Fresh Cup Magazine

A Winding Path
Exploring the Contrasts of China's Tea Trade
Story and Photos by Linda Villano

There I was, across the world from my New York City home, standing in a sea of mature, fertile tea bushes, knowing that I had savored the essence of such plants in a cupping room in my own neighborhood thousands of miles away. But then, how could a traveler expect anything less from China, the birthplace of tea and today home to literally thousands of exquisite leaf varieties? As a working tea professional, I had long felt a duty to experience China's ancient tea culture firsthand. After all, this is where the international tea trade was set into motion. So I set out to investigate how tea is cultivated and traded in China on a two-week trip that would lead me to Beijing, one of the world's busiest tea-trading centers, and into Hangzhou, the rural origin of the beloved Dragon Well (Longjing) tea. That such a profound contrast could exist in one country highlights the breadth of this legendary tea-producing nation.

   My first destination is Beijing, where, upon arrival, I immediately set out to explore the city. Aside from the swarms of bicycles filling the streets, one of the most striking sights, which soon becomes commonplace, is the ubiquitous tea-filled mason jar. It seems everyone carries this Chinese version of a travel mug. Tea leaves are reinfused continuously throughout the day with hot water from thermoses that can be spotted at small sidewalk stalls, little shops and casual restaurants. Some people sport clever holding cases with straps flung over a shoulder. Others keep the jars in a bag. Most simply carry them in hand. The thermos becomes another common sight. Casual eating establishments and some teahouses serve tea in a glass and leave a thermos of hot water at the table for replenishment. Finer locations serve tea in guywans-traditional ceramic cups with lids. Rather than leaving a thermos on the table, the server returns continuously to refill the cups with hot water-China's version, I suppose, of a bottomless cup.

   Not surprisingly, one does not have to search too hard to find tea shops in Beijing. Although I am at a great disadvantage, having no conversant knowledge of Mandarin, browsing proves to be educational. Fortunately, many of the displayed teas are easily identifiable. There are the usual suspects: Keemun, Yunnan, Pu'erh, Longjing, Oolongs, and Gun Powder to name a few. And jasmine is abundant. The Chinese have a great affinity for all things jasmine, the reputed "Queen of Flowers." All signs and labels are written or printed in Chinese characters, which I am unable to discern, so attempts to gain information about the unfamiliar teas I see and sip are nearly impossible.

   I experience unusual exchanges when attempting to learn about some of the unfamiliar tea varieties. I point and inquire about the name or province of origin, and more often than not, I am told "black tea, green tea or oolong tea," respectively-nothing more. I attempt to use the poetic names of certain handcrafted varieties, such as Dragon Phoenix Pearls, Dragon Eyeball, Mu Dan, and Litchi, only to become more confused. When pointing to what I know as Mu Dan, the response is a headshake as I am led to an entirely different style of tea. After numerous encounters like this, I wonder if the dramatic names of so many of the Chinese teas we drink in the United States vary from province to province or they are loose English translations. The cynic in me thinks, fleetingly, what clever marketing and promotion.

   In addition to tea, most shops in Beijing sell tea-related items, such as cups, pots, gong-fu sets, and utensils. Teapot styles vary widely, from traditional ceramic guywans to Western-style cups with handles. Yixing clay pots of enormously diverse quality can be found, as well as simple, functional metal pots and elaborately decorated porcelain pots.

   Every tea shop seems to have at least one gong-fu set situated on a low table where merchants are eager to prepare tea for tasting. These occasions are enjoyable, although the sales approach that follows is always forceful. Once in a shop, it is difficult to leave without a purchase because "No" seems to translate to "Begin the negotiations." While practically being chased down the street by aggressive merchants, I begin to wonder if the true value of something really is what one is willing to pay.

   Teahouses in Beijing vary greatly in style and ambiance. One can sip peacefully in a teahouse of traditional Chinese architecture, where scrolls adorn the walls and birdcages hang from the ceilings. Snacks, such as sugared popcorn, candied fruits and shelled nuts are served in small bowls to accompany the tea. Unlike these serene environments, I find many more common, non-descript, bustling places where quiet contemplation is definitely not on the menu. One item that is always on the Beijing teahouse menu, however, is "Eight Treasures Tea," a traditional Chinese blend. After encountering three distinctly different versions of this beverage, I surmise that it is much like Indian chai-the basic components are constant, but everyone has his or her own secret recipe. Eight Treasures Tea is made of eight ingredients that are categorized by a variety of herbs, dried fruit, dried flowers, and rock sugar. Most of the time, I encounter Eight Treasures with green tea, but I also come across a variety with pu'erh and another in which I cannot detect any tea whatsoever.

   A popular tea-related snack food I often see in hutongs (alleyway neighborhoods), are tea eggs. Sidewalk vendors cook them on the spot and sell them from large metal bins. The eggs are hard-boiled in a large vat of black tea, cracked a bit, then returned to the black tea liquid. The returned eggs are removed after a short time and kept warm on a metal surface that resembles an upside-down ashcan lid balanced over the boiling vat. Once cracked open, the egg white appears marbleized with dark brown, and the flavor of black tea is very discernable.

   Leaving the commotion of Beijing behind, I head to Hangzhou, a short plane trip or long train ride, depending on your mood. I opt for the short plane trip and suddenly find myself in a city antithetical to Beijing. There is a famous Chinese proverb that says, "In heaven is paradise, here on earth are Suzhou and Hangzhou." Tourists flock to this area for its historic and scenic attractions, such as West Lake, a magnificently picturesque locale that bustles all day and into the night, when the entire area lights up like an amusement park.

