“Black Tea, No Milk, Ta” | “红茶，不加奶，谢谢”
Written by: Tian Tian | 田天
Editor’s Note:
This article is excerpted from Haha! Britain — a charitable bilingual publication co-produced by The Mothers’ Bridge of Love (MBL) and River Cam Breeze. The book is a lively collaboration between 42 Chinese authors living in the UK and 36 university-based volunteer translators. With wit and warmth, the stories capture the everyday realities of Chinese communities in Britain, offering an honest look at the cultural clashes, humour, and adaptation that arise in the space between Chinese and British ways of life. Haha! Britain has been warmly endorsed by several well-known figures in UK-China relations, including Stephen Perry (former Chairman of the 48 Group Club), Luise Schäfer OBE (former British diplomat and Chamber of Commerce chair), Professor Hugo De Burgh (former BBC editor and academic), and British scholar Martin Jacques. The book’s title was handwritten by celebrated British-Chinese artist Qu Leilei, its cover illustrated by bestselling Chinese author and poet Feng Tang, and the postscript contributed by Xue Mo, a prominent voice in contemporary Chinese literature.
Illustrated by Tian Tian
Having a “cuppa” in the UK is quite an arduous task, and even after a decade here, the British way of tea drinking still feels exotic to me. Walking into a tiny café, I order a breakfast tea, and soon a waitress appears with a giant tray balanced on her slim arms. On the tray sits a hefty white ceramic cup, dominating the small saucer beneath it. A tiny milk jug perches inside the cup, accompanied by shiny accessories: a small teaspoon and, on occasion, a whimsical silver strainer or infuser.
You can hear this clattering medley of metal and ceramic before you see it: as the waitress’s arms tremble, the teapot lid bumps against the rim, and the little spoon dances frantically on the saucer’s edge. This noisy ensemble is so lively that you might mistake the teapot for a boiling kettle. The music continues as the tea is served: the clinking of cups and pots, the pouring of tea and milk, the scooping and dropping of sugar, and the stirring – all produce their own distinct notes. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you get to take that triumphant sip.
In East Asia, there is a different Way of Tea: the Chinese bathe their burnished red tea pets in an endless flow of black tea, while the Japanese whisk away time with vibrant green matcha. But this noisy, homely ritual is undoubtedly the British Way of Tea.
When I first arrived in the UK, I distanced myself from the British way of drinking tea. Coming from China, the birthplace of tea, I assumed there was nothing I could learn from the British. Before my long journey west, my father – a devoted tea drinker who once sipped from his cherished Yixing earthenware teapot – squeezed a tiny porcelain teapot into my backpack. Shaped like a lovely lotus, its petals wrapped around the body, with the seed head serving as the lid. It was a charming design for solitary drinkers: if you flipped the lid upside down, it transformed into a small teacup, ready for use. I once envisioned myself sipping tea absentmindedly among books in some cosy London nook.
However, that romantic notion was quickly shattered by the hectic life of a PhD student. Tea soon transformed from a cultural beverage requiring patience and contemplation into a mere elixir to stave off sleepiness and idleness. Each morning, still half-asleep, I would reach for a teabag from the carton, toss it into a mug, and douse it with boiling water until it swelled and floated in the dark liquid. Just a few gulps were all it took to down that murky potion, and the entire process felt utterly wretched.
Despite the degradation in my tea consumption, I clung to one last shred of dignity: no milk in my tea. I firmly believe that tea should never mingle with milk, a stubborn idiosyncrasy that makes me one of the most conservative tea drinkers around. When bubble milk tea invaded young Chinese palates with its sweet “boba” ammunition I refused to bow to its sugary tyranny.
Although I admire Mongolian “suutei tsai”, which combines black tea with milk, salt, fried millet and assorted cheeses, I don’t make this nomadic legacy a regular part of my diet. For me, tea should be simple: just a pot of water and a handful of tea leaves – nothing more.
Yet, I’m not the only one fussy about tea; the English are just as particular. Milk comes in a wide array of options: oat, soy, regular, or none at all. Sugar also has its choices: white, brown, sweetener, or none. The amount of sugar can range from “two spoonfuls” to “half a spoonful”, but the definition of “spoonful” is equally varied: it can be level or heaped. Ordering tea becomes akin to deciphering a pedantic insurance policy.
No wonder humorists Stuart and Jenny Payne refer to this British eccentricity as “Tea Policy”. This specificity often ties into social identity: a worker’s tea is typically strong, with milk and two spoonfuls of sugar. Breaking someone’s tea policy can be a bit embarrassing. Perhaps this is why the owner of a fish and chips shop in Hastings always appears as alert as a meerkat when I order my tea, one hand gripping a notepad while the other flits about, scribbling down every detail.
My tea policy could be one of the simplest on this island: just TEA, and nothing else. Yet this straightforward stance led to many clashes with the British milk-tea policy and resulted in some amusing situations.
During my first year in London, I was a master’s student living in a catered hall with the grand name of Ifor Evans. Every morning, I would stroll into the dining room, my habitual slumberous face in tow, and receive the generous English breakfast offerings from the catering staff. Bacon and sausage were delightful additions at first, but after a couple of months, they became too greasy for me. The only way to wash them down was with a mug of tea from the hot drinks machine, a reliable yet mediocre establishment.
