by Frank Wilson

My dear late mother would never have realised that when she offered us a comforting “cuppa cha” in the old days back home she was speaking Chinese. Not that this would have concerned her in the least. I only came to be aware of that linguistic connection when I moved to live in Hong Kong. Until then, as far as I was concerned in my careless youth, it was simply cha -- stuff in a tea bag which was thrown handily into the cup, covered in boiling water and drunk with milk. No nonsense! Even my mother had found the transition to teabags somehow vulgar. After all, for her, a decent, proper cup of tea came out of a pre-warmed teapot, from carefully infused (stewed) leaves. My first foray into the universe of teas came when I started my first job as a teacher in Hong Kong. I had no idea that the world of teas almost matched that of fine wines in terms of diversity of source and taste. What I immediately noticed was that my Chinese colleagues each had rather nicely decorated china tea mugs, with lids, which they nursed through the day, sipping their tea as needed, and topping up the leaves inside with hot water as required. An individual teapot! I also learnt that they drank various kinds of tea – black, yellow and green. Oh yes! And white. Well, white was just hot water without any tea. This was endearingly called “ching cha” or “clear tea.” I happily adopted this tea-leaves-in-a-mug drinking habit, finding it refreshing and allowing for reflective, restful moments in the hubbub of a school day. Chinese friends also introduced me to tea drinking in restaurants, which was second nature to them. I only scratched the surface of this culture but at least I learnt to distinguish between Bo Lei and Heung Ping. My natural inclination was towards the more fragrant Heung Ping (Jasmine) variety, Bo Lei being more bitter. (That was taken, more often than not, with the habitual Tsing Tao beer.)Strongly recommended when you felt run down, or hungover, was Iron Buddha tea. Darker in colour and with a stronger, bitter flavour, Iron Buddha or Guan Yin tea seemed like the tea equivalent of a shot of alcohol, like Tequila. Served in those tiny bowls, one was supposed to down it in a single gulp. According to Chinese friends, this beverage has diverse medicinal benefits -- boosting energy, aiding digestion, helping weight loss, improving the skin and fending off cancer and diabetes. Sounds a bit too ambitious to be true even for the Goddess of Mercy, but, anyway, I didn’t take to it. But if the cynic in me ruled when it came to Guan Yin, the artist in me always took pleasure in experiencing Guk Fa or Chrysanthemum tea. The curled-up flower unfurls when the hot water is added. It really is a delightful sight to watch the flower slowly emerge in your tea, preferably in a glass mug, like a living organism stretching its limbs after a satisfying sleep. I’m not sure it adds much to the taste, but that doesn’t really matter, for the aesthetic effect is pleasing. I did very much enjoy the habit of “Yum Cha” which means so much more than just drinking tea. The social event it signifies, taking place at any time of day, offers an informal gathering of friends for gossip and exchange of news, with a selection of dim sum snacks and teas. It was unhurried and revivifying, particularly the day after a late night out. My knowledge of Chinese teas has never advanced beyond the superficial, but it was one of those many small cultural insights that enriched my time in Hong Kong. These days, back in London, I’m afraid I’ve reverted to a primitive use of teabags. That’s not because I don’t have options. In fact, thanks to my wife, who is European in origin, our food cupboard has a shelf full of exotic teas – herbal, spicy, fruity – you name it, we’ve got it. But my use of the limited teabag version of the “cuppa” is all the more shameful, coming after a visit, some years ago, to a Sri Lankan tea plantation and packing factory. Our guide lovingly explained the process of picking, laying out, and drying the magical green leaves, turning them into the curled-up dark “tea leaves” we are familiar with. “What about teabags?” I naively enquired. Our guide snorted disdainfully. “Teabags”? he said. “Filled with the dust sweepings from the floor.” I can imagine my mother nodding in agreement and saying “I told you so!”.

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