An newly discovered vice…

It’s official—I’m back in the United States! I’ve loved the past two months and I’ve enjoyed all of my adventures (save one or two), but it’s good to be back home for a bit. China is fantastic, but I must say that the lack of both cheese and granola in the Central Kingdom has been a little depressing. Luckily I’ve had a certain hot, and sometimes cold, liquid in which to drown my sorrows. Seriously, I can’t over-emphasize the prevalence of tea there. I’ll admit that this came with a few drawbacks though. For one, I’ve discovered a new vice of mine.

I had my first taste just in the last few weeks of my trip. I had seen them online back in the US and throughout my time in China, and had previously sort of liked the idea so I didn’t feel too guilty about it. Then I started to see one everywhere I went. As I headed into my final weekend in China, that first buzz still hadn’t worn off. I had to have another. Sure, I can handle one more, I thought. But even after a second dose, I was still greedy. I began inventing reasons—“I’ll never get this chance again,” “The price is unbeatable!” and even “They’re more authentic here.” And I gave in. It’s an addiction. I’m referring, of course, to teapots. Somehow, unbeknownst to me (okay, fine, it was totally “beknownst”), I wound up with three teapots within the last two weeks of my trip.

An edgy red set for my own kitchen...
assuming my roommate lets me.

A lovely blue set for my mom.

Trust me, it’s been no simple feat either. Being a “Laowai” (or “foreigner”) there can easily mark up the price of anything you want to purchase by a few orders of magnitude. The blue set began at 750 yuan and the red set at around 350 yuan, but with some intense haggling (naming an impossibly low price and walking away usually does the trick) I got them for 70 yuan each (about 11 US dollars). The really unique (and supposedly antique) teapot I bought at the Panjiayuan Antique Market started around 450 itself. The vendor didn’t speak too much English but he kept saying something like “Look, old,” presumably as a major selling point. He’d groan dramatically each time I entered a number into his calculator, then sigh heavily, enter his own number, and offer it to me with a flourish. That battle ended at a higher than expected but still reasonable 90 yuan. Guess what was in my carry-on luggage.

My favorite purchase: an antique teapot from the Panjiayuan Antique Market

It may come as a surprise that these three teapots (two of them in whole tea sets) are my three first… ever. But that’s the great thing about tea—you don’t need anything fancy to fully enjoy the finest. However, that’s not to say I won’t be having a cup or several with the help of my recent acquisitions. Come and join :)

Chang'an Opera

One of the attractions of visiting a new country for me is the possibility of experiencing the performance or fine arts culture there. In my experience, each country sort of does it differently, and it’s really interesting to see foreigners and natives alike come together at these things. So when I found out I’d be in China, Beijing no less, I pretty much knew that I had to go see the Peking Opera—whether my friends liked it or not. Luckily, they were all into it, and enough so that we sprung for the best seats in the house! And since we’re in China, where would those seats be but at the center tea table in the front row. Guys, I think we need to bring this to America.

Our wonderful table.

Each tea table seats five people and while the table itself is a bit underwhelming, the experience around the table was well worth it. For a mere 180 yuan a seat (about 28 US dollars), you get a perfect view of the show, an endless supply of a tea (ours was this amazing jasmine tea), and a plate full of delicious cookies and mooncakes. Of course, we happened to get there just about a minute before the show started, so we were the tacky foreigners making our way to the only empty table at the front as the lights dimmed. In fact, I’m pretty sure we were the only foreigners in the theater.

Even besides the tea table seating, Chinese opera is nothing like any Western opera I know of. First, there’s not necessarily much singing. Only two out of seven acts really featured singers though all of them were accompanied by traditional Chinese instruments. The rest of the performance was divided into spoken story-telling and acrobatics. Unexpected, but extremely awesome. (Imagine if you'd gone to see "Madame Butterfly" and gotten "Enter the Dragon" instead!) 

