Tea Grading Explained: From Orange Pekoe to the Finest Tips

Pray, sit a while, dear friend, for the kettle has sung and my crystal teapot gleams with its familiar welcome. How well I recall, in my younger days, being quite convinced that Orange Pekoe must surely be a tea perfumed with citrus. What else, after all, could such a name suggest? I imagined groves of blossoms distilled into the leaves, sunshine caught in the steam of the cup. Imagine, then, my astonishment when I later learnt that it referred not to flavour at all, but to the very size and grade of the leaf! Such is the delightful mischief of tea--forever keeping us curious, forever teaching us anew.

Clara, ever steady where I drift into dreams, assures me that I was not alone in this misunderstanding. "Half the village would think the same," she remarked once, while trimming a rose for the vase. How gently she pricked my vanity, reminding me that even Lady Harriet may be fooled by the charming riddles of tea.

In the early years of the last century, when India's gardens produced chiefly black tea for the Empire's tables, the British devised a system to classify the leaves according to appearance and quality. These terms, at first glance, seem as cryptic as a code in a secret society. Yet their purpose is simple: to distinguish whether the leaf is whole or broken, large or small, and how many precious buds--or tips--are to be found amongst them.

The "tips," dear friend, are the youngest leaves, plucked from the very crest of the tea bush. Tender, silvery, and downy, they have not yet unfurled, and so are considered the sweetest and most aromatic part of the plant. They glisten like morning dew upon velvet, and their presence in a blend elevates it immeasurably. Larger, older leaves, plucked lower down, still yield a sturdy and wholesome brew, but without that same finesse.

Once the leaves are plucked, rolled, oxidised, and fired, they must be sorted. Imagine long wooden tables, skilled hands at work, sifting, weighing, measuring. From this labour emerges the hierarchy of grades, those mysterious initials: OP, FOP, GFOP, TGFOP, each one a promise of a certain character in the cup.

Permit me, then, to share a little glossary, as one might decode a telegram passed beneath the parlour table:

Orange Pekoe (OP) -- whole leaves, long, slender, and tightly rolled. No citrus here, only elegance.

Flowery (F) -- marks the inclusion of those delicate young buds, sometimes called "downy tips."

Golden (G) -- signals the golden colour of those buds, which lend sweetness and a honeyed perfume.

Tippy (T) -- denotes an abundance of buds, the highest and most cherished part of the plant.

Combine them, and the picture sharpens:

Flowery Orange Pekoe (FOP) -- longer than OP and less tightly rolled, with some young tips.

Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe (GFOP) -- enriched with golden tips, lending brightness.

Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe (TGFOP) -- even more lavish with tips, the crown of refinement.

And should you see the modest numeral "1" appended, as in TGFOP1, know that this signals the highest grade within that category--the first tier, as though the tea had won its place at court.

One might ask, does such classification truly matter to the drinker at table? Indeed it does. For these fine leaves, carefully sorted and honoured with their titles, brew a cup that rewards both nose and palate. It is no mere flourish of letters, but an assurance of quality.

I confess a little pride, dear friend, that my own Morning Tea bears this noble mark: TGFOP1. Each packet is filled not with dust or fragments, but with whole leaves gleaming with golden tips. Brewed, they yield a liquor both fragrant and full, strong enough to fortify one for the day, yet never coarse upon the tongue.

How often I have poured it for my Society, guests gathered about the parlour table, autumn leaves scattering outside the tall windows. The aroma rises, a mingling of malt and honey, and soon there is laughter, conversation, the gentle clink of spoons. A well-graded leaf, you see, does more than make a cup--it makes a moment.

It amuses me to recall how Mrs. Pembroke, that lively neighbour of mine, once announced with great conviction that "Orange Pekoe must be an orange-flavoured tisane, dear Lady Harriet, for why else should it be called so?" She insisted upon this until, at last, I placed before her the evidence of the letters and their meanings. Even then she muttered, "Well, if it is not orange, it ought to be!" before sipping happily regardless.

Such moments remind me that tea is not only science but story. Its names, its rituals, its vessels--all weave a tapestry of curiosity and delight. What matters, after all, is that the teacup brings us together.

Though I speak so fondly of the whole leaves, it would be unfair not to mention their cousins--the broken grades. For alongside OP, FOP, and their kin, there exist BOP (Broken Orange Pekoe) and FBOP (Flowery Broken Orange Pekoe). These are smaller leaves, brisker in the cup, and often employed in blends meant for quick steeping and a strong character. Many a brisk Irish Breakfast owes its punch to broken grades. Clara, practical as ever, swears by a pot of such brisk tea when the weather turns stormy and the household needs fortifying. "A strong brew drives off the chill," she declares, and I must admit she is right.

Before we conclude, one final curiosity: why Orange Pekoe at all? The answer, alas, is not certain. Some whisper that it was named in honour of the Dutch royal House of Orange, which played a role in the tea trade. Others say it derives from a corruption of a Cantonese word for the fine downy hairs on the leaf. Whatever its root, it continues to enchant us, a name both exotic and familiar, a little riddle in every cup.

So, the next time you sip a cup of English Breakfast, and see those letters upon the label, you may smile at the knowledge that while it bears no hint of orange, it is nonetheless a grade of the highest distinction--rich, fragrant, and entirely worthy of your morning table.

I take mine, as ever, in the early light, steam curling like ribbons in the cool air. Clara hums as she lays shortbread upon a dish, the garden beyond still touched with dew. It is in such small, steadfast rituals that the heart is steadied for the day.