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.

Calm, harmony and me hardly go hand in hand together. Which is why I was slightly apprehensive as I took out cup, scoop and whisk from the kitchen drawers. It was time for chanoyu, and I doubted I could do it.

It takes a lifetime to master chanoyu, which literally means water to tea, but designates the Japanese tea ceremony. A lifetime to do something that will last a few minutes. But then chanoyu is a lot more than gestures. It is a mindset, an approach to life. A triumph of humility and serenity, of intimate and quiet spirituality.

Surprisingly, the roots of today�??s tea ceremony go back to the Azuchi Momoyama era when Japan was hardly ever peaceful. Feudal lords battled for supremacy, resorting to anything from ferocious battled to hired assassins. And yet it was during this troubled time that Buddhist koji Sen no Rikyu rose to prominence as a tea master.

Rikyu replaced the contemporary fashion for expensive cups and pots with everyday tools that spoke of modesty and frugality. He spread the custom of serving tea in a simply furnished teahouse that would be pleasing to the eye but devoid of all luxury�??a single flower in a simple vase was his idea of decorating. Guests would enter through a small door, humbling themselves and leaving behind their caste, and their cares. Inside, every thought, every attention went only to tea.

In 1591, Rikyu fell foul of his master, the daimyo Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who exiled him from Kyoto. But the koji chose to commit seppuku rather than go into an undignified exile.

After his death, the tea ceremony relaxed some of the strict simplicity rules that Rikyu had espoused. However, his principles�??harmony, respect, purity and tranquillity�??survived.
�??Though many people drink tea, if you do not know the Way of Tea, tea will drink you up,�?� he said.

So I set out to learn the rudiments of the Way of Tea today. The secret to chanoyu, I read somewhere, is the elegance of movements that can only come with a relaxed mind. Well, I was as relaxed as I�??d ever be. Which is to say, not much.

Still, I took out my chawan, whisk and tea scoop, rinsed them and dried them. I placed two-thirds of a scoop of matcha into the bowl, then added two oz. steaming water. I whisked the tea then passed the bowl to my guest of honor�??myself.

Swapping places with my host-self, my guest-self admired the brilliant green of the tea, and enjoyed its grassy scent. I took a sip of frothy grassiness with just an idea of pleasant bitterness at the end.

It was lovely. But it really didn�??t matter. Nor did it matter that I was far from zen-like when I started out. Because my first lesson in the way of tea was that the pleasure with chanoyu is in the harmonious magic of simply making tea.

Signor Soana was distraught.

�??I am so sorry,�?� he said. �??I have run out of my usual Formosa oolong. I can offer you another one instead. It is good, though not as good as my usual one.�?�

I was sorry too�??until I compared prices. Phew, that was an escape. Signor Soana�??s usual oolong is twice as expensive as the replacement one. Undoubtedly, it will also be twice as good, but since my tea expenses have already come under my family�??s scrutiny, settling for the cheaper one suits me just fine. Plus Signor Soana has been twenty-five years in the business so he knows decent tea when he sees it. Still, I joked that I wouldn�??t go back if I didn�??t like it.

Accident shaped my oolong palate on Formosa. At the shop where I worked, the only oolongs we carried came from there, chiefly because oolong was little known at the time and, in any case, here in Europe, Formosa was a synonym for it. Which is a bit unfair really because oolong teamaking first emerged in mainland China. Its birthplace was Fujian, where some enterprising grower first created it in the 17th century, or thereabouts. Fujian settlers brought the technique to Taiwan in the 19th century and it quickly became a local specialty, matching and perhaps even eclipsing the fame of the mainland version. This may well have had something to do with the Cold War, and with the fact that Taiwanese tea growers were very accommodating of Western demands and made some of their oolongs with high degrees of oxidation. But it is also true that Formosa oolongs, whether highly or lightly oxidized, are delicious, which is why I was particularly looking forward to my cup.
I put Soana’s Oolong Fancy to the test against a much pricier Formosa Imperial Phoenix Oolong by Whittard. I brewed them both gongfu style, filling the bottom of two gaiwans with leaves and steeping them for three breaths. They both yielded cups of a beautiful deep amber color. However, the Formosa Imperial Phoenix Oolong had a more pronounced floral scent than the other one. The FIPO was light and aromatic in the mouth while Soana�??s Oolong Fancy had a stronger black tea mouthfeel. It was not as sophisticated as the Whittard one, but held its own nicely, like aGainsborough against a Van Dyck.

