A Proper Pot of Tea

Did it ever cross your mind that tea is one of the few items enjoyed equally by the posh toffs and grimy grubbers of the world? Aspects of the ritual certainly differ vastly among the copious tiers of social strata yet tea drinkers worldwide share a common dependence on their daily “cuppa.” When I was growing up in Neuvo Polonia, the seedy side of Los Angeles where my Eastern European Jewish ancestors settled, there were two kinds of adults: my father, who drank milk-and-sugar-drenched coffee, and all the other adults who drank tea after dinner. Our tea drinkers never sipped afternoon tea, no. In the afternoons they drank schnapps, wine, or cocktails. That was the women, the card players. I couldn’t tell you what the men drank in the afternoon, but it certainly wasn’t tea. Also, there was never a choice of what type of tea one consumed. There was only one type: black. It came in either Ty-phoo or Lipton boxes. Despite the Asiatic sounding name, Ty-phoo was an English proprietary blend available in either loose leaf or bags. Also it was generally less expensive than Lipton. Guess which one prevailed at our house? After dinner, once one was stuffed to the gills, tea would be offered. If the hostess used tea bags, one bag served all. If the hostess used loose leaf, cups would be upended after the last drops were swallowed and one of the old crones at the table would read your fortune. That was teatime at my mother’s house. It was great. I should interject here that during my formative years every single household owned a tea kettle that sat on the stove 24/7, filled with water, ready to start whistling. Sometimes someone needed a cuppa before dinner. This was not ceremonial; it was necessarial. It wasn’t until I immersed myself in English literature that I became conscious of the concept of afternoon tea as a thing. Then, during my early working years, a squad led by an intrepid lad of Chinese American ancestry pulled together the elements for the traditional afternoon pick me up. The electric hot plate and whistling kettle was provided by yours truly, he brought tea bags and sugar, others supplied mugs and boxes of cookies. Styrofoam cups were forbidden, verboten, banned, disallowed. Come two o’clock or four, we gathered round the company sink and reveled in a refreshing jolt of green, black, or golden tea and a biscuit. A cherished memory from the original workplace tea ceremony was when we were paid a visit by a representative of our freight forwarding company. It was one of the first English businesses established in what we now call Hong Kong. I’m not telling you its name, but I will hint that their multi-storied building with round windows was referred to by the locals as the house of a thousand assholes. The gentleman who called on us was British and since his visit was in the afternoon, we offered him a cup of tea and biscuit. He waited patiently for the ubiquitous styrofoam cup with a tag dangling and nowhere to put the over-seeped bag. Instead we asked “One lump or two?” Also, “Milk?” Then we handed him his cup and saucer, biscuit on the side. (Don’t be confused by the term biscuit. British and Indians think it means a flat sweet cookie. If you’re ever in an Indian grocery store, look for Parle-G. You’ll fall in love.) Our proper British visitor, in proper British form, stared at the cup in his hand and uttered, “How civilized.” Those two words made my day, month, year, and life. This tea habit followed me from job to job. There was always an outlet next to the Mr. Coffee maker for a small kettle and a box of teabags. Although I continued to enjoy the occasional cup of tea after dinner, particularly during the weekly television episodes of “Upstairs Downstairs,” I grew entirely dependent upon a strong mugful to keep me awake throughout those God-awful long workday afternoons. It wasn’t until the kids left home and I started collecting old dishes that things got out of hand. Actually, the seed of excess was planted in my brain when I was newly married and inherited a well-used authentic Brown Betty teapot. At the time, I didn’t realize what a treasure it was. All I saw was a big, heavy ol’ pot with a chip in the spout and knew intuitively I should love it. The next bang at the door was when my gal pal gifted me a teapot after I gave birth to my daughter. We’d laid eyes upon a china pattern from England with a design straight out of the 1700s. It was aptly called Singapore Bird and in 1970 the teapot was all mine. Years later, when our children had been fed and watered and kicked out the door, she and I started haunting antique malls to search for old dishes. The big finds were the tea sets. If you have cups and saucers, you absolutely must own a matching teapot. (I know, I know. Consider it a form of addiction that doesn’t involve needles or sketchy guys with packets of white stuff for sale. All that’s required is money and shelf space.) Once I’d scored a tea service or two, it was time for some serious research. My library shelves soon sagged under the weight of books explaining the history of tea and the serving thereof, as well as recipe and etiquette books. The next step was to put book learning to the test with friends as guinea pigs. This meant buying all the other accoutrements needed on the table, such as 3-tiered serving platters, silver strainers and sugar tongs, blah, blah, blah. Imagine your local tea shop. That was my dining room. During the height of this mania, I drove with a bestie to San Diego to be a faux maid at a sister-in-law’s tea party for local dignitaries. Donned in crisp white aprons, we brewed an assortment of teas in the kitchen in sturdy Brown Bettys and decanted them into bone china beauties that we inconspicuously set upon an ornate serving table. Boil, pour, steep, strain, pour, and repeat. The wife of the British Consulate congratulated the hostess at the end of the affair for having served a proper tea. I’m carrying that compliment with me to my grave. Of course, it wasn’t just teas in our pretend parlors. We had to visit every tea salon within a hundred mile radius, attend lectures, sample blends from around the world, and—it goes without saying—buy more teapots. Books were swept off the shelves and replaced by what was now a copious collection of pots from around the globe. I became a tea snob. ‘Ware the unsuspecting tea room that dared deliver a pot of hot water with a teabag floating inside, making the brew bitter. Their first mistake was their last as far as my patronage was concerned. On the other hand, salons that decanted their blend of the day, those were my kind of people. Eventually the mania wore off. So did my capacity to tolerate caffeine … and if that isn’t a sad tale, I don’t know what is. Bushels of teas were carted off to more worthy homes before they grew stale from disuse in my pantry. I was and still am limited to one cup a day, preferably decaf. As I said, just plain sad. Also, the thrill of spending $50 - $100 for a few finger sandwiches, a scone, and several tarts has lost its appeal. The food’s all sugar that transforms within an hour from attractive morsels to muscle cramps. Sad, sad, sad. However, every once in awhile one simply must put on a hat and attend a Cream Tea, High Tea, or Chocolate Tea at the toff spots. My gal pal and I took her daughter-in-law to a Chocolate Tea last year at the top ranking venue. All went well until the wait staff removed our plates so we could pony up to the dessert bar but left our dirty flatware on the table. Madame the Queen Tea Snob was not pleased. She had a quiet word with the manager after her guests were out of earshot and has since been advised that the flatware is now removed with the china and fresh forks adorn the sides of the chocolate fountain. If you go to Trader Joe’s, you can find individually sized bottles of ready-brewed Oolong tea which is actually quite palatable. These days I dump an envelope of Sweet ’N Low into one, give it a good shake, and take swigs from the bottle like a beer guzzler at a tailgate party. No one sees me. I drink alone. Lo, how the mighty have fallen.