If green tea were a language, Biluochun would be its most delicate dialect. Known in China as “Green Snail Spring,” this downy, spiral-shaped leaf is grown on the fog-lapped islands of Taihu Lake in Jiangsu Province. To the uninitiated it looks almost ornamental—thousands of tiny jade snails dusted with white velvet—yet once hot water embraces them they unfold into one of the most fragrant and nuanced beverages ever to leave East Asia.
History: From Poison to Tribute
Local legend says a tea picker in the seventeenth century accidentally placed so many leaves in her apron that they were crushed into tight spirals. When the village monk brewed them that evening the room filled with an intoxicating peach-and-milk aroma; the tea was christened “Xia Sha Ren Xiang” (“Scary Fragrance”) because it was thought the smell must be supernatural. The Kangxi Emperor, touring the region in 1699, found the name inelegant and rechristened it Biluochun—“Green Snail of Spring.” Within decades it became one of the first ten Chinese teas formally listed as gongcha (tribute tea), racing northward on horseback each April to reach the Forbidden City while the leaves were still dewy.
Micro-terroir: Islands of Mist and Fruit
Unlike most Chinese greens that favor mountain slopes, Biluochun prospers at barely 50 m above sea level on Dongting Mountain, an island of weathered granite thrust into Taihu Lake. The vast body of water creates a thermal reservoir, so nights stay warm and mornings arrive wrapped in drifting fog. The diffused light slows photosynthesis, forcing the plant to stockpile amino acids—especially L-theanine—yielding the tea’s hallmark sweetness. Between the tea hedges grow peach, plum and apricot trees; their blossoms fall like snow onto the bushes, and countless growers insist this floral confetti accounts for the tea’s natural fruity note that no other green tea replicates.
Cultivars: Two Families, One Spiral
The original seed-stock is a diminutive-leaf Camellia sinensis var. sinensis locally called “Xiao Ye.” Around 1982 agronomists selected a darker, more frost-resistant clone, “Dongting #7,” that flushes five days earlier and tolerates mechanical picking. Purists still demand the heirloom strain, arguing that only its paper-thin leaves can be coaxed into the tightest spirals. Both cultivars are plucked at the “single bud with one unfolding leaf” stage, when the shoot is under 2.5 cm long; waiting even six hours longer allows the serrated edge of the second leaf to appear, disqualifying the sprout from top grades.
Craft: The Invisible Fire
Roughly 70,000 buds make one kilogram of finished Biluochun, and every leaf is still processed entirely by hand in three frenetic hours. After picking, the shoots are spread 2 cm thick on bamboo trays and withered for thirty minutes in lake breeze; this slight dehydration concentrates grassy volatiles. The critical step is shaqing (“killing-green”): leaves are tossed into a cast-iron pan pre-heated to 180 °C. With bare palms the master swirls, presses and rolls the leaves against the metal for exactly four minutes; the motion must be circular so that moisture evacuates evenly while the down remains intact. Temperature is then dropped to 70 °C and the same hands knead the leaves into spirals, fifteen minutes of gentle pressure that fractures cell walls just enough to release enzymes without oxidizing them. Finally the tea is “dried” in three short pan passes at 60 °C, 50 °C and 40 °C, each lasting ninety seconds—low heat that fixes the curl and locks in the aroma. When finished a leaf should snap cleanly and, if held to the light, show a microscopic feather of white trichomes standing proud like frost on moss.
Grades: How to Read the Snail
Chinese merchants classify Biluochun into seven ascending grades, but export markets usually meet only the top three. Supreme Grade (Te Ji) is picked before Qingming festival (around 5 April); the spiral is so tight it resembles a snail shell, the down is silvery-white, and the liquor glows pale jade. Grade One (Yi Ji) is harvested before the spring rain sets in; the curl loosens slightly and the cup gains a touch more astringency. Grade Two (Er Ji) follows ten days later, when leaves are broader and the aroma shifts from peach to green bean. Whatever the grade, authentic Biluochun must pass three visual tests: (1) when dropped on a sheet of white paper the leaves stand on their curled tails; (2) a single bud weighed on a 0.1 g scale must be under 0.03 g; (3) after five infusions the spent leaves reassemble into intact two-leaf-and-a-bud sets—proof that no older leaf was smuggled in.
