My palate is undeveloped, but some teas give me a taste of greatness. I cannot put my finger on it absolutely and resort to some of those much-mocked ipsedixitisms of the soi-disant oenophile, such as “this cougar of a cabernet is a saucy seductress with a Meerschaum of criollo overshadowed by a wench of a plum and a slippery nuance of black current which dabbles in an unsullied yet impertinent side serving of a cumulous cloud of Pringles Potato Crisps.”
Well, I can speak like a pretentious snob if I want to, but my tongue is not as far reaching as my vocabulary. Like the truculent tourist from the mid-west, I’ll say only that “I don’t know if it’s art, but I like it.”
With this tea, I do know that it’s tea, but I am not sure why I like it. It has a very light, very subtle floral sweetness. And it makes me understand the devotion that many drinkers have to Darjeelings.