Edible San Francisco

BREWED AWAKENING

The ‘arteasanal’ specialties at Red Blossom in Chinatown are savored like fine wines.
By Novella Carpenter

On a beautiful spring day, filled with birdsong and blooming plum trees, I make my way to Red Blossom Tea Company in San Francisco’s Chinatown. A shop is selling Year of the Rat baseball hats, black with red stitching; the rat looks friendly. Before long, I find myself in possession of what tastes like the best sesameseed ball ever—a deep-fried doughnut coated with sesame seeds and filled with red bean paste—but maybe it is the combo of that fresh morning weather, the view of the bridge, and looking forward to drinking tea with an expert.

It is too early for tourists, so the back-scratchers and the cricket boxes go untouched on the knickknack-lined sidewalk on Grant Street. Then suddenly, I am here. A small sign, a small shop, and along the wall, 100 teas in metal canisters. There’s nothing unusual about this; several tea shops nearby have a similar look. But when you read some of the descriptions of the teas on the canisters at Red Blossom, like this one for Charcoal Roasted Tung Ting, you realize this is a special place:

“In mid-April 2007, we drove two hours with our Spring harvest Tung Ting to a 72-year-old master tea roaster. We were in search of traditional tea roasting methods using longan fruit wood and ash-lined charcoal pits. We found it in septuagenarian Mr. Chen. Our Charcoal Roasted Tung Ting is mid-fired using longan fruit wood on racks set over ash-lined pits. Roasted in intervals allows the tea to develop a rich complexity. Using mid-oxidized, more robust tea as a starting point gives the tea a pronounced caramelized sweetness.”

So these guys took a big bag of tea from their farmer, then drove around looking for a master tea roaster? Hard core.

From behind the counter, a woman with long dark hair and glasses smiles and says hello: Alice Luong, the co-owner of this family-run business. She invites me to sit. I look at few more of the tea descriptions—Pi Lo Chun, Spring 2007 from Dong Ting mountain, where the tea plants grow among peach, plum, and apricot trees; the Rougui, an heirloom oolong tea that is handrolled into fragrant strips.

Then half of the “we” in the master tea-roaster quest appears: Peter Luong, Alice’s brother. He is in his 30s, wears eyeglasses, and exudes calm. His father, Chien Luong, founded Red Blossom: he started the business as an apothecary, which sold herbs and Chinese medicine in addition to tea.

“Eight years ago, we had about two-thirds of the tea we have now, but it was all labeled in Chinese,” Peter says. “Can you imagine going into a wine shop and all the signs are written in French and Italian?” Peter and Alice wanted to make the tea more accessible, without sacrificing quality or tradition.

On that pride of tradition, Luong points out that many new tea shops have opened up in the past two years, signaling the birth of an American tea culture. But often those teas involve infusing low-quality tea leaves with strong flavors. He disapproves. “Apple-flavored teas, mango, I even heard of one that’s coffee- flavored,” he says, half-mock shuddering. “Think about it in wine terms. You have your nice bottle of wine, then you have a wine cooler. A wine cooler is accessible, people like them, but that’s not wine. Luckily, for me at least, we’ve moved beyond that.”

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