House of Tea

The other night, I got home from a Tantalus meeting and found that my father had sent me this article, about the House of Tea in South Philly. When I was a teenager, my father and I would regularly visit the House of Tea as part of our weekend grocery shopping. The first green tea I ever drank was from there, a Japanese sencha that a overbrewed until it was intolerably bitter.

The owner of the House of Tea was named Nathaniel. He was this short man with a great big Franklin stove of a belly who wheezed with every breath and knew more about tea than anyone I've ever met.

He'd say things like, "I'm a seventh level tea master. I could become an eighth level tea master, but it would take too long."

How do you become an eighth level tea master?

"You perform the tea ritual over and over again, meditate on tea, write poetry about tea."

The man always had a story to tell, no matter when you were going into the shop. He'd deliver it in the most matter-of-fact fashion, without theatrics or elaboration, as though he wasn't telling the story for any other reason than to tell you the story while he was measuring out your tea. I was never sure if they were true stories or if Nathaniel was just an accomplished bullshitter, but it never much mattered to me. They were fascinating stories and that was all it took to keep my father and I in wrapt attention for, at times, a good hour.

Nathaniel died a couple of years ago and with his departure, I had assumed that the House of Tea was no more. It's good to know it's still there and that his daughter is carrying on his work. Maybe I'll stop in there the next time I'm in Philly. See if she's got her father's gift for gab.