Brewing: The 75 °C Ballet
Westerners often drown green tea in boiling water and then complain of bitterness; Biluochun is especially unforgiving. The classic gaiwan method calls for 3 g of leaf in a 120 ml vessel, water at 75 °C, and an initial infusion of thirty seconds. The first pour is watched, not drunk: observe how the spirals pirouette to the bottom, releasing thin threads of down that look like plankton in sunlight. The second infusion, twenty seconds, delivers the most balanced cup—sweet pea, white peach and a hint of vanilla. By the fourth infusion extend to fifty seconds; the liquor turns honey-colored and acquires a minerality reminiscent of wet granite. If using a glass teapot, tilt it so that water slides down the wall, preventing the direct jet from scalding the down and creating “clouds” of tannin.
Tasting: A Lexicon of Aroma
Professional cuppers in Suzhou evaluate Biluochun through three successive slurps. The first assesses “front aroma” (qian xiang): breathe through the nose while the liquor is still on the tip of the tongue; top notes should evoke fresh loquat and steamed edamame. The second slurp aspirates air across the palate to volatilize “middle aroma” (zhong xiang); here one searches for magnolia and a trace of marine iodine carried from the lake mist. The final slurp is swallowed with an open throat to capture “after aroma” (hou xiang), a lingering sweetness at the back of the tongue that the Chinese call huigan—literally “returning sweetness.” A top-grade tea will deliver huigan for more than fifteen minutes, during which even plain water tastes faintly of honey.
Food Pairing: When the Snail Meets the Table
Because of its light body and floral lift, Biluochun pairs best with foods that possess subtle sweetness or saline freshness. In Jiangsu cuisine it is served alongside “clear water” river shrimp briefly poached in salt and rice wine; the tea’s amino acids echo the crustacean’s natural sucrose. Vegetarians often match it with steamed bamboo shoots dressed only with a few drops of sesame oil; the pairing amplifies the tea’s grassy note while the oil provides textural contrast. Avoid strong spices—ginger, garlic or chili will bulldoze the cup—yet a delicate goat-cheese crostini can create an unexpected harmony, the tea’s peach note mirroring the cheese’s lactic tang.
Storage: Let the Snail Sleep
Biluochun’s high content of aromatic aldehydes makes it one of the most fragile green teas. Light, oxygen, heat and moisture are enemies; even the aroma of neighboring spices can leach through multilayer foil. The traditional Suzhou method is triple sealing: the tea is first wrapped in unscented rice paper, then slipped into an aluminum pouch flushed with nitrogen, finally placed in a tin glazed on the inside with food-grade lacquer. Stored at 0–5 °C (but never frozen) the tea will retain 90 % of its fragrance for ten months. Once opened, consume within four weeks; after that the spirals begin to loosen their perfume like a forgotten concert program.
Modern Science: What the Snail Hides
Recent chromatographic studies at Nanjing Agricultural University identified 187 volatile compounds in Biluochun, among which geraniol and (Z)-3-hexenyl hexanoate correlate most strongly with its fruity note. The tea is also unusually rich in gallated catechins—EGCG comprises 14 % of dry weight—giving it one of the highest antioxidant scores recorded for Chinese green tea. Paradoxically, the same down that delights the eye also acts as a micro-insulator, slowing the release of catechins and ensuring the liquor never becomes aggressively bitter even if the brew time drifts half a minute long.
Travel: Drinking the Lake
Each April the town of Dongshan hosts the Biluochun Tea Culture Festival. Visitors board fishing boats at dawn to watch pickers balanced on narrow hedgerows, their fingers moving like hummingbirds. On shore, masters fire woks in open courtyards; the air fills with a scent somewhere between popcorn and orchid. Tourists can hand-roll their own 10 g batch, take it home in a tiny corked vial, and compare it with the commercial version—an exercise that convinces most people that the human palm is still the finest machine ever invented.
In the end, Biluochun is more than a beverage; it is a seasonal telegram from the lower Yangtze, a curl of spring that fits between thumb and forefinger. When you tip it into water you are not merely making tea—you are releasing a lake-born breeze that once brushed the cheek of an emperor, and that still smells, miraculously, of peach blossoms at dawn.