Often at night as I angle for bed or drift into sleep I fantasize about the tea I will have in the morning. Day-welcoming, fast-breaking tea, whose hot temperature will belie the bracing truth of its vegetal, mineral nature. I imagine, just on the other side of unconsciousness, the cup in my hand, fragrance wafting. Nerve endings along my spine twitch, loosen, and tighten, all at once. I feel silent excitement, harbingers of rapture, and a soothing sort of anticipation, one that pulls me under with ease. No matter what else happens, it says, relief and pleasure await me after I come back up from the night’s descent. No matter the day, a gift awaits in the morning.
Tea on an empty stomach used to give me nausea. At times it would fold me over like a drug overdose, until some food would assuage the condition. I can’t say when this tendency subsided, but there is nothing left of it anymore, just the memory. Now drinking plain tea on an empty stomach is the first cut I carve into a new day.
The stimulating quality of tea begs comparison to coffee, as if the either-or relationship between the two were a matter of fact. Long ago, for me, it was. More stimulation or less, I might have asked myself in advance of choosing one or the other. Watery and subtle or rich and intense, I would have wondered. Light or dark, soft or hard. But the dichotomy has been cleaved. The bean holds little appeal to me as compared with the leaf. Its effect is incomparable, its role not the same. Coffee sours my mouth, weakens my stomach, and coaxes from me too many words and cold, malodorous sweat. It races through me at full speed, scenting my urine with a reductive approximation of its formerly complex and enticing aroma. No, coffee has become an occasional social act, a first martini of the day, and it comes at a price occasionally worth paying. It holds no appeal for me before breakfast, and claims no place in my life on a private, slow-motion morning.
To me, Japanese green teas smell of sea air, grass, and toasted almonds. They combine delectably sweet and cooly bitter notes into a remarkably unified whole. Pale golden-green and never acidic or cloudy, they seem unusually strong in their own way. I tend to brew them aggressively, maximizing that unique brand of bitterness and what I perceive to be a powerful, restorative, tranquilizing alkalinity. Uji sencha and its shade-grown variant, gyokuro, are what I usually reach for in the early morning.
If I have tea again after breakfast, I typically choose a different variety. A Chinese green, or a Korean one, or an oolong I like, or a crystal-clear amber Darjeeling. Smokiness I avoid, and malty flavors, and the heaviness of an opaque brew. But searing astringency? Bright tartness? Hints of resin? Floral notes? A kick of citrus-like fragrance native to a varietal leaf? All of this I love. All of this satisfies that urge that drives my desire for tea.
What tea leaves in its wake, after I swallow a mouthful, is a refreshed, clean, satisfied sensation—as if an intensified, perfected version of the impression that remains of fresh water. But flavor and mouthfeel is only part of what tea leaves me loving. The rest affects body and mind, the two entwined and commanded to a quietly energized, smoothly alert disposition.
Of all my compulsions, that for tea seems the most virtuous and least troublesome one.