When I visit Soana next, I�??ll tell him. I suppose this means he�??ll keep my custom. Even if he says he gets all his teas from a French importer, (the admittedly extraordinary) Dammann Frères, �??because the French are more reliable than the British.�?�

Vietnamese like their tea green and strong. Or so Vietnam tea exporter Future Generation leads me to believe. I know virtually nothing of Vietnam�??s tea drinking habits so I am taking the site at face value.

Vietnam has a patchy tea history. According to the Vietnam Tea Association, tea bushes have been growing in the country for centuries. The French, which colonized Vietnam in the mid 19th0, started growing tea commercially in the early 19th century. They had some success selling Vietnamese black tea to the European market and green tea to the North African one. But the two Vietnam wars�??first against France, then against the US�??wreaked havoc with the local plantations. It is only over the last ten years that the Vietnamese tea industry began flourishing. Tea drinking, however, continued throughout the years, and Vietnam consumes about half of the green tea it produces.

Future Generation says that the Vietnamese have a tea ceremony, which, though not as articulate as the Japanese one, is nonetheless an important part of their culture. What struck me about it is that they are only supposed to brew tea using rainwater or dew taken from lotus leaves. On my side of the world, this would make tea drinking very rare indeed. Which is why I used tap water instead, though I let it run a little to make it as fresh as possible. I also read that the Vietnamese always boil water first, then let it cool to about 90C, so I followed suit. I steeped 2.5g of Shan Tran leaves I had got from Soana, in Milan, for three minutes in the cooled water. The resulting liquor was a lovely golden green, with a strong vegetaley scent that had something of the sea in it. It had a good mouthfeel, smooth and fuller bodied than I thought. Slightly astringent, it had a very long vegetaley end. Like a vivid landscape on a Vietnamese silk scroll.

Savage lightning ripped through the tropical storm, casting a disquieting light over the thick reeds and rugged rocks of Mompracem, an island in the Borneo archipelago. It was my first and most vivid encounter with South East Asia.

It was also a literary one�??the opening of Emilio Salgari�??s La Tigre della Malesia, where a heroic Malay Prince, Sandokan, fights against �??those poisoners of people, those land thieves, those dogs�?� that are the British to avenge the massacre of his family. He paints a wild land of sleek tigers, fat pig-deer, entwining vines as big as snakes and a restless sea where slim prahos defy winds, waves and English warships.

Later, much later, I read the English side of the story in Kalimantaan and in White Rajah, where the rebels become sanguinary, head-chopping pirates, British Rajah James Brooke is torn between his native Britain and his beloved Sarawak, and the massacre of the Brunei princes is a family affair ordered by the Sultan himself. Which is probably closer to the truth, though it lacks the gripping, page-turning adventures of Salgari�??s novels. But even in White Rajah�??s dry, historic account of life in Borneo, nature triumphs. The oppressive heat, the towering palm trees, the crocodile-infested rivers dwarf the mere humans.

The British had tea, of course, an oasis of refinement in the encroaching wilderness. Though whether it was local tea or imported from China or India I don�??t know. It probably wasn�??t Malay. According to Boh Tea, the first highland plantation in Malaysia�??which now rules over part of the Borneo, while Indonesia rules the rest�??was established on the Cameron Highlands in 1929.

Tea could have come from Indonesia, though, where Dutch settlers started growing it as early as the 18th century. Cultivation began on Java, and, although Sumatra and Sulawesi followed suit, the island remains Indonesia�??s largest tea producer. So it is hardly surprising that the only Indonesian tea I managed to find came from there. It�??s a black Orange Pekoe, which is no longer a typical example of Indonesia�??s production. Green tea, which was introduced relatively recently, has now taken over. But I liked the idea of having the same tea that James Brooke could possibly have drunk.

