There was a high mist sitting in the top of the trees on my morning walk this morning. These were Scottish trees on a coastal cliff, full of very British robins and chaffinches. But the mist, the cool temperature, the wet air and gentle drips plopping onto mulchy leaves had me straight back in Kalaw in Shan State, Burma, heading up to the tea shop at dawn. This often happens; a scene, a feeling, a sound which teleports me back to somewhere in Burma. And it’s always a joy when that place is a teashop.
The importance of the “teashop” is far broader than the name suggests. They’re where you can get a cup of tea, of course, but more importantly they’re the beating heart of every Burmese village. You’ll know when you see one: chaotic and bustling, with full grown adults sitting on tiny child-sized stools at knee-high tables, deep in conversation or hidden behind newspapers. The clientele is mostly men, their wide-splayed legs ending in smart velvet flip flops, or children gorging on long doughnuts dipped in honey, heading for a sugar high. Beneath the din of crashing pots and pans and hollers from the kitchen, gossip is shared, serious business is plotted and historically, the seeds of uprising are planted in muted voices over hot sweet tea and noodles.
The food is invariably delicious and fresh. Turnover is generally high, so unlike in some quieter restaurants, or street-food vendors with no access to running water, they’re a safe bet. For breakfast you might have pe-byote, steamed beans and naan bread, or the traditional choice of mohinga noodles in a fishy broth. There are Shan noodles which is a bit like bolognese, something romantically called “fat noodle salad”, samosas and sweetcorn fritters. Then you pile on the condiments from the middle of the table: chilli flakes, chilli oil and a fried onion, shrimp and chilli mix called balachaung which is as prolific and popular as ketchup is in the UK. You won’t find a paper napkin, but there is always a loo roll in a little plastic holder on the table, next to a stack of glasses and a flask of free, self-service green tea.
Green tea is a given. It’s more commonly drunk than water, and safer in many places having been boiled. But this is just the starter before your actual tea. Tea is an institution and a ritual, perhaps even more so than it is in the UK. Where we might be particular about how strong we like it, whether it’s Earl Grey or Yorkshire, if we take one or two sugars, over in Burma there are 16 different ways of preparing a standard cup of tea, each with its own name and precise levels of condensed and evaporated milk. It runs through everybody’s veins, and is even a key part of the diet: they eat it as salad, fermented and piled with peanuts, herbs and tomatoes.
Teashops are part of everybody’s life in Burma. They’re a comfort and a staple, a place for cheap delicious food, and somewhere to gather, to rest, to chew the cud. Even in the most remote spots, where you may have walked days from the main road and your rudimentary Burmese no longer works as the local dialect takes precedence, there is always a teashop and the word for “tea” is always understood. They are as prolific as the global coffee shop but more tightly woven into the fabric of life, and far less transitory: there’s no such thing as a takeaway. Everybody sits in, eats in, and is usually still there way beyond their first cup of tea.
Make your own Burmese Tea
- boil some black tea bags in water for 10 minutes, then leave to simmer for 20
- pour some condensed milk and evaporated milk into a cup (you'll have to experiment with how much of each until you work out how you like it)
- add the very steeped black tea
- pour the mixture between two cups, quite dramatically, with as much height as you can to mix and cool it - a teapot will help with this bit, ideally a slightly battered stainless steel one
- find a small plastic stool to sit on while you drink it