Second, the instrumental accompaniment was a much more visible part of the show. (I use the label “instruments” a bit generously here because I couldn’t recognize any of them apart from labeling them as woodwind or string.) Instead of being hidden in a pit, the small orchestra, if the term even applies, was seated off to the side on the stage. There also didn’t seem to be much of a dress code for them; they wore anything from t-shirts to button-downs—surprising, given their conspicuousness. And besides that, the same musicians didn’t necessarily play the whole time; there were plenty of change-ups, even in the middle of acts. While this was a bit distracting, it made particular instruments stand out more when an especially enthusiastic or skilled musician was up.  

This act was mostly singing.

This act was mostly talking.

The final trait that sets Chinese opera apart is the actual content and the audience reception. None of us even knew the name of the show when we got there, much less any of the characters, but it seemed to be a collection of a few different stories. (Of course, not all operas are like that.) And audience members at the Chang’an Theater were perfectly happy to clap during an act rather than at the end of one if a performer had done something cool. This was fine, but the trouble was we couldn’t always tell if something cool was happening at a given moment. The skill level of acrobatics and intense instrumental or voice solos were easy enough to identify as difficult, but sometimes the whole audience (except our tea table) would break out in applause after a monologue and we’d have no idea why. Our solution? Drink lots of delicious tea and pretend to know what was going on.

Which brings me to the real highlight of the show—the tea. I’m not sure whether it was a consequence of our late arrival or whether there is just a “house” tea in opera theaters, but we were immediately served a pot of steaming jasmine tea without any menu or order. I’ve mentioned my tendency to go with black tea over non-black tea, and this especially applies to floral teas. Their flavors generally seem to end up being too arbitrary or un-tea like for me, and I can’t recall ever having picked a floral tea over another tea genre. Oh, how the times have changed! That jasmine tea was without a doubt the best non-black tea I’ve had and certainly the overall best tea I’ve had in China. Undoubtedly the opera experience played a part in making it memorable, but the tea itself was fantastic on its own. It very much resembled a green tea, making me wonder whether it was just a floral green tea (Do those even exist? I’ll investigate.) rather than an actual jasmine tea, and it went so well with our light snacks that I finished most of my plate before remembering to take a picture. If I had to pick a type of food to eat with this tea, it would definitely be dessert. (It has a natural slight sweetness and an aroma that could make you fall in love— perfect with a plain cheesecake!) And, like all the other teas I’ve had in China, the same set of tea leaves lasted us ages—the entire two hour show—needing only hot water to revive the flavor. Definitely a genre I’ll be exploring more, especially alongside some mooncakes.

(If you want to experience a bit of our operatic adventure, here’s a bit of the show that Kelsey, a fellow traveler, managed to catch on video.)

Matcha.

For those readers who didn’t know, Dynastea is actually coming to you from a great tea-hub of the world! At least, for now. This summer I’ve been interning at Tsinghua University in Beijing and, as you might guess, it’s practically impossible to spend such a lengthy amount of time in China without consuming green tea (or “matcha”—a sweeter Japanese powder tea used as a flavoring) in some form or other. Having always been a masala chai or English Breakfast person myself, I don’t usually find the lighter flavors of the green variety to be my cup of tea. I find black teas to be stronger, more flavorful, and more full-bodied—there’s a reason they are the most consumed type of tea in the world! Still, there’s a unique taste to green teas that I’ve missed by shunning them so long. And, more importantly, they seem to suit a particular tea-induced mood niche. So what’s the difference between black and green tea anyway?

Most people seem to distinguish teas by color—a concept thought to originate from the British. According to this system, black teas are simply the ones that turn the water a dark color, green teas turn it green, and so on for red and white teas. This method of classification, while intuitive and sometimes accurately descriptive, is rather misleading; there are plenty of teas that turn your water “in between” colors, and how can one really distinguish between a dark brown and a black anyway? The correct distinction between types of tea is by the processing of the tea leaves themselves. To lump all black teas together would be sort of a crime (and the same goes for green teas), but I’ll do it here for the sake of comparison. Black teas are oxidized or baked fully, leading to the break down of their chlorophyll, while green teas have much of their chlorophyll content left during processing, though the leaves are still usually dried. This lack of fermentation leads to a much leafier taste, and one that can last through a surprising number of brewings. Unlike black tea, a few leaves of this stuff can go a long way at the right temperature of water.

