Ancient Medicine Modern World

Da Jue Temple is an excellent place to drink tea. North of the Summer Palace and resting in the foothills outside the 5th of Beijing’s 6 ring roads, it offers a quiet enough to hear the wind rustle leaves moment to recall that forgotten sense of peace that comes with stillness.

Da Jue,大覺, literally translated is Big Sense. But, it also in Buddhist terms means Great Awaking. I suspect it is the Awaking that comes from that settled like a well hammered nail feeling of being rooted and here.

Like so many gates I’ve walked through in China, this one comes through a series of introductions from those who have a fondness for the rich tapestry that is the world of Tea. Scott Searer came to Beijing three years ago to follow tea, much like I’ve followed medicine. He has a wicked sharp ear, and at 40 can still hear that peculiar cell phone ring that is impervious to adults, but readily available to kids. It’s the new way to pass notes in class from cellphone to cellphone. When he called the other day, I heard the stacco RRRR of his Beijing hua, and promptly told him he had called the wrong number. There is not a trace of American in his Chinese.

I suspect his ears are only surpassed by his palate. He talks about tea like a wine connoisseur on a forever holiday in the French countryside. We come to 大覺temple for the quiet. And the water. He brings his own tea.

I don’t understand tea. I drink it. Enjoy it’s company. Love the collections of utensils. That it requires a bit of attention, but not so much that you can’t carry on a conversation at the same time. Indeed, it adds to a conversation, like a pinch of salt brings a stew to life.

I’m no expert, but am spellbound by those that drink it as a symphonic experience. And the sweet spring water of the Da Jue Temple, gives a roundness and feminine cushion to the pot of Tie Guan Yin, tea of the Iron Goddess of Mercy, that we are working the afternoon through.

China and Taiwan both produce Tie Guan Yin, they could not be more different. The Chinese stuff is green, instantly fragrant, sweet like a summer lily and then gone. The Taiwanese stuff, it takes 4 washings of the leaves just to coax them open. It hints sweet, but carries the crack of a leather velvet whip. It is soothing and dangerous at the same time. It calls to mind visions of the Iron Goddess herself. When she wants to lay some mercy on your ass, you don’t politely refuse, you surrender.

Tea, has this medicinal ability to “open the stomach”, so off to an alley north of the Desheng gate bell tower for Sichuan hotpot. Scott is married to a Sichuan girl and in deference to my grey fog Seattle habits, we order the “a little bit hot” pot. Red as ox blood and swimming with peppers, it looks like a dare and it’s steam like a back alley thief will grab you by the throat.
Don’t sit downwind, I’m cautioned.

It is delicious, once the numb and hot peppers coax the tongue into a different state of consciousness.

After that, it is off to see the Pu’er King for the prized leaves that comes from South of Clouds.

Scott warns me we are mere mortals. The Pu’er King is a different kind of creature. Thirty five and already retired from some kind financial dealings. He has the northeastern China stature of bear, with nails that gleam a cross between talons and claws. His apartment is filled with cakes of pu’er tea, it’s littered everywhere. On shelves, counters, stacked pillars on the floor, half the bedroom is awash in green leaves. It is said somewhere in several warehouses, he has 23 tons of the stuff. Pu’er, stored right, especially in Beijing’s bone dry north, and made from leaves that have lived the proper season matures into something rare and expensive.

And exquisitely delicious.
Twenty three tons. I can’t quite fit my mind around that.

I’m used to drinking pu’er out of small delicate cups. The Pu’er King uses Texas sized porcelain. Gods can afford to be generous.