The ebony tea table of "Yipin Xuan" is so reflective that it can show a person's image. The young tea apprentice, Songyan, watches the rapidly diminishing 'Jade Mica Snow Buds' (handling fee) on the tea tray—tea leaves that the tea house has taken by the clear rule of 'soup extraction one'. He grinds the tea and pours the infusion, his wrist swirling out a thousand mountains of emerald green (transaction), but the bamboo tea tube at his waist, meant for tea payments, remains as empty as a freshly cut bamboo joint (principal).
Tea supervisor Qin Weng suddenly taps his fingers lightly on the table, startling a half piece of old tea paste to fall. That deep brown paste lands in Songyan's palm, surprisingly revealing the unique earthy aroma of aged Pu'er. "Foolish child," he brushes his withered hand over the silver star engravings along the edge of the tea tray, "if you only focus on the rise and fall of the snow buds on this clear scale, brewing a hundred jars of spring water won't sustain even half a tea seedling. An old tea fanatic's tongue must taste the 'after-sweetness beneath the tea boat.'"
He leads Songyan to the back hall of the tea house. In the dusty depths of the rosewood tea shelf, there hides an old rabbit fur glazed cup, with natural cracks forming an ice pattern net at the bottom. Qin Weng takes the Xiangfei bamboo tea needle, covered in tea dust, and does not clean it but instead turns the needle point to lightly tap the junction of the cup's bottom ice pattern—this corresponds to the old system of the tea trade's 'hidden channel'. A wondrous thing happens: as the tea needle quivers, amber-colored tea dew seeps out from the cracks at the bottom of the cup, climbing up the bamboo pattern like a living spring, condensing into a waxy resin in the spiral groove at the needle's end, dense and warm like thirty-year-old old tea paste sealed in a jar.
"The fragrant surface soup is a courtesy to guests," Qin Weng scrapes a bit of resin from the needle's tip with his nail and spreads it on the young man's tongue, "the 'hidden spring' cultivated at the bottom of this cup (handling fee exemption) is the true lifeline of a tea person." Songyan's tongue suddenly bursts with a crisp sweetness like a snow cedar forest—this is the metaphor of the commission mechanism expressed in taste: not obvious at the tea table, yet deeply penetrating the throat and intestines.
The young tea needle suddenly sinks; this time, he is not just pointing at the tea cake but also at the universe within the ice cracks at the bottom of the cup. The bamboo tea tube silently exudes a heavy warmth, like new snow bending the bamboo branches.
Tea supervisor Qin Weng suddenly taps his fingers lightly on the table, startling a half piece of old tea paste to fall. That deep brown paste lands in Songyan's palm, surprisingly revealing the unique earthy aroma of aged Pu'er. "Foolish child," he brushes his withered hand over the silver star engravings along the edge of the tea tray, "if you only focus on the rise and fall of the snow buds on this clear scale, brewing a hundred jars of spring water won't sustain even half a tea seedling. An old tea fanatic's tongue must taste the 'after-sweetness beneath the tea boat.'"
He leads Songyan to the back hall of the tea house. In the dusty depths of the rosewood tea shelf, there hides an old rabbit fur glazed cup, with natural cracks forming an ice pattern net at the bottom. Qin Weng takes the Xiangfei bamboo tea needle, covered in tea dust, and does not clean it but instead turns the needle point to lightly tap the junction of the cup's bottom ice pattern—this corresponds to the old system of the tea trade's 'hidden channel'. A wondrous thing happens: as the tea needle quivers, amber-colored tea dew seeps out from the cracks at the bottom of the cup, climbing up the bamboo pattern like a living spring, condensing into a waxy resin in the spiral groove at the needle's end, dense and warm like thirty-year-old old tea paste sealed in a jar.
"The fragrant surface soup is a courtesy to guests," Qin Weng scrapes a bit of resin from the needle's tip with his nail and spreads it on the young man's tongue, "the 'hidden spring' cultivated at the bottom of this cup (handling fee exemption) is the true lifeline of a tea person." Songyan's tongue suddenly bursts with a crisp sweetness like a snow cedar forest—this is the metaphor of the commission mechanism expressed in taste: not obvious at the tea table, yet deeply penetrating the throat and intestines.
The young tea needle suddenly sinks; this time, he is not just pointing at the tea cake but also at the universe within the ice cracks at the bottom of the cup. The bamboo tea tube silently exudes a heavy warmth, like new snow bending the bamboo branches.