Somewhere in the mist covered mountains of Yunnan, China the lid to a tea kettle tap dances sweetly and erratically, bringing its owner back from his mid-morning daydream. In front of him is a new sample of Mao Cha, unfinished tea. As he lifts the lid of his petite teapot, he pours the boiling water over the leaves in a steady crescendo. Inside the pot, the leaves tumble and swirl until, a few moments later, the liquor is emptied into a glass vessel before it is split between many cups.
This is the moment of truth – one of peak anticipation. Before the brew is sipped, it is Schrodinger’s cat, both crude and refined but after it is sipped, it’s dry ink on the page. The man handles this moment with great reverence and determination. Over the course of the morning, he will taste dozens of teas like this one from a host of friends and farmers bringing their crops to him for evaluation. Each leaf delicately plucked and dried to coax out the intrinsic beauty of the terroir.