Not so much as an inquiry; more of a statement. Why is my cup always empty. I know I drank the thing, but tell that to the sad little chilly dribbles at the bottom of the kitty patterned porcelain.
No tea cups should ever be empty; once, I had the pleasure of visiting a small tea house in Toronto (The Tea Empire? The Tea Empress? The Tea... Dynasty?) while rambling about, which has a sunny little spot in my memories now. It was there I learned the truest appreciation for an overflowing cup of tea; as well as french macaroons. It had the airy little pastries, in delicate bourbon vanilla, rose and lavender flavours, with luscious dollops of cream nestled in their layers. They were actually so delicious, I can't recall what they tasted like. They must have infused their ingredients with ambrosia straight from the gods on Mount Olympus.
But I digress.
The young gentleman behind the counter (sweet, slender, shy, and friendly) was excited to chat tea with another enthusiast (read "Future Crazy Cat Woman) about various forms of tea and ceremony. He didn't even take offence when I demanded he admit that the french macaroons sitting glossily in his case were actually "whoopie pies" (a mistake I was soon to correct after tasting the delicate delicacies, and then later on confirming it in a shamefaced Googling later on).
However, he was surprised to learn my then ignorance of Chinese tea ceremony. Delighted, he quickly set up a wooden board with a drain built in the center, with a tray concealed underneath. On the board he set a cluster of statuettes, put on the kettle, set out the cups, and then pulled out the tea.
The tea was unlike any form of its brewed brethren I had tasted. Pu-erh, the fermented Chinese black tea, had been a thing of scourge for me. Musty, weak, and oddly fishy tasty, I had always passed on the pu-erh, even though I had been extorting its benefits for all the world to see (pro-biotics for healthy vaginas/vaginae, plenty of anti-oxidants, lowers cholesterol, etc.). He gently smiled and shook his head no when I explained my dislike of this ancient Chinese tea. Either that, or pity. Moving on.
Apparently, my experience of pu-erh had been similar to swilling pricey Chardonnay out of a shoe. Or at least, that's what I took his quiet explanation of brick pu-erh to loose leaf pu-erh. Good pu-erh tea, he explained, must be aged and cared for properly, exactly like a good wine. Notice how neither of us brought up "tea bags". If you're looking for a Lipton Tea Baggin' It blog, you can just move along now. Nothing to see here.
The water had heated up, with delicate curls of steam reaching up tenderly from the spout. Carefully, he removed it from the heat, chipped off a chunk of the dark brick, and plopped it in the tiny iron cast tea pot. Idly, I spun little coin jammed in the mouth of his three legged frog and watched him add the hot water, then stir the two together with short little jabs with a bamboo instrument. After a few minutes, he dumped the first batch right down the drain. "To rinse it", he explained, and I nodded along, tugging and spinning that little coin.
The next batch sat a little bit longer while we chatted amicably, and then, swirling the tea round its tight little iron belly, he sloshed the tea into the delicate thimble like cups. And by sloshed, I mean splashed, flooded, loaded up. The tea, a pale amber, curled and frothed like a tiny tsunami as it rushed from one container to the other, to flick up and dribble down into the cleverly placed drain. I reached for my cup, fingers brushing through the quickly cooling rivulets of tea, as he fluidly dipped his arm and dumped the rest of the tea on top of the little frog I'd been fiddling with.
A small noise of pleasure and excitement escaped my mouth as I lifted my cup to cover my broad grin. It all just seemed so... naughty. Imagine a tea party where you took the pot of earl grey and slopped it where you please, all over the table, staining the linens, shocking the guests, dripping onto the floor.
"Tea pets", he explained with a smile, his deft fingers refilling the pot for its next steeping. "You've always got to feed your tea pets the extra tea, and they'll bring luck to you and your guests".
"But why did you overfill the cups like that?", I asked eagerly, sniffing the aromas of my cup. Oh, heavenly. Delicately herbal with a dark fermented undertone. My mouth watered.
"To show my guests how generousness I am", he said with another smile, picking up his little bamboo stick. "My tea is overflowing, and so is my charity".
Nodding at that, I took a sip. Delightful, smooth, ancient. Whenever I sip a truly excellent Chinese tea, I always picture myself transported back in time, sipping tea with an ancient Empress of China, in a meadow of unsurpassed loveliness. This cup certainly did not disappoint. We had several more little pots together, each infusion becoming richer and more complex then the last... to my great dismay. I didn't want to keep slurping back this lovely tea, no matter how delicious it was. I had just drank 16oz of cinnamon flavoured Yunnan tea, with one or two of those fluffy french macaroons. The human stomach can only hold 32oz of liquid, and those little thimble cups were adding up.
Thanking him as graciously as I could manage, I sloshed my way to the cash (along with a delightful mug that changes messages when the hot water heats it up), paid the man, and left him with the remaining steepings of pu-erh, of which seemed endless, apparently.
I was fueled up on caffeine, sugar, and off to find Toronto's largest (three-story) sex shop, a must see on any classy lady's tourist dance card.
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