At first sip, green teas seem to be well suited to contemplation or even conversation. You don’t need much to keep your cup going strong and it’s surprisingly easy to slip into chatter when you’re filling someone else’s cup—seriously, those things are tiny. Okay, obvious. Still, there’s something else that distinguishes green tea from its more oxidized counterparts. Take masala chai, for example. Hot, sweet, even pungent, and as a tea usually had with spicy food, it’s not uncommon for the combined effect of drink and dish to be a little too much for people. I’ve previously criticized green tea for its lack of strength or spice but this actually works to its favor here; it isn’t overwhelming when consumed with a meal. A great example is the tea (pictured at the top) I tried at a Japanese restaurant on Chengfu Lu in the Wudaokou district. It was served with the food and it went well with it.

Green tea popsicle with a red bean filling.

Green tea ice cream. Straight up.

What has particularly appealed to me about green tea here in the Central Kingdom is its prevalence in a number of different food areas. I’ve had green tea ice cream, a matcha milkshake, and even green tea bread! True, you might find some of these things back in the States, but the main reason to try matcha and other green teas in China is that they naturally complement Asian flavors. Both my milkshake and my bread had red beans in them, and while the beans were surprising to find at first, they do taste really good with the tea flavor.  And it hardly needs saying, but a steaming cup of green tea (or several) goes well with a table full of Chinese or even Japanese food—the authentic stuff!

Pilot.

Asia--pretty much the world’s center for funny-looking leaves swirling about in cups of hot water. As a not-so-native Indian, I’ve had chai flowing through my veins ever since I was old enough to drink it. (And before! My grandfather was known to drink sixteen cups a day. Small cups, but still.) When I visited Bombay last December, I was reminded of an oft made observation—the country runs on tea. It is consumed throughout the year and around the nation. You can find it at a humble drink stand or at a seven-star hotel—yes, they have those there. And, if you entered the home of any Indian family (especially in Goa) and they didn’t offer you some, I’d be very, very surprised. An observation I didn’t make until many years after moving to the States: for all their consumption of the stuff, Indians seem to only have one national version of tea. For example, if you are offered tea by an obliging host, the conversation goes something like this:

“Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

And that’s it. Okay, that seems ordinary and polite enough, but contrast it with an exchange that might occur, say, in my apartment:

“Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Okay, what kind would you like?”

“Well, what kinds do you have?”

“Um, you’d better come and see.”

And so follow several minutes of conversation on herbal, spiced, and green versions of my favorite caffeinated beverage while the water heats up. In India, people seem to know exactly what kind of tea. And, what’s all the more surprising is that, baring great differences in quality and preparation, the tea you sip in your aunt’s living room is going to taste the same as the tea you’re doing your best not to spill in the sleeper car of the train to Mangalore. It’s amazing. Or, at least it is to the unrefined and chai-thirsty palate of someone like me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: they just don’t make chai in the US like they do in India. It’s either the wrong amount of cardamom or the inexplicable presence of nutmeg, but I haven’t found an American take on chai that’s quite my blood type. (Don’t get me started on those “chai lattes” at Starbucks!)

But, while my hopes for a chai transfusion might be sparse in the US, the country does have so much to offer in the world of tea—variety being number one on the list. There’s nothing like drinking a foreign tea in its native country, but trying new teas is always an adventure. I’ve learned that there are so very many types of tea, with different tastes, and for different moods, and I’m eager to discover more. In fact, I’m convinced there is a tea for every mood and almost every occasion. A bold statement, you might be thinking. Well, you haven’t had much time to consider it. Why don’t you let it steep for a while? I’ll go put the kettle on.