My mother took a sip of the Darjeeling and Oolong blend I made for her last Christmas and mulled over it a little.

�??It�??s very good,�?� she said.

I braced myself for the �??but�?� I knew would inevitably follow.

�??But not as good as that Keemun,�?� she said.

Ah, that Keemun. A Roi du Keemun, to be precise, and royalty it was indeed. A deep red, round, sweet brew with a satisfying floral aroma.

We bought together from Mariage Frerès when we took a trip to Paris six years ago. Since then, it has been the benchmark for every other tea my mother has. And no one ever really measures up. After years of drinking only Darjeeling, Assam and Ceylon, my attempts to broaden her horizons turned my mother into a bit of a Keemun convert, but even other Keemuns we tried fell short of the Mariage Frerès standard.

She can�??t really point out what made that tea so special, except saying that whenever she had a cup she wanted to have more. If it were a book, critics would call this compulsive need for more the Keemun�??s reserve of vitality�??it remains alive and attractive to you because you want to go back to it and explore its every nuance. My mother simply calls it that tea with a dreamy note in her voice.

Good daughter that I am, I going to buy her some Roi du Keemun from Mariage Frerès�?? online shop for her birthday. It won�??t be identical to that one of course. Much like wine, tea changes every year, depending on the weather, the conditions of the soil and the human vagaries of plucking and processing. But I suspect that even if it were identical, it still wouldn�??t rate up to that Keemun. Because, over the years, that tea has acquired the delicious taste of good memories.