Why Choose Loose Leaf Tea? Lady Harriet’s Guide to the Finest Cup

Pray, sit a while, dear friend, for this is a subject most dear to my heart. Like so many, I began my journey with teabags -- they were convenient, portable, and ever so easy. And let us not forget, they are hardly a modern contrivance. Their beginnings stretch back as far as the Tang dynasty of China, where clever merchants wrapped measured portions of leaf in paper for trade and travel. A thoughtful invention indeed, yet one must not confuse ease with excellence.

It was only when I immersed myself in the true world of tea that my eyes -- and my palate -- were opened. How astonishing it was to discover that behind those modest bags lay a vast hierarchy of leaf quality. At one end, the humble dust and fannings: small, broken particles that brew swiftly, yet yield but a whisper of flavour. At the other end, the splendour of full leaves -- carefully rolled, tenderly graded, and treasured for the complexity they release.

I recall my first taste of a properly brewed Earl Grey, the leaves unfurling gracefully in their teapot. The bergamot aroma floated up like a promise, and when I sipped, I found depth where before there had been mere shadow. 'So this is what tea is meant to be,' I murmured aloud. Clara, steady at my side, simply nodded and offered a plate of her lemon biscuits, as if she had known all along that such revelation would come.

The language of leaf grading is a poetry of its own. tea grading Flowery Orange Pekoe. Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe. Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe. And that most resplendent of all: Finest Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe. (There is, I must confess, a little jest among tea men that this mouthful of letters -- FTGFOP -- stands for 'Far Too Good For Ordinary People.' Yet I believe with all my heart that every soul who lifts a cup deserves so fine a leaf.)

Auctions, too, hold their rituals of splendour. I have stood once or twice among the grand rooms where rare teas are bid upon with the drama of an art sale. Gentlemen in waistcoats and ladies in silks speak of leaves as though they were jewels, and prices rise with the fervour of true devotion. To secure such a lot for one's parlour is no small triumph, and the teacups that follow bear not only fragrance but a story of passion and pursuit.

The true difference lies not in the auction house but in the pot. Loose leaf teas, when given space to unfurl, release their full fragrance and flavour. The leaves sway freely, surrendering notes of blossom, fruit, or earth depending on their nature. By contrast, the cramped confines of a non-pyramidal teabag suffocate the leaf, yielding a brew too often flat or bitter.

I have sometimes performed a little parlour experiment for my guests. Two pots are set upon the table, identical save for their contents. In one, loose leaves, allowed to dance. In the other, a simple bag. When poured into crystal cups, the difference is plain to see: the colour, the aroma, the life within the tea. And always, without fail, my friends declare the loose leaf to be finer, fuller, more gracious to the senses.

And yet, dear friend, how often have we both seen cafés lavishing all their skill upon coffee, while treating tea as an afterthought? A single bag, dropped into a pot of lukewarm water -- too weak or too strong, with no ceremony at all. I have sighed over such travesties more than once.

But when a café chooses loose leaf instead, the transformation is profound. Served in a pot with care, the tea arrives not as an afterthought but as an experience. Guests notice at once; they savour it, they speak of it, they remember it. And yes, they gladly pay more for such delight. For in truth, tea brewed well is no mere beverage -- it is hospitality itself.

So why choose loose leaf? Not merely for refinement, nor only for taste, though it offers both in abundance. It is because loose leaf restores tea to its rightful place: as a beverage of beauty, fellowship, and pause. Each spoonful scooped, each leaf unfurled, each cup poured becomes a small ceremony against the rush of the world.

I often think of Clara here -- practical where I am poetic. She insists upon order in the tins, labels turned neatly out, spoons polished and ready. Yet when she sits with me at last, her hands cupped around a crystal glass of White Night or Morning Tea, I see that even she, my steady friend, yields to the charm of the leaf. Loose leaf demands a little more of us, but in return, it grants something priceless: the chance to slow, to taste, to belong.

Tea, at its finest, is not measured by convenience but by character. Loose leaf carries the legacy of centuries, the skill of growers, the passion of masters, and the grace of ritual. Once you have tasted the freedom of the leaf -- the fragrance that rises, the clarity that fills the cup, the fellowship it creates -- I daresay you will never return contentedly to lesser grades.

And so, dear friend, let us lift our crystal cups together, in honour of the leaf set free.