Special Teas suggested steeping one heaped teaspoon in boiling water for three minutes. The cup was a deep dark amber with a deliciously fragrant nose. In the mouth, it had enough body and a sweet, serviceable taste, though slightly flat. It was a perfectly decent tea, and good value�??much like those minor Italian painters that drew postcard views of Rome and Naples for the English in the age of the Grand Tour. But it had none of the wilderness, the explosive nature that my books had led me to expect from Indonesia.

Thailand brings to mind images of a bright orange iced drink, served sweet and accompanied by condensed milk, that I find hard to call tea. It may well be the most popular way to drink tea in Thailand, but my sensitive taste buds occasionally hinder my quest for authenticity. Using the rather flimsy excuse that the right tea to brew this concoction is hard to get outside Thailand, I caved in to my mouth�??s pressures and went for a Thai black tea from Mariage Frères.

I should feel awfully guilty, of course, but even I can�??t lie so brazenly to myself. And it would be particularly hard after having had a cup of Cha Thai BFOP, because I loved it. I had picked it for no better reason than it was the cheapest Thai tea at Mariage Frères. But the moment I smelled the leaves�??sweet, intense, chocolatey�??I was sold.

Steeping 2.5g of nearly powdery leaves into 7oz water for 2 minutes gave a marvellously brown cup with a slightly subtler scent than the leaves, but still strongly chocolatey. It had a good, jolt-your-buds mouthfeel, with more chocolate at first approach followed by an exquisite, lightly malty note. Enough body and personality let it shine through milk and�??I suspect, though I didn�??t try�??even sugar.

Cha Thai flaunts his flavor like the wanton beauty of Titian�??s Venus. Sophisticated, it ain�??t. But it is my kind of tea.

My friend Leslie, who likes tea and occasionally reads this blog, asked me how I make tea. Now, I am primarily a black tea drinker and I tend to brew it the British way. This means that I pre-warm a ceramics teapot, put the leaves in, pour water on top as soon as it starts boiling (95C) and let them steep for a few minutes. The first time I try a new tea, I usually follow the vendor�??s instructions on amount of leaves to use and steeping times, and then adjust them to my taste for the future. When there are none, or, more likely, when I misplace them, I go for the classic British formula�??a teaspoon for every cup�??and almost always end up with something drinkable.

Green tea, however, is a very different kettle of pisces. I find that general formulae don�??t work at all so I am forced to rely a lot more on vendors�?? recommendations, as well as my previous knowledge and a generous amount of trial and error. Which is why I was gutted when I discovered that I had no instructions to brew the tea from Laos I had scheduled for today. I had bought it a few weeks ago from Soana, in Milan, together with an Assam Mokalbari, a Vietnam Shan Tran and a Turkish tea. The old shopkeeper told me how to brew each of them as he placed the leaves in shiny red bags. I should have written it all down pronto, but decided to trust my usually reliable memory instead. It was a show of supreme hubris for which the gods promptly punished me. Because, much as I racked my feeble neurons this morning, I couldn�??t remember anything. The old man�??s instructions had vanished in the same black hole that sucked my scarce notions of law and all poems learned by heart at school. A blessed vacuum, whence there is no return.

I opened up the bag in search of inspiration, saw the odd stalk and what looked like coarse leaves, and hazarded a recipe. I steeped 4g of leaves per 7oz in a pot of heavily steaming water for two minutes. The resulting cup was deep golden with a delicate scent blending toasted nuts and some undergrowth with a vegetaley essence. It was very sweet in the mouth with a persistent endnote, which I thought of as barley coffee and which reminded me of Japanese kukicha. It was good, no question about it. A comforting winter tea, like a Corot landscape. Only, I am not sure this is what it was supposed to taste like.

So Leslie, my dear, here is my one tip for you: When you are get a new tea, write the brewing instructions down and keep them safe.

An adventurer I interviewed years ago tried to persuade me that he had once seen a woman with a tail in Burma. He was dead serious when he told me the story and insisted on it. She was the missing link, he said. To this day, I don�??t know whether he really believed in what he was saying, or was simply very good at taking me for a ride.

Beyond that, what I know about Burma or rather the Union of Myanmar, as the governing military junta rechristened the country, is rather disheartening. The opium fields. The liberticide regime. The repression of opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi, who won the 1990 democratic elections only to be placed under an on and off house arrest for the last sixteen years.