   The legendary Dragon Well, or Longjing, is located just beyond Hangzhou in the hills where the tea bearing its name is grown plentifully. The nearness of this delicate, sweet green tea to Hangzhou is clearly a matter of great pride-and great marketing. Everywhere one goes, Dragon Well tea is featured and sold. There are always several grades offered on restaurant menus, and a multitude of price ranges are available for bulk purchase in tea shops. Very eager to find the source of these teas, I map the way to Longjing Village, hop on a public bus and find a seat.

   A few stops later, a woman boards the bus and sits next to me. In broken English, she asks if I am looking for tea. After stretching the meanings of words in the English-Pinyin-Chinese character glossary of my travel guide, we determine that we are in fact heading to the same place. As the bus precariously climbs a series of winding mountain curves, we talk and the woman graciously invites me to her mother's house. We disembark at a charming, rural spot in the village, and after a bit of walking, talking and more climbing, we arrive at her mother's home. We turn down a winding path, and as I look around to get my bearings, I am awe-struck by the sight of tea bushes as far as I can see. Tea blankets the landscape, even along the small meandering path we are walking.

   Upon entering the house, I am amazed to see a complete tea operation set up right before my eyes. There are weights and measures, scales and scoops, packing material and, of course, Longjing tea of many different grades. I am ushered outside to well-manicured tea bushes in the backyard, and I snap off a few tender, young leaves. The mother mimes more picking before leading me back inside where she encourages me to sit at a table. Just outside the door I spot an electric pan-firing apparatus. It is clear that this family maintains tea bushes, then harvests and processes the leaves right here at the house. The mother displays a variety of tea leaves on the table and then pours several glasses for my inspection. The teas are gorgeous-deep green, fresh and mostly intact. The fragrance is delicate, the flavors sweet and light. How fantastic it is to be sipping tea that was plucked from any one of the plants I am gazing upon at that moment.

   Before I can finish savoring my brew, the sales pitch is on. Clearly, I am not leaving without a purchase. And why not? After all, I am looking at some of the most beautiful Longjing leaves I've ever seen. Once I decide what to buy, negotiations follow. The opening price is very high. On a piece of paper, we furiously scribble out our respective offers and counter offers, and after much haggling, we arrive at a compromise. Some find such an exercise invigorating; I find it exhausting. Still, I leave the house extremely grateful for the experience.

   As I meander through Longjing Village, it becomes evident that the entire town is set up for tea trading. Everywhere I look, people of all ages are sitting outside with tea leaf piles, or they are in the process of firing leaves, or they are sorting fresh leaves. And no one is without a glass of Longjing tea nearby for sipping. Many villagers call out and attempt to lure me in for another tea transaction. Some follow closely with product in hand, intent on making a sale.

   Later in the afternoon, I make my way down to the legendary Dragon Well, a well on the outskirts of the village that is believed to have the best water for making Longjing tea. I sit and sip more Longjing at a lovely teahouse with traditional pagoda-style architecture and an open courtyard facing the direction of the well and the woods beyond. The tea is served in a tall glass, and I am left with a large thermos for refreshment. I could linger here for days.

Transitioning from the bustling tea shops of Beijing to the bucolic splendor of Longjing Village was extreme, but nothing could be as jolting as my next move-the wholesale tea market back in Beijing.

Centuries-old, the Beijing tea market enjoys a prime location due to its proximity to the Lianhua River and to the railroad lines. Such fortuitous positioning enables shipments from outlying tea-producing provinces to be made with ease, and it facilitates deliveries from the market to all other points along the river or rail lines.

Maliandao Street is about a mile long, both sides of which are lined with small tea shops, one following directly after the other. The aroma of tea is ever-present, and the streets are packed with people. Every few blocks, the street opens to a large open courtyard crowded with other small shops. After randomly stepping into a few establishments, I discover that most carry the same products. The teas are similar, as are the tea-related items. The setup is also nearly identical, with bins or large open containers clustered in the center of the room on the floor and walls lined with caddies large enough to hold between 10 and 25 pounds of tea. Each location has at least one gong-fu set placed on a low table for onsite tea tasting. Perhaps the likeness of vendors explains the fierce competitiveness.

   The steady stream of small shops is numbing. But suddenly, in the near distance rises a towering, sleek building. Uniformed guards are posted strategically, and I spot a large gated parking lot outside of which a statue of the legendary tea sage Lu Yu serenely beckons visitors into the Maliandao Tea City.

   This enormous five-story mall contains hundreds of booths selling nothing but countless varieties of tea and tea-related items. Here I see everything I came across on Maliandao Street, and even more. Competition is equally intense, and the aggressive sales tactics are intimidating, nearing a physical vying for the attention of prospective customers. It is easy to believe that all the tea in China is right here in the Beijing tea market.

   After walking past hundreds of small shops, I stand inside the gigantic tea structure, glazed, humbled and exhausted from over-stimulation. In this one contained area, I see tea varieties and styles in a volume that is almost inconceivable. Well aware that there are literally thousands of teas in the world, it is fascinating that the overwhelming majority of tea sold at the Maliandao Tea City is grown and produced in China. If there are Darjeelings or Gyokuros among the dizzying array of products represented, they are lost in the astounding number of Chinese varieties and styles.

   Upon exiting the tea market, I cross the street to gaze back at it from afar. I happen to find myself standing in front of a construction site where, plastered on the walls are colorful posters advertising the future site of "Beijing Tea Village," with promises of more tea than ever under one roof. I smile and walk away, understanding better than ever before that China is, without doubt, the motherland of tea.

Linda Villano is co-owner of Serendipitea, a tea importer and wholesaler in New York City. Having grown up in a family of restaurateurs and chefs, becoming a tea purveyor was a natural extension of this sensibility and a continuation of what has become tradition.