Chapter 83: The Red-Green Wellness Method

As he ventured deeper into the XH district, winding along serpentine paths, marveling at the lush greenery on either side, he suddenly arrived at a clearing where the scenery brightened—the entrance to Wengjiashan Village lay ahead.

Upon entering the village, the white walls and black tiles stretched in every direction. If not for the wooden sign by the roadside emblazoned with the Century Hualian logo, Zhuang Chen might have believed he had traveled back in time.

After disembarking, they continued on foot. The mountain village was tranquil; elderly women tucked their hands into their sleeves and chatted with neighbors in soft dialects—there was a lilt reminiscent of the gentle Wu speech, pleasant to the ear, their conversation filled with laughter and warmth.

The old men sat at tea tables by their doorways, drinking tea and reading newspapers. Only when adjusting their reading glasses did they notice newcomers in the village, offering a kindly smile before returning to their papers.

Following the address, they found Old Du, a seasoned tea farmer. Hearing that Yu Bin had made the introduction and that they wished to buy quality tea, he welcomed them warmly into his home.

Upon learning they wanted to see the mountain, he produced several military coats, warning them of the cold, and together they ascended the steps. The higher they climbed, the broader the view became. Surveying the surroundings, they saw tea bushes carpeting the mountains, unfurling green all the way to the horizon.

He explained to Zhuang Chen that all tea here was unified under the name West Lake Longjing, but only the tea grown on the entirety of Wengjiashan Village’s mountain was the authentic Shifeng Longjing.

Along the way, they passed many signs: West Lake Longjing Base First-Class Protected Area, National Gift Tea Designated Unit, Zhang Yiyuan West Lake Longjing Wengjiashan Base, Hangzhou Tea Factory West Lake Longjing Wengjiashan Base...

Finally, pointing to one, he declared confidently, “There are many signs on the tea mountain, some historic, others more recent. Each one is a source of pride for us villagers of Wengjia!”

“Especially this one,” he said, indicating the stone stele erected in 2004 by the government for Wengjiashan Village, marking it as a first-class protected area for West Lake Longjing tea. “It shows our village’s stature in the world of West Lake Longjing.”

His words brimmed with pride; he loved his craft. Though they spent their days with their backs to the earth, their income was substantial—at least two or three million a year.

Arriving at his own tea field, Old Du spoke at length: “Wengjiashan Village has three hundred households, seven hundred and twenty tea farmers, and nearly a thousand acres of tea gardens, spanning about 1.6 square kilometers. We’re lucky—the mountain to the north is Tianzhu, shielding us from cold northwest winds and drawing in moist air from the south.”

“These valleys retain ample humidity and warmth, often shrouded in mist. With dense forests and flowing streams, the soil is fertile, mostly acidic yellow sand, well-aerated and rich in phosphorus, calcium, magnesium, and other minerals...”

“We tea farmers pass down our craft through generations, refining a whole set of techniques over centuries: shaking, carrying, squeezing, flinging, straightening, spreading, grinding, tapping, pressing, grabbing—each unique, and only with our secret methods do we achieve the golden edge and green leaf that define Longjing tea.”

Growing more animated, he gestured over the tea fields and declared, “This mountain is our foundation. Every family, generation after generation, drinks tea they’ve grown, picked, and roasted themselves—giving us confidence and a sense of belonging!”

“Rain or shine, we must trek up the mountain four or five times a day to our own patch of tea. Looking at it, you feel as if you’ve planted not just tea, but the hopes of your entire family.”

“And when you look around, you see all the villagers’ ancestors planted together, gathered together. That’s real bustle, that’s what it means to have generations under one roof.”

Then he began to demonstrate: “Here’s ‘Lotus Heart’... this is ‘Flag Gun’... and this is called ‘Sparrow Tongue.’ Spring tea is picked by the one-bud-one-leaf standard; summer and autumn tea are picked as one bud and one or two leaves, and later one bud with two or three leaves.”

“Tea leaves are a matter of timing; pick three days early and it’s a treasure, three days late and it’s grass. You must pick every suitable bud—leave none behind, and ignore those not ready. When buds grow quickly and you can’t keep up, that’s the challenge.”

“Spring tea is harvested in late March, just as tender shoots emerge, picking one bud and one leaf, daily or every other day, until before the start of summer. Summer tea starts after the start of summer and finishes mid-June.”

With practiced hands, he plucked several tea leaves and smiled, “You can’t pinch the leaves—pinching leaves leaves marks that never fade, even after processing. In ancient times, the tea presented to the emperor was picked by tea maidens with their lips.”

“Initially, you pick tea single-handed, palm down, thumb and forefinger pinching the tender stem, gently lifting to harvest the bud and leaf. The picked buds are uniform in size, well-proportioned, free from old stems, leaves, or mixed bases, neither harming the buds nor twisting the stems.”

“We use both hands, like chicks pecking rice, tossing each bud into the tea basket—greatly improving efficiency.”

His hands fluttered like butterflies among flowers, deft and swift, mesmerizing to watch. Zhuang Chen could only marvel at the mastery.

“Once fresh leaves are picked, they lose moisture quickly and must be carried in bamboo baskets,” Old Du explained, picking up a basket. “Today’s is small—holds two pounds at most. Never press the fresh leaves; they must be transported down the mountain in batches.”

Zhuang Chen gazed at the vast tea fields—how many trips would that require?

He watched Old Du carefully pluck leaves, placing each immediately in the basket. It was said that if a leaf lingered in the hand for even a moment, the warmth would turn it from green to red.

So tender!

Pre-rain tea, with buds like lotus hearts, can only be harvested at twelve ounces a day by a skilled tea picker. One pound of dried tea requires thirty-six thousand tender buds—exquisite treasures among treasures.

A good tea roaster must begin learning the craft in their teens; skill level greatly affects quality. Traditionally, women pick the tea and men roast it for West Lake Longjing.

Seeing Old Du fill a small bamboo basket, they descended the mountain and returned home. He brought out freshly roasted tea, brewed a large pot, and invited Zhuang Chen to taste it.

The flavor was indeed superb, made even more memorable by witnessing its origin. Ordinary tea sells for eight hundred a pound, medium grade for twenty-five hundred, top grade for eight thousand.

However much they wanted, Old Du reluctantly scraped together just over ten pounds, saying, “Be sparing—today’s rain has brought a good harvest, but next year might not be so lucky!”

Returning home, he kept five pounds for himself to savor slowly. At night, he paired it with red wine to clear his vessels and aid sleep; by day, he drank Longjing to cool and detoxify, cutting through the greasiness.

Yes,

It’s quite wonderful!