Long before Assam, Ceylon or Earl Grey were imagined, the first fully oxidised leaf that Europe would later call “black tea” was born among the granite cliffs of the Wuyi massif in northern Fujian. Locals simply named it zhengshan xiaozhong—“small leaf from the original mountain”—but the trading posts of Xiamen rendered it Lapsang Souchong, and under that exotic label it sailed out of Canton in the early 1600s, filling the holds of Dutch and British East Indiamen with a fragrance no European nose had ever encountered: warm pine smoke, dried longan, and a hint of malted cacao. In the centuries that followed, every other black tea was measured against this original; even today, when connoisseurs speak of “China black,” the mind still drifts to the curling blue-grey wisps that rise from a just-opened tin of Wuyi Lapsang.
History: from Ming frontier tea to London drawing rooms
The Wuyi region had produced compressed “dragon” cakes for the Song court, but when the Hongwu Emperor abolished cake tea in 1391, farmers were forced to improvise. By withering, rolling and oxidising the tender spring buds over pine-fired earthen trenches, they created a leaf that survived the humid mountain nights and the long trek to the river ports. In 1604 a Dutch merchant, Jacob van Neck, carried the first chest to Java, then to The Hague; within two decades it had become the most expensive commodity at the Amsterdam bourse. The English, never ones to let the Dutch dominate a luxury, copied the process in India, but could never replicate the terroir. Thus Lapsang Souchong remained the signature of the Wuyi, its name a guarantee that the leaf had been smoked within the 60-km protected radius of Tongmu village, where the Min River cuts through sheer gorges and the average humidity hovers at 85 %.
Micro-terroir: why Tongmu tastes like no other
Tongmu sits at 27° 50′ N, 1,200 m above sea level, shrouded in cloud 240 days a year. The soil is a stony, slightly acidic laterite rich in iron and manganese, drained by countless rivulets of snowmelt. The cultivar is strictly xiao ye zhong (“small leaf species”), a slow-growing shrub whose leaves are barely 3 cm long but packed with catechins and carotenoids. Because temperatures remain cool even in May, polyphenol oxidase works languidly, allowing the leaf to develop maltol and furaneol—the molecules later amplified by pine smoke—while restraining the tannins that can make lesser blacks astringent. The result is a cup that is sweet first, smoky second, and never bitter.
Three styles: traditional smoke, unsmoked, and modern “craft”
- Traditional Songzhen (pine-smoke): Fresh leaves are withered over burning Masson pine logs in a sunken hearth; oxidation is arrested by rolling the leaf on rattan trays stacked above the same fire; finally the tea is dried on bamboo sieves suspended inside brick chimneys for up to 14 hours. The smoke condenses on the cool brick, then drips back onto the leaf, creating the characteristic tarry gloss.
- Unsmoked Zhengshan: Since 2003, Tongmu farmers have responded to Japanese and Taiwanese demand for “clean” flavour by omitting the final smoking. The leaf is instead baked over charcoal made from local oak, yielding a burgundy liquor tasting of honey, lychee and cinnamon—closer to a Keemun than to its smoky cousin, yet still unmistakably Wuyi in its mineral finish.
- Craft or “fruit” Lapsang: A micro-lot experiment where the leaf is cold-smoked with dried longan wood, then rested in oak barrels that previously held Ningxia wolfberry wine. Only 80 kg are produced each spring, sold through Shanghai boutiques at prices rivalling first-growth Bordeaux.
Processing step-by-step: a 36-hour choreography
Day 1, 04:30 – Plucking: only the standard “two and a half leaves” (bud plus two fully opened leaves and a half-grown tip) is taken; anything larger would blunt the elegance.
06:00 – Outdoor withering: the leaf is spread 2 cm thick on bamboo mats in the morning mist; enzymatic activity begins, converting lipids into floral aldehydes.
11:00 – Indoor withering: mats are moved into the loft above the pine hearth; temperature 28 °C, humidity 70 %; the leaf loses 60 % moisture and emits a faint baked-apple aroma.
16:00 – Rolling: 55 minutes in a cast-iron roller set to 30 rpm; cell walls rupture, juices oxidise on contact with bamboo, turning chestnut brown.
18:00 – Oxidation: rolled leaf is piled 15 cm deep in pine-wood crates covered with wet cloth; oxygen is monitored with a handheld sensor; the pile is turned every 30 minutes to maintain 26 °C.
23:00 – First firing: the leaf is passed through a 1.2 m long iron cylinder fired by pine; exit temperature 85 °C; moisture drops to 20 %.
Day 2, 02:00 – Second rolling: a lighter 20-minute turn to tighten strips; the signature “hook” shape emerges.
04:00 – Smoking/drying: the tea is spread on brass-mesh trays inside the brick chimney; pine logs are added every 45 minutes; total time 10 hours; final moisture 4 %.