For this reason, I thought long and hard before buying Burmese tea. Anything that will bring money to the local military regime bothers me. But then I weighed that against the fact that income from tea trickles down to the local growers and maybe�??just maybe�??buying from them can help sway them away from opium. If only tea became more profitable than heroine. Silly as it sounds, it convinced me.

So I ordered some 100g of Ko Kant from Mariage Fr&egrave:res. The tea in itself is very interesting. Picked from �??nearly wild�?� trees, according to Mariage Fr&egrave:res, it is entirely handmade.

I followed the brewing instructions, steeping 5g of leaves in water at 95C for three minutes, but found the cup slightly too bitter. So I brewed it again steeping 5g in steaming water for two minutes. It yielded a rich golden cup with a vegetaley scent and just a hint of earthy undergrowth. A fleeting floral sweetness hit the mouth first, followed by a long, sober vegetaley note.

Maybe I am prejudiced by its origin, but Ko Kant tastes austere, dark, almost barren, like the moon on a bad day or a Morandi still life. It is an interesting tea, though not one I see myself drinking regularly. Still, I drained my cup this once, in silent toast to a better future for the Burmese people�??and to the girl with a tail if she really does exist.

Marco Polo had just returned from Cathai, Dante Alighieri was penning the Divine Comedy and the Pope was about to flee Rome for Avignon when some enterprising tea grower from Guangdong, in Southern China, first brewed Zhongshan Baiye, the Phoenix Bird.

The tea bushes it comes from have never been pruned, so pickers need ladders to gather the leaves, which are then oxidized to about 40 percent. I had never tried this historic oolong, so curiosity had the better of me when I came across it on the Special Teas website, and I picked it up.

I tried it today, gongfu style. Pointedly ignoring instructions, I filled the bottom of my gaiwan with leaves, then poured what I hoped was crab’s eye water on top. I let the leaves steep for five breaths before pouring the liquor into the pitcher.

Every description I have read about Zhongshan Baiye wants it delicate, with fruity and toasty notes. I am starting to wonder whether my nose and palate are slightly skewed, because this is most emphatically not what I experienced with this tea. My cup was a rich amber color with a strong, pleasantly vegetal scent. The same quality emerged with clarity in the mouth. It was lightly sweet at first approach, buu a definite vegetaley character came out clearly in the long finish.

It tasted like a cup of awakening countryside and, for once, it didn’t immediately evoke a painting or a painter. I keep wanting to say Constable, because of the country landscape, but the colors are all wrong. This tea is darker, like a faded scroll. Like, now that I think of it, the dark ochre scroll hanging just behind my desk. A delicate portrait of willowy ladies against a barely-there landscape. Beautiful, and gloriously anonymous.

The most precious. A peak of refinement. A tea fit for an Emperor. An extraordinary mystique surrounds China�??s Silver Needle. That it is rare, there is no doubt. Only the silvery buds of selected tea bushes are picked for it, and only during a few days in early spring. But I learned long ago that rare doesn�??t necessarily mean good. Exclusive and expensive are words that appeal to fashion-conscious people who often lack the tools to make up their mind by themselves. Now, I have many shortcomings, but the desperate need to belong to any jet set doesn�??t number among them. Which is probably why I had never had the urge to try it until the tour started and I felt I could hardly skip the cream of China�??s crop.

Still, Silver Needle is universally celebrated as the world�??s best white tea and it is with respectful curiosity that I approached it today. I got a small sample from Special Teas and brewed it by steeping two soup spoons in 6oz steaming water for two minutes. It yielded a pale golden cup with a lovely scent of herbs and sweet flowers. It was sweet in the mouth too, but with some herby and nutty notes at the end. All very delicate, though, very mild. Hints, suggestions, impressions, rather than flavors. Which immediately brought to mind Berthe Morisot in her more intimate paintings.

The second steep had a slightly stronger herby accent but was still very elegant and restrained, confirming the first impression. This is a brew for a quiet meditation on an early spring afternoon, when the sun is still cool.

A good tea? Yes. The best in the world? Not by a long shot.