Thoughts on Lapsang Souchong

Lapsang Souchong strikes me as the tea that smells like someone’s shed has gone up in flames and I guess that’s one of the reasons I love it.

The first time you encounter it, the reaction is usually a sharp recoil. You expect a gentle, leafy aroma of a breakfast blend, but instead, you get hit with a faceful of smouldering pine and old tar. It’s aggressive, stubborn, but brilliant.

It comes from the Wuyi Mountains in Fujian, and the story of how it started interested me. Some soldiers rolled through a tea factory during the Qing Dynasty, camping out on the leaves and holding up the whole production line. By the time they left, the crop was starting to turn. To save it, the farmers didn’t have time for the usual slow drying, so they chucked it over open fires made of local pine. They thought they were just salvaging a ruined batch, but the Dutch traders who eventually bought it couldn’t get enough of that weird, smoky punch.

The “Souchong” part of the name is actually quite important because it explains why the tea doesn’t just taste like a burnt stick. They don’t use the tiny, delicate buds you see in high-end green teas. They use the bigger, older leaves from further down the bush. These leaves are tough. They can sit in a smokehouse for hours and taste amazing.

Drinking it is a bit of a weird experience. The smell is all bonfire and charcoal, but the actual liquid is surprisingly light. It’s not thick or heavy like a traditional builder’s brew. If you get a good one, there’s a distinct sweetness under the smoke a bit like dried fruit or burnt sugar.

Don’t put milk in it. Milk turns the smoke into something that tastes vaguely of liquid bacon, which is a bit of a tragedy for everyone involved. Drink it black. If the first cup feels like you’re licking a chimney, try a rinse by pouring the boiling water on, wait ten seconds, pour it all away, then brew it again. It takes the sharpest edge off the soot.

It’s also the best thing you can keep in your kitchen for actual cooking. If you’re making a stew or a big pot of chilli and it’s lacking that deep, savoury something, just throw a bit of brewed Lapsang in. It gives you that smoky, campfire depth without you having to mess about with liquid smoke or actual bacon.

You’ll either love it or you’ll think it’s absolutely revolting. There isn’t really a middle ground. It’s the Islay malt of the tea world and it doesn’t care if you like it, and I guess that’s why people keep drinking it.