14:00 – Sorting: women hand-pick out yellow leaves and stems using a back-lit bamboo table; grade names are coined by size and colour—Pekoe (S), Orange Pekoe (OP), Broken Orange Pekoe (BOP).
16:00 – Resting: the finished tea is sealed in foil-lined chests and left for 30 days so that smoke volatiles marry with the leaf; only then is it released for sale.
Chemistry in the cup: what you are actually tasting
Guaiacol and 4-methylguaiacol provide the medicinal, clove-like top note. Syringol and its derivatives deliver the sweet, barbecue mid-palate. Maltol, already present in the fresh leaf, is concentrated during firing and reads as caramel. A trace of geosmin—literally “earth smell”—comes from the bamboo mats, giving the tea the sensation of petrichor after mountain rain. Together these compounds hover at 3–5 ppm, a concentration so low that even professional cuppers often describe the flavour as “memory of smoke” rather than smoke itself.
How to brew it: gongfu versus Western
Gongfu (recommended for songzhen style):
- 120 ml porcelain gaiwan, 5 g leaf, 95 °C water.
- Flash rinse (3 s) to wake the leaf; discard.
- 1st infusion: 8 s; liquor the colour of Côtes du Rhône; nose of pine resin and dried apricot.
- 2nd–4th: add 2 s each; honey thickness builds, smoke retreats.
- 5th–8th: lengthen to 15 s; mineral notes of graphite and river stone dominate.
- 9th onwards: 45 s; the cup softens to baked pear with a lingering coolness in the throat.
Good leaves yield 12 infusions; total session 25 minutes.
Western (for unsmoked style):
- 2.5 g per 250 ml ceramic pot, 90 °C water, 3 minutes.
- Liquor bright burgundy, aroma of cinnamon and rose.
- Milk is unnecessary; lemon will flatten the subtle fruit.
Tasting ritual: what to look, sniff, and listen for
Look: dry leaf should be glossy charcoal with occasional golden tips; if dull grey, the smoke was too hot.
Sniff: open the warmed gaiwan and inhale quickly—top notes of pine should arrive first, then a sweet core; if only smoke, the tea is crude.
Listen: good Lapsang “sings” when hot water hits it, a faint crackling as trapped gases escape; silence indicates over-age leaf.
Slurp: aspirate loudly so the liquor aerosolises across the palate; swallow, then exhale through the nose; the finish should be cool, like mint, a sign of high-altitude terroir.
Pairing food: beyond the English breakfast
Traditional smoked style loves oily fish—mackerel grilled with soy and ginger, or kippers with brown bread. The phenols cut through fat and echo the wood smoke used in curing. Unsmoked zhengshan pairs elegantly with dark-chocolate mousse or duck confit, its natural sweetness mirroring Maillard reactions in the meat. In Fujian, locals drink it with yam dumplings dipped in brown sugar, a pairing that highlights the tea’s baked-yam nuance.
Ageing potential: the hidden cellar tea
Unlike most black teas, a well-smoked Lapsang can improve for a decade if stored below 25 °C and 60 % humidity. The smoke volatiles polymerise, softening into vanilla and sandalwood, while the leaf oxidises further, deepening the liquor to mahogany. Connoisseurs in Guangzhou buy tongmu tongs—30 kg pine chests—and open them only at Chinese New Year, when the tea is decanted into smaller jars and gifted like vintage port.
Sustainability: protecting the mother garden
In 2006 Tongmu was designated a National Product of Geographical Indication; picking outside the 565 km² core zone is illegal. Masson pine, once harvested recklessly, is now coppiced on a seven-year rotation; each household is allotted two trees per mu (0.06 ha) per year. Plastic mesh has replaced bamboo in some drying rooms, but the best producers still insist on brick chimneys, claiming the mortar “breathes” and moderates humidity. Climate change poses a subtler threat: earlier springs shorten the withering window, reducing the development of precursor aromatics. Farmers are experimenting with shade cloth to delay bud-break, an irony for a tea whose fame rests on fire and smoke.
Travel note: visiting Tongmu
The village is reachable only by a single mountain road that switches back 42 times; outsiders need a permit issued by the Wuyi Nature Reserve Bureau. Guests stay in timber longhouses, waking at dawn to the sound of pine logs being split. The tea master will let you rake the withering mats, but the smoking loft is off-limits—one stray ember could incinerate a year’s crop. At night, silence is total except for the Min River rushing through the gorge and the faint crackle of the dying fire that scents your dreams.
In the end, Lapsang Souchong is less a beverage than a place compressed into a leaf: the chill mist of Wuyi, the resinous breath of pine, the patience of farmers who have repeated the same 36-hour ritual for four centuries. Brew it slowly, listen to its stories, and you will understand why the Chinese say that every cup of black tea begins, and ends, in Tongmu.