It’s 1973. You’re on a red-eye flight to Boston from LA, and the flight’s been delayed for half an hour. Something on the tarmac. Something with an engine check. You try to rest your eyes, but the in-cabin lighting stays on until liftoff. The buzz of the lights tickles your ears, the backs of your eyelids red. You give up on trying to nap. Instead, you sit up straight and have another sip of the whiskey the stewardess brought over to apologize for the holdup. 

As you sip, the man next to you taps his attache case in the corner of your eye. His suit is well-pressed, crisp folds traveling down his arms and legs, the sharp lines dissecting his figure. His tapping is silent. It’s why you haven’t asked him to stop. He taps with the thick pad of his forefinger. From his seat wafts the not-unpleasant smell of well-oiled leather. 

Your whiskey is empty. You’d nursed it as long as you could, hoping its slow heat might put you in the sleeping mood. There’d been a faint hope that the stewardess would be back before you’d finished to take it away and place your tray in the upright position. As it is, you see her coming, walking down the rows, stopping, smiling, apologizing. You raise your finger to flag her down. She meets your eye. Then a familiar pop and hiss flares up from the row behind you. The stewardess frowns and passes you by. Sorry, sir. No smoking ‘til liftoff. 

A moment and some unpleasant grumbling pass, and the stewardess is back to take your whiskey glass. Much longer? Her smile is an apology. The whiskey she brings back is a peace offering. You shrug and throw this one back, eyes straight up at the yellow lights. Tendrils of thin smoke hang over them, the remnants of the stillborn cigarette. 

I wasn’t alive in 1973. I’ve also never been on a red-eye flight or a flight where smoking was permitted. The nevers are where imagination lives, where language turns into imagery and feeling. Sometimes imagination is the only tool we have to carve out a unique experience to share with others. It’s why I love words, love writing, love novelty. For instance, I’ve never attempted to describe a puer tea before. But, through the nevers, I can make you feel it.

For my last tea reflection of the year, I wanted to reflect on a personal favorite: white2tea’s 2020 Demon Slayer. As one of the first sheng puers I ever tried and one that’s been my constant companion throughout the year, it felt right. While the rest of my tea reflections have been sponsored (thank you again to UmiTea Sets and Nio Teas), this one comes instead as a personal recommendation. It also comes as a challenge. 

As I’ve said, I’ve never attempted to describe a puer. And let me tell you, it’s hard. 

I’ve written this piece three times, pulling words like teeth out from my skull, trying to arrange them in a way that portrays the experience of drinking raw, aged tea. The problem I’ve struck upon is that, like any unique flavor, it both constipates and inspires all language. It’s like trying to describe salt. What do you say? It’s salt. It’s salty. Instead, you flounder around in metaphors and similes in vain effort. It’s the sweat on your brow. It’s your tears. It’s the air over the ocean at sunrise. 

Don’t misunderstand: much like salt, drinking puer tea is not some other-worldly experience. It is a mundane process of processed and aged tea leaves, which leads to an interesting taste, mouthfeel, and, occasionally, full-body sensation. Yet the language to describe it doesn’t quite exist, forcing me into prose. To break up the imagery, let’s start this reflection with some cold, hard facts.

2020 Demon Slayer is an aged sheng puer, meaning it is composed of tea leaves that are processed, compressed, and then left to oxidize slowly over time. Much like wine, this aging process creates a more complex flavor so long as the cakes are stored well. In terms of puer, two years old is relatively young. There hasn’t been enough time for the flavors to shift drastically. A large market exists for cakes that have been stored for five, ten, twenty years, or more for the rarity, complexity, and individual tastes that age brings. All puers are a little distinct and, based on the quality of leaves and storage, priced quite differently. Demon Slayer is on the lower end of this market as it’s still young and made of a subset of tea leaves called huangpian. 

Huangpian, or “yellow leaf”, is often called “the farmer’s leaf”. On many tea farms, only the highest quality leaves get sold to the market, usually consisting of the buds, first, and second leaves. The rest of the harvest, made up of the third, fourth, and fifth leaves, is kept by the farmers as their personal tea supply for the year. These leaves are less delicate than their higher-grade brothers, often with more robust and complex flavor profiles. They’re not sold in large quantities on the market as everyone wants the newest, freshest leaves. That makes puer tea made out of huang pian cheaper, so they are often the first accessible cakes that tea drinkers try.

Which is exactly what happened to me. Intimidated by the vast world of puer open to me, I took a chance on a cheap tea with interesting artwork. The first session I had with my partner was spent desperately trying to describe what I was tasting, what I was feeling. I had no idea tea could physically affect the body in the way I was affected during that session. I understood what people meant by “tea drunk”. I felt as if I’d accessed some unsaid knowledge shared between tea drinkers across the world. I served it to my siblings at a tea-tasting session I hosted, not with tasting notes but with, “It’s going to get weird, guys. Just trust me.”

The effect I’m describing is sometimes called qi. Just as tea originates in China, so does the word qi, roughly translating to, “vital energy” or “vital force”. It’s a feeling of pure alertness, of being fully within your body and your space. To avoid getting too mystical about it, it’s a kind of caffeine flow that only tea can provide. It’s a feeling of warmth spreading through your chest, of a headrush that is pleasant instead of dizzying. Without experiencing this effect, it’s difficult to even imagine. That is why, instead of spending this reflection waxing on about flavor notes and steep lengths, I’ve turned to word painting. I can’t describe tea drunkenness or the entire principle of qi. There’s no way to simplify it in a way that works. 

The cold open description of a red-eye flight in the 70s is the most accurate way for me to transcribe the taste and experience of 2020 Demon Slayer. Still, to be a sport, I will attempt some more “normal” flavor notes:

-Breathing in the scent of a fall forest, leaves decaying underfoot

-Secretly sucking on a copper penny you found on the floor when you were six years old

-Mulled wine cooking on the stove in the other room while you sit in front of a crackling fire

-The smell of a good whiskey served at a wood-paneled bar

-The tingle of Poprocks fizzing along your cheeks, even after you’ve swallowed the rest of the bag

Puer brings out the artist in me, the one attempting to say something on paper that can’t be put into words. 2020 Demon Slayer was one of my first puers and holds a special place in my heart. Drinking it puts me in a creative tizzy. And after three drafts attempting to describe it for you, I think I’ve settled on one I like best. Happy steeping, friends. See you next week.