Santa brought me some lapsang souchong teabags for Christmas. I had run out of them sometime in the middle of last year. This was no great tragedy as, let’s be honest, it’s not very nice, is it? But I missed it a little bit. Not much, just a little bit. I half-noticed there never seemed to be any in the supermarket, so I asked for some for Christmas.
You never get over your first encounter with lapsang souchong. The stuff’s incredible, and not necessarily in a good way. The name, so satisfyingly singsong to say, is rich with promise, but when you first go nose to nose with it you can only imagine there’s been a dreadful mistake. It’s like it’s made from the bark of trees that have narrowly survived forest fires. Drink this? You must be joking!
And yet, and yet. There was something about it that had me intrigued as much as repelled. I mean, someone had plainly gone to a lot of trouble to get it into this state, and their efforts were surely worth honouring. I resolved to learn to love it, or like it, or at least endure it. Initially, unable to quite bring myself to imbibe it, reasoning it would impart an interesting smoky character to food, I tried using it in rubs and marinades, experiments that were not even remotely successful. But with the little box in the tea drawer blinking at me reproachfully on a daily basis, there was nothing for it; I would have to start drinking it. I was too drawn to its dark magic to resist. And, with the odd cup every now and then, over a period of around 30 years, I made progress. A breakthrough came when someone told me to mix it with Earl Grey; a bag of each in a big mug. Nice. Actually, actively, genuinely nice.
And then, wouldn’t you know it, I couldn’t find the teabags in the shops any more, hence their appearance on my Christmas list. But this brought another twist to this slow-moving almost-love story. The bags Santa brought were a Twinings product called “Distinctively Smoky”. And just above this noun-less, verb-less tea title it says: “Inspired by lapsang souchong”. In other words, not the real thing. What? Why? Supply problems, apparently. Yeah right. Just be honest: you’ve done this because you couldn’t sell the stuff; because it’s only me and about seven others who drink it in the UK, so you fob us off with this.
Ironically, Twinings’ imitation game has elevated my tolerance of lapsang souchong to a genuine appreciation. Distinctively Smoky, as we must call it, has all the challenging components of the real thing – the nigh-on unbearable weight of smoke and earth – so ought to come close, but it misses the mark by an inch, which might as well be a mile. It’s awful. Twinings suggests it is “reminiscent” of lapsang souchong, but only like the sound of me banging away at random keys on a piano is reminiscent of Thelonious Monk. I’ll give Twinings this: they’ve taught me the true, dark beauty of the real thing.
Yes, we can still buy it loose, but lapsang souchong lovers across the country are up in arms. We’ll not take this lying down. We will not be marginalised. We demand our bags back. We’re dead set on direct action. We’ve all got together, each and every one of us, and I’ve booked a minibus to drive the whole, seething group to Twinings’ HQ. It will be ugly. It will be smoking ugly.
Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
