Ask most tea lovers to name the first black tea ever created and they will pause; mention Lapsang Souchong and the same faces light up with recognition. Hailing from the granite gorges of the Wuyi massif in China’s Fujian province, this extraordinary leaf is simultaneously the progenitor of every black tea on earth and a singular, unreproducible icon of place. Its story begins in the late Ming dynasty, around 1600 A.D., when a passing army requisitioned the drying sheds of Tongmu village. To save the harvest, farmers rushed the withering leaves over fresh pine embers, inadvertently birthing a fragrance that would travel the Maritime Silk Road to Europe and become the “black tea” that filled the cups of kings, czars and Boston patriots.
Today the name Lapsang Souchong is applied to two very different styles: the traditional smoke-dried original (Zhengshan Xiaozhong in Chinese) and the modern, unsmoked “craft” version that showcases the honeyed minerality of the Wuyi terroir. Both spring from the same small-leaf Camellia sinensis var. sinensis bushes that cling to narrow terraces between 600 and 1,200 m above sea level. The cultivars most prized are Xingcun Xiaozhong and the even smaller-leaf Wuyi Qizhong, whose slow spring budding concentrates aromatic oils that balance smoke, malt and the cliff-side florals carried by mountain mist.
Harvest follows the Chinese solar calendar: Qingming (early April) for the finest grade, Guyu (late April) for the mid-tier, and a lighter summer picking for export blends. Two leaves and a bud are plucked before the sun climbs too high, then carried in shallow bamboo baskets to the upper floor of three-hundred-year-old wooden houses. Here the craft diverges into two paths.
Traditional smoked Lapsang Souchong undergoes an eight-step choreography: sun-withering, indoor withering on bamboo racks, rolling for cell rupture, enzymatic oxidation in cedar-lined troughs, brief panning to halt oxidation at 80 %, primary drying over embers of local Masson pine, second rolling to shape the “strip” style, and finally a finishing roast above low-temperature pine charcoal. The entire cycle takes 28–30 hours, during which the leaf absorbs guaiacol and syringol—the same phenols that give bacon its aroma—yet miraculously retains a core of dried longan sweetness. The finished tea is glossy, jet-black with golden tips, and smells like a campfire laced with dark chocolate.
The unsmoked “craft” Xiaozhong, developed for the domestic Chinese market in 2005, omits the pine phase. Instead, oxidation is arrested with a short electric bake, then the leaf is rested for two days and re-fired at 70 °C to coax out notes of caramel, ripe lychee and the Wuyi “yan yun” (rock rhyme), a lingering coolness reminiscent of wet slate. The liquor is a clear russet rather than the opaque mahogany of its smoked sibling, and the cup behaves more like a Burgundy Pinot: fragrant, transparent, endlessly layered.
Water is the silent ingredient. In Tongmu, spring water percolates through granite and volcanic tuff, emerging soft at 30 ppm TDS and slightly acidic (pH 6.4). Replicate this at home with filtered water whose mineral content is below 50 ppm; hard water will flatten the smoke and exaggerate tannins. For the smoked style, use 4 g of leaf per 120 ml vessel; for the unsmoked, 3 g is sufficient. A gaiwan or small Yixing teapot of thin-walled zini clay maximizes heat retention without scorching. Rinse once with 95 °C water for three seconds to awaken the leaf, then begin steeping at 90 °C. The first infusion should last only five seconds; subsequent steeps lengthen by three-second increments. A quality Lapsang Souchong will yield seven infusions, each revealing a different octave: campfire, pipe tobacco, molasses, orchid, finally a clean quartz finish.
Western-style brewing is acceptable when time is short. Use 2.5 g per 250 ml mug, 92 °C water, three minutes. Cover the mug with a saucer to trap volatiles; uncover and inhale immediately—this is when the pine bouquet is most vivid. A second three-minute steep is possible if the leaf is tipped in early.
Tasting follows a four-step ritual taught in the Wuyi apprenticeships. First, observe the “dry song”: tilt the gaiwan lid and listen to the rustle of strips; a crisp, metallic timbre indicates proper drying. Second, admire the “red edge”: unfurl a spent leaf against white porcelain; oxidation should stop just short of the serrated margin, leaving a thin green halo that speaks of skillful arrest. Third, roll the leaf between thumb and forefinger; it should snap, not bend, releasing a puff of warm pine. Finally, sip with the “three-breath” method: hold the liquor on the tongue, breathe in gently through pursed lips, exhale through the nose; this retro-nasal passage carries the smoke into the olfactory bulb where it blooms into memories of cedar cabins and winter oranges.
Pairings are delightfully counter-intuitive. The smoked style loves oily fish—think mackerel grilled with rosemary—because the phenols cut through fat and echo the char. Aged Gouda or Comté picks up the tea’s caramelized notes, while dark chocolate above 80 % cacao creates a resonance of cocoa and pine tar. The unsmoked craft style pairs with lighter fare: poached chicken with morels, or a French clafoutis where the tea’s lychee nuance mirrors baked fruit.
Storage is critical. Both styles are fully oxidized and will not improve with age, yet they are sponges for ambient odor. Seal in an opaque, resealable foil pouch, squeeze out excess air, and keep below 25 °C and 60 % relative humidity. A small sachet of bamboo charcoal inside the tin will absorb stray moisture without imparting scent. If the tea does absorb household odors, revive it by spreading the leaves on a bamboo tray and resting them for one day in a room scented only by fresh pine needles—an aromatic homecoming.
Lapsang Souchong’s influence is planetary. It was the prototype for Keemun, Assam and Ceylon black teas; the word “souchong” entered the Dutch East India ledgers as early as 1640. In Victorian London it was adulterated with copper sulfate to brighten the leaf, prompting the first British food-adultery laws. Today Tongmu village is a UNESCO World Heritage enclave; only 2,000 kg of authentic smoked Zhengshan leave the valley each year, most destined for private collectors in Shanghai, Tokyo and Zurich. When you brew a spoonful, you are tasting the same smoke that once curled above the canals of Amsterdam and the drawing rooms of Boston, a sensory time-machine compressed into a single, fragrant cup.