Tradition and ultra-modernity meet in Japan more than in any other culture I have come across. And this unusual marriage emerges just as much in tea as it does in architecture. The same country that has been following an incredibly elaborate tea ceremony for nearly six hundred years has also adopted an entirely mechanized tea production process. Unlike China, where a human hand takes tea along much of the journey from the bush to the cup, Japan makes extensive use of machines for harvesting and processing leaves. But then an eye for innovation is in itself a tradition of Japanese teamaking.

Over the centuries, Japanese producers developed new teamaking techniques that gave us teas of the calibre of Sencha. But it is the invention of Gyokuro that fascinates me the most. I can almost picture a tea grower from Uji, eyes shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, glancing up at the sky on a very bright day and wondering: �??What would happen if I shaded my bushes for twenty days? Let�??s give it a shot.�?�

Whatever prompted him to have this thought, he was in for a winner. Gyokuro went on to become Japan’s most expensive tea. To this day, canvas, straw or bamboo mats shelter tea buds for about three weeks before picking. This ensures the leaves are a darker shade of green and imparts a unique flavor to the tea. A flavor which is very easily ruined. The hardest part about Gyokuro is brewing it correctly. I know this because I did it wrong the first time I tried it and ended up with a mouth-puckering, bitter liquor that reminded me of bile.

My mistake was getting the water too hot. The key to brewing a good Gyokuro is to keep water temperature to a maximum of 130F. When I made it yesterday, I steeped 9g leaves for 7oz for about two and a half minutes, though tradition dictates using even more leaves�??as much as 10g for 2oz. My cup was pale green, with a delicious scent of wild meadow, and a strong vegetaley sweetness in the mouth.

What a contrast with the Bancha I had today. While Gyokuro is picked at the beginning of the season, Bancha is picked between summer and autumn so its leaves have a much coarser appearance and milder flavor. The one I had today was a convenience cup made with a Lima teabag, so it wasn�??t, strictly speaking, proper tea, though it was highly enjoyable for a commodity drink. It yielded an amber cup with a strong aroma of toasted cereals. In the mouth it was sweet with a long barley-ish end. Where Gyokuro had the vivid and fresh nature of a Renaissance painting, Bancha had the darker, subdued appeal of the Baroque.