Experiments With Weirdo-Tea

Well...I did it. I tried the de-caff.

Now, this is a weird admission for someone who prides himself on his rationalism (to the point of pedantry, buffoonery and, as I’ve proved a few times even in this short weekend, spoiling a perfectly good emotionally-centred mood), but my position is utterly at variance with proper evidence, as provided by scientists. They say there’s really no way of tasting caffeine in products. Well, I don’t know what to tell you, scientists, but in the version I tasted, there was a noticeable limpness to the taste, to the point of being...well, pointless. Now it’s true that the de-caff I tried was made with (I think) practically fat-free milk and no sweetener, so it was different and less robust in several ways – meaning I’ll have to try again with a version made the way I like, but honestly, the one I tried was enough to make me kiss goodbye to coffee forever.

So yesterday I sold a little more of my testicles down the river in an attempt to have a hot drink that wouldn’t kill me. That’s right, goddammit, I tried Fruit Tea.

D handed it to me in a cafe with the kind of disdain usually reserved for things that go bang and blow your hand off, or things that have just shat all over you, and to which you have no genetic connection.

“Your weirdo-tea, dear,” she murmured, in case there was any lingering doubt.

It smelled amazing. This could be it, I thought. OK, so it’ll cost me most of my gonads and a good healthy chunk of my cynicism about the whole health food revolution, but Hell, it could be a hot cup of something that I could have to finish a meal...

It was lemon and ginger, and in fact, smelled like a non-congested Lemsip. I took a hopeful sip.

Hot water. It was hot water, with a fantastic smell...absolutely none of which made it to a single one of my taste buds.

I swirled the teabag around for about ten minutes, mashing it against the side of the cup, and stirring, and straining the essence out of it by hand. The smell grew richer and more complex. The taste?

Hot water.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s not like I want to be the guy who raises his hand in that tentative way and says “Erm...what fruit teas do you have?”, so the staff wander off and giggle about his pretentious tastes. In short, “the weirdo.” It would just have filled a gap between water, juice and the corner of dry oblivion into which I feel like I’ve been painted by a combination of diabetes, Xenical and tachycardia. So I went to bed last night feeling like another hopeful avenue had been closed off by a leering, tasteless, lemon and ginger scented disappointment. Well, in point of fact, i went to bed last night like a sulky six-year old who thinks the world is just...SO...UNFAIR!! (Insert pillow-punching, duvet kicking tantrum, complete with own-hair-pulling).

Went down for breakfast this morning, and was resigned to my juicy fate. D though was a revelation. Firstly, she said, she'd only considered the lemon and ginger to be 'weirdo-tea' because she has a personal loathing of hot lemon. Secondly, she wasn’t prepared to let me do my whole breast-beating, clothes-rending “Oh woe is the martyr that is me” routine, so she asked about the fruit tea options, while I, with a somewhat British mortification, mumbled into my beard that I’d...erm...I’d try the cranberry and raspberry one if that was OK with the waitress, sorry, I know, I’m weird, beat me with sticks and fling poo at me, it’s all I really deserve, I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...

Well...the verdict on Twinings cranberry and raspberry is...not bad. I think I need to shift my expectations somewhat, because the scent of these teas makes you believe they’re gonna taste like hot, strong juices, whereas what you’re actually drinking of course is simply an infusion, rather than a juice. As they’d say in the Valleys of my childhood, it’s “like they threw the fruit in from Cardiff”. But once you adjust your sensory expectations to take account of that fact...it’s not bad.  

So, I guess I might have to hang up my testicles, grow what’s left of my hair into long hippy strands, invest in some tye-die and start listening to Sergeant Pepper, because the future could well be bright. The future could well be fruity.