At the Tao of Tea the man wore a kurta. It looked like it was shining in the candlelight. He was sitting at a table in front of a shelf lined with canisters. He had his eyes closed and was breathing in the steam from the pot of tea in front of him. He poured it and drank from his tea bowl. He looked up, confused that I was there. His voice was low and melodic. He said the word “oolong” with his lips puffed out. Like he wanted to give the word a kiss. I smelled all the oolongs. I had a cold. Certain oolongs were supposed to smell more “toasty.” Others were supposed to smell “floral” or “like apricots.” When he opened the canisters, I tried to smell, and my nose whistled a little. I think the man raised his eyebrows at me. I bought whatever he told me. He told me how much to use and how long to let it steep and how hot the water should be. I went home and boiled the water and scorched the shit out of those leaves just to spite him. I drank the bitter tea and smiled.
