I used to think the leaves held the entire story of a tea. Then I brewed the same Pu-erh in two vessels. In a porcelain gaiwan, its fragrance rose quickly: clear, bright, easy to name. In a small clay pot, the tea felt different in my mouth. Something seemed softer. I went back to the gaiwan, then to the pot. Neither cup was wrong. Each had brought a different part of the tea within reach. Since then, I have thought of brewing as a meeting. The leaves bring their history. The water brings...

On my tea table are two Pu-erh cakes. The first is a 2012 Bulang Mountain Wild Big Tree raw Pu-erh, produced by Chunhai Tea Factory in Menghai County. The second is a 2002 Menghai Golden Bud ripe Pu-erh from Quan Xing Long, received through my tea teacher. One has changed slowly for more than fourteen years. The other was transformed through fermentation and then allowed to rest for more than two decades. Beside them is a small Yixing teapot. Two teas. Two kinds of time. And a vessel...

At first, I did not like Pu-erh tea. It tasted of earth and wood. Sometimes, damp leaves. Sometimes an old room that had been closed for too long. I could not understand why people loved it so much. It did not have the astonishing fragrance of an oolong, unfolding from the cup like flowers appearing in an empty room. It lacked the warmth and aromatic clarity I found in certain red teas, the teas called black tea in the West. Nor did it offer the delicate, uplifting calm of green tea, or the...