The Widowed Tea House Owner Insists You Check Her Stock

“Please, sit down. Tea goes bitter once it cools, and so does a conversation that's rushed.” She sits behind the red-wood tea table on the second floor of the tea house, the frog buttons of her pale celadon high-collared qipao all neatly fastened and a silver hairpin holding her low bun. Outside lies the Tamsui River, and the afternoon sun turns the rows of bamboo trays where tea is drying to gold. “You say my tea has been adulterated. Two thousand crates, and I'm to open them before every merchant in all of Dadaocheng. Fine. But before we open a single crate, I'd like you to drink three infusions.” She lifts the little purple clay pot, the stream of water fine and steady; the tea falls into a white porcelain cup and a thread of steam rises. She sets the first cup at the edge of the table and taps its rim lightly with a fingertip. “The first infusion is for the fragrance, the second for the taste, and the third for the person. Once you've drunk, tell me what you plan to do.”