics and table settings, as be jealous of possessing them themselves. Therefore such
mental and unseen battles are fought at every tea table.
After cleaning our cups with hot water, and then pouring the
first wash of the tea leaves into the cups, she apologized because we would
have to wait awhile for the first brew.
Usually, higher elevation teas like 大禹嶺 are prized for their
freshness and fragrance, and for that reason, the received wisdom is to brew
them many times in short periods to get an unfolding spectrum of tea flavor to
arise and pass. However, such
elevation leaves are quite hardy as well.
That first brew was probably closer to five or six minutes (though I wasn't
counting!) which at least to me is unheard of. Pouring it directly into our cups, instead of decanting it,
she instead made four passes over the cups, each time pouring just a little bit into each cup until all cups were evenly filled, though barely half-full. Veritably, I have never drunk tea so
strong, stronger than most coffee, with a force I would be at a loss to
describe, not willing to settle for the word bitter. It was the bitter of biting into a raw root, simultaneously
powerfully plant fresh as well.
And when swallowing, the important part really, there was no
bitterness on the tongue, as we usually associate with bitter flavors. That first cup was a lesson in
what is bitter and what is just strong flavor. If the Turks started brewing high mountain tea perhaps this is
the method they would prefer.
Then, cup emptied, the residual tea evaporated into one of the most floral fragrant tea scents that I had ever known. That was the first brew and we continued for five more,
which came and went quietly.
What I appreciated most about this woman brewing the tea was her
deflective way of responding to our observations. Why did she choose to brew the tea in a 陶壺, I asked? When she deflected this pointed
question by saying how she really just wanted to experiment with the tea at longer
durations and found that this pot worked, someone else observed that pottery
would brew at lower temperatures than the traditional "purple" clay
pots, and she deflected this as well, saying "oh really?". This "oh
really", sincere and appreciative, was used often. When told that if her tea tool, most likely from the 七里香 bush, was "taken care
of," it would darken and become fragrant, she used it. When told that the 回甘 was finally much stronger in
the third brew she used it. It
was as if to say, "maybe, maybe not," both affirming and uncommitted. Which, over all, I thought was a good stance.
