A Very Good Cup of Tea: Freddie Felstead’s Rules

From the notebook of Freddie Felstead, Balham, 1991

I have been asked, by a reader of uncommon taste, what makes a very good cup of tea. It is a question I take seriously. A good cup of tea has seen me through cricket defeats, Monday mornings and at least one conversation with my employer about “the system”. It deserves a proper answer.

1. The water must be freshly drawn and properly boiled.
Not reboiled. It needs to be straight from the tap. Water that has been sitting in the kettle since breakfast has lost its spirit, and the tea knows it.

2. Warm the pot.
A splash of hot water, swirled and poured away. My Great Aunt Bea considers anyone who skips this step to be capable of almost anything.

3. Leaf if you can, a decent bag if you can’t.
I have nothing against the bag. The chimpanzees on the television seem perfectly content with theirs. But when sitting down with friends for a cuppa, loose leaf and a strainer feel like an occasion.

4. Give it time.
Four minutes, more or less. Long enough to read the cricket scores, not long enough to do the crossword, which I would abandon in any case.

5. Milk: the great question.
George Orwell, in his essay A Nice Cup of Tea, insisted the milk goes in afterwards. Others, chemists among them, argue for milk first. I take the diplomatic position: in a pot, milk after; in a mug made in a hurry, nobody need know. Charlotte considers this the most cowardly opinion I hold. She may be right.

6. Sugar is between a man and his conscience.
I abstain. I do not judge. Much.

7. The cup matters.
Bone china improves the tea by at least a third. This is not science. It is simply fact.

8. Drink it with company, if possible.
The best cup of tea I have had this year was a strong, slightly stewed affair in my aunt’s front room, with the gas fire on and a plate of biscuits between us. It broke at least three of the rules above. But it was perfect.

Which is, I suppose, the final rule: a very good cup of tea is less about the tea than about the moment you make it.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, the kettle has just boiled.

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Why London in 1991, and why the 1920s