From the brick-red soil of Mengku to a Mongolian cellar.
I first walked these gardens in late spring of 2022, when the old roads were still being rebuilt after the rains. Mengku sits tucked in the Lincang range, where the broad-leaf varietal has been cultivated for centuries. The hills here are steep, the fog comes in thick, and the tea acquires a certain brightness — a honeyed clarity — that I have not found elsewhere.
The three pressings in this flight come from a cooperative I trust, one that still stone-presses small batches and dries the cakes slowly under bamboo sheds, never in forced heat. In 2023, the early drought gave remarkable concentration. 2024 was a more mellow year, with a balanced sweetness. 2025 already shows great promise — lively, floral, almost musky.
I’ve cellared each cake in my own aging room in Ulaanbaatar, where the dry, cold winters and mild summers slow the transformation. The dark, low-oxygen environment here — quite different from Kunming or Guangzhou — brings out leather and grain notes earlier, while preserving a fresh backbone. These samples arrived in vacuum-sealed foil only hours ago, ready for your gaiwan.
Sitting with them side-by-side, you can almost see the path from bright youth to quiet depth. It’s a journey I hope you’ll take slowly.