A History of Tea in Australia

Come closer, dear friend, and let us draw the curtains against the afternoon glare. In the cool hush of the parlour, I shall pour for you a cup that tastes of memory as much as leaf. Of all the questions our Society has sent on crisp notepaper and in lively whispers, one returns as faithfully as the kettle’s song: how did tea come to weave itself so tightly into the Australian day? Pray, sit a while; I will tell you a little history—stirred with anecdote, sweetened with ritual, and finished with a crystal clink.

Australia’s tea story is as much about the open air as the drawing room. Long before elegant saucers clinked in city arcades, the bush had its own ceremony: the billy set upon a fire, leaves tossed in with a practiced hand, and a swirl to settle the grounds. By the late 1800s, that simple tin was so woven into life under the wide sky that it became a national emblem—practical, companionable, and dear to those who worked and wandered far from town.

In the great capitals, tea took another shape—soft lamps, fine china, and impeccably dressed windows promising cakes behind glass. Melbourne’s famed tea rooms of the 1890s offered precisely that civilised pause. The space now known as The Tea Rooms 1892—home of the original Hopetoun Tea Rooms—opened its doors to polite society in that decade, becoming a fashionable refuge for luncheon and afternoon respite. One imagines a hush of conversation, a fan folded on a lap, and a plate of sponge not long for this world.

Clara once observed, while adjusting a vase of roses in our own parlour, that such rooms succeed because they give permission to linger. “A cup,” she said, “is time made gentle.”

As the appetite for tea grew, local merchants began blending and packing to suit Australian tastes. Bushells traces its beginnings to 1883, when Alfred Bushell opened his tea shop in Queensland; by 1899, his sons had shifted operations to Sydney and began selling tea commercially at scale. The brand would become a fixture of pantries and conversations alike. Robur, another notable name, was founded in Melbourne around 1900 and left its mark not only on the palate but also upon the cityscape—the Robur Tea House and warehouse still an echo of an era when tea merchants were industrial powerhouses as well as purveyors of comfort.

When scarcity pressed upon Australia during the Second World War, tea was the first essential to be rationed. From June 1942, an adult allowance was set (around half a pound—226 grams—every five weeks, if you please), a calculation meant to deliver roughly three small cups a day. Coupons were surrendered like miniature vows, and households learned the grace of making do. Even now, older friends of the Society recall saving leaves for a second, lighter pot and guarding the biscuit tin as though it were a jewel box.

Though the teabag’s invention belongs to earlier decades, it was not until 1959 that teabags truly arrived in Australian kitchens—thanks to a well-publicised push by Lipton. The convenience was undeniable, and many households embraced teabags for their everyday cup, keeping loose-leaf for a slower, more ceremonial brew. Thus did the nation learn to live quite happily with two tempos of tea: brisk and practical on weekdays, lingering and leaf-forward on weekends.

From the early 20th century onward, suburban milk bars and cafés—many stewarded by Greek families—became beloved community hubs where tea, milkshakes, and conversation were served in equal measure. These venues brought together the sociable sparkle of the taverna with the easy comfort of the Australian corner shop, shaping a habit of tea-and-a-chat that continues in countless neighbourhoods.

While most tea was—and remains—imported, Australia did nurture its own green rows in the warm, wet north. The Nerada story, with roots reaching back to pioneering experiments and a modern factory established in the 1970s, produced the country’s largest volumes of locally grown black tea from the Atherton Tablelands in Far North Queensland. In recent years, shifting tastes have challenged that model; production at the estate was paused in 2023 while the company explored higher-value pathways. Meanwhile, the Daintree Tea Company, established in 1978, continues as a family operation amid the rainforest. These are modest ventures by global standards, yet they add a distinctly Australian note to the cup.

(For the curious: small-scale tea growing exists in other pockets, but Australian production remains limited overall, with most leaf still arriving from abroad—black foremost, with a whisper of green from cooler valleys.)

In our present decade, tea has once again stepped into the spotlight—not as mere habit, but as a chosen pleasure. Loose-leaf has returned to fashionable tables and quiet kitchens alike; proper infusers have replaced strained improvisations; and many have rediscovered that freshness, water temperature, and time are the three graces of a beautiful cup. Non-pyramidal teabags still hold their place for swifter moments, but the ritual of measuring leaves has regained its charm, much like handwriting in an age of taps and swipes.

I confess, for such reflective sipping I favour our Melbourne Moments—a blend that seems to carry the hum of city arcades and the rustle of well-turned pages. When friends arrive, Duchess of Bedford is my choice for afternoon sociability; and on evenings when one seeks a gentler hush, Fields of Gold is a lullaby in the cup. Such is the pleasure of a well-stocked tea caddy: one may match mood to leaf as a hostess matches music to company.

What, then, has Australia made of tea? A culture that holds both the billy and the tiered stand, both the weekday teabag and the weekend gaiety of a three-course high tea. It is a story of resourcefulness and welcome—of bringing people together across hills and suburbs, across languages and lifetimes. Even our sustainability conversations partake of this history: we speak now of responsible sourcing, of fair work and careful land stewardship, and of supporting local growers where climate and craft allow. (Clara, who tends our roses with patient hands, reminds me that one honours the earth not by grand pronouncement, but by daily attentiveness: a cooler kettle, a measured scoop, a cup finished to the last grateful drop.)

If you wish to taste this history in your own kitchen, keep to three simple practices:

Choose fresh, aromatic loose-leaf for your special cups, and keep a few teabags for quick comfort;

Use water just off the boil for black tea, cooler for green and white;

Give the leaves the time they need—neither rushed nor neglected. Set out a plate of something tender (a sponge, perhaps), invite a friend, and allow the conversation to steep as surely as the pot.

And should you ever take your cup in the open air, do raise it to the memory of the billy: that cheerful companion of travellers, workers, and dreamers who taught a nation that tea belongs wherever there is firelight and fellowship.