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"A lot of people call this a women's club," laughs Nash, "but I'll tell you the men that come here are wonderful gentlemen, and their relationships seem to last a long time."
Nash decided to take over Lovejoy's from some friends after she returned from Ireland, where she ran a youth hostel for three years.
"I lived in a small village outside of Dublin, and on the weekends, everyone would open up their living rooms to the city folk, and they'd come to the country for tea. Tea is such an integral part of their social fabric. They relax, catch up, tell stories, fall in love, all over tea. It's so comfortable and sweet. That's what we try to achieve here."
Nash and her schooldays friend Gillian Briley seem to recreate the warmth and comfort of an Irish sitting room without trying. But they rise early every morning to attend the farmer's market, and they bustle about the kitchen like mother hens. Cluttered with mismatched antiques, china culled from Nash's collection -- which began before she even knew what she'd do with it all -- and tea cozies made by customers over the years, the main floor is overflowing with the trills of laughter and the faint strains of Irish folk music. The waitresses, who usually stay in Lovejoy's employ for a very long time, recognize most of their customers by sight and preference, even though weekend reservations at the tearoom are usually filled three days in advance, and the linen cabinet is always in constant need of refurbishing.
While Nash and Briley do not claim to be tea experts, they offer a very fine assortment of traditional favorites and the occasional rare bird, like the hand-rolled jasmine ball, which unfolds to reveal a fuchsia-colored flower at its heart. The food is good enough to make you feel like a spoiled little princess: crustless tea sandwiches -- from the traditional roast beef and horseradish to pear and Stilton -- fresh clotted cream, warm crumpets, miniature champagne grapes, and Shepherd's Pie made by the hands of a real, live Irishman. And no matter how busy Lovejoy's gets, there are always two large tables set aside for community seating.
"Americans still get nervous about sitting with strangers," says Nash, "but tea is about taking the time to get to know the person sitting across from you. There's more to it than what you're drinking."
A Daoist priest with an easy sense of humor, Roy Fong says tea was the last thing on his mind as a business when he, then a young teenager, and his family came to San Francisco from Hong Kong. Still, it seems that tea was never far from his thoughts, and eventually his proclivity and passion for it led him to set aside his import company and consider the value of tea leaves.
The Imperial Tea Court, located on the edge of Chinatown, is the only Chinese tearoom of its kind in the United States. It is rich in earth tones and strung with songbird cages; on Saturdays, the elder statesmen of the Chinese community come from as far as San Jose to partake in the tradition of "songbird tea" -- which involves gossip, news, and ostentatious display of their priceless pets. The Imperial Tea Court is a proper destination because of its proprietor. Fong has, in the grandest tradition of tea merchants, given his life and heart to tea. He oversees the production, manufacturing, shipping, and service of each leaf. Every aspect of the journey, from the ground in China to the cup in your hand, is infused by centuries of tradition. Even the teahouse itself is not as far from the source as it seems.
"We brought everything from China -- the marble, the wood, the bamboo, the nails, even the glue. It took a full year just to get it open," Fong says, laughing at his seeming foolhardiness. But when it comes to tea, he is a man driven by unseen forces.
"With tea, I never feel like I am doing enough, you know?" he says, spinning a broad jade ring, meant to engender personal power and denote his exclusion from menial labor, on his finger. "But I'm not like that with anything else."
The comfortable and constant presence of his youngest daughter and wife suggest other focuses of attention, but there is no doubt that there is more to tea than refreshment for Fong. "Tea is a living thing to me," he says, pouring hot water over a small pot and three tiny teacups sitting in a bowl called a tea boat. "As with a person, you must take time to get to know the tea. Brewing tea is like a conversation."
Fong flushes water from the teacups into a second bowl and uses a small bamboo paddle to layer a strong oolong called Old Bush into the brewing pot.
"The five elements find harmony in tea. Wood is the plant; water grows the plant and makes the tea; fire heats the water and dries the tea leaves; earth makes the pot and grows the tea; and metal, which is the opposite of wood, is hidden in the clay, which helps the plant to grow."
Fong runs the bottom of the pot along the rim of the tea boat in a circular motion. In practical terms, this action releases pockets of water locked between leaves; in philosophical terms, it emphasizes the circle that is at the center of every tea ritual.
"The first steep, we do not drink," says Fong, pouring tea, which he allows us to smell but not to sip, into the water bowl (a vessel for undrunk tea). "First, we cleanse our minds. Now we start to feel our hearts. The tea is starting to release its aromatics, telling us the story of its life. There's a lot going on. There's a lot to discover in its smell."