I would pick up a faceless white mug from its blue plastic home, press the button, and watch as a steamy, inky elixir trickled down with a buzz – black tea without any personality, but it happened to be my cup of tea, quite literally.
As I washed down my greasy breakfast with that black potion, I had no idea a pair of eyes had been watching me for some time. They belonged to a sturdy janitor in a blue T-shirt, who stood guard at the entrance every day, holding his mop like St. George. One morning, he quietly approached, pulled out the chair across from me, and sat down, his onyx-like eyes fixed intently on me. Then he spoke cautiously, as if addressing a skittish fawn:
“I’ve been watching you for half a year, and I have to ask you one thing.”
“Okay,” I replied, thinking he might want to learn a few Chinese words. His gaze dropped to my mug. “Why do you drink your tea without milk?”
It was an unexpected question. Caught off guard, I responded hastily, as if a tribe member were answering an anthropologist, “I’ve been drinking tea like this since childhood; it’s just my habit.”
Our amateur anthropologist seemed satisfied and nodded before quietly slipping away. That interaction made me realise that every habit is rooted in something deeply embedded in the collective consciousness of society, and tea drinking is no exception. My no-milk policy champions the bitterness of black tea: sip a mouthful, let it linger, allowing the bitterness to invade every corner of your palate until it’s glazed with tannins, and only then can you swallow. Afterward, you exhale, and an astonishing aroma suddenly emerges at the back of your nose.
This way of drinking resonates with a particular virtue that Chinese culture has prized for centuries: “Eating Bitterness”, a term for “sucking it up”. Only by experiencing bitterness can one truly appreciate the rewarding sweetness that follows. Hence, while British nanny Mary Poppins sings, “A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,” her Chinese counterpart might say, “A spoonful of sugar after the medicine has gone down”.
In pursuit of this virtue, I became a sort of flagellant, seeking out bitterness in life. My first few years in London were a bountiful quarry of miseries. Days were devoted to research and writing, while nights were spent reading and translating. I worked until my shoulders and neck protested violently with pain. Then, one November evening, I ventured out for some fresh air. Crippled by exhaustion, I dragged my weary body down Amwell Street beneath gloomy clouds that contrasted sharply with the golden autumn leaves. Suddenly, the clouds broke, and golden beams of the setting sun shot through. At that moment, I saw it: the slender Gothic tower of St. Mark, gilded by the dying sun, piercing the grey firmament. For me, this was the rewarding fragrance that followed the bitter taste.
The British, however, seem to avoid even the slightest bitterness in their tea, adding milk not only for flavour but to suppress that bitterness altogether. This tendency reflects their lifestyle: there’s always something to counter life’s bitterness – a tea break, even if it’s in paper cups at the office with colleagues, a casual chat during lunch, mindless wandering among colourful boutiques, or chewing the fat over a pint with friends in a pub. I stood aloof from this lifestyle, just as I avoided milk in my tea. I often questioned how such a seemingly leisurely people could have built a great nation that once shook the world.
The British, in turn, didn’t care for my tea policy; busy baristas would always hand me white tea. Later, in a moment of desperation, I shouted “Black tea” over the bustling noise in the café, but only the syllables “La” and “Tea” managed to penetrate the filter of loud music and chatter.
There’s always a dash of milk in the tea of my life here. In my third year of study in London, I met my future wife, and we’ve been inseparable ever since, even in cafés. Each morning, we would order a cup of black tea, no milk, and share it together. She encouraged me not to work through the nights and weekends, reminding me to enjoy life. My Scottish supervisor, though often critical, taught me how to savour a scone and eventually introduced me to her newborn son. Gradually, the milk of love and friendship seeped into my tea.
One day, my wife said, “Darling, how about a white tea?” Surprisingly, I didn’t resist. The musical clinking of spoons and cups has become a familiar soundtrack at our table. Why should I cling to my tea?
About the author
Tian Tian is an archaeologist, historian and an avid reader.
英国人喝茶，往往颇费周章。虽然我来这里生活也小有十年，每每看到英国人喝茶，还总像是看西洋景儿般新奇。主顾进了舒服的小咖啡馆儿，要上一壶茶。不一会儿，服务生用纤细的双臂托着个棕黑的大托盘，上面放着白瓷的茶具。茶杯碟上是肥硕的茶杯，茶杯里又套着个小巧的白瓷小奶罐儿，沿儿上微微突出个嘴儿。讲究的馆子还要在茶杯旁摆上小茶匙，甚至银质的小滤网，“叠床架屋”，看着就沉。有时候若是个姑娘打老远的柜台端来，不等走近，用耳朵就能察觉托盘在颤动，上头的茶壶盖儿不停地磕着茶壶边儿，茶缸子在白瓷盘子上微微地摇，清脆的响动丁丁当当，仿佛是茶壶里刚烧开了水。主顾恭敬地接过来，在桌儿上铺开这套茶具，倒茶、加奶、加糖，拿起不锈钢的小茶匙搅拌一番，又是丁丁当当一阵，过了半分钟，可算是呷上了第一口茶。远在东方，中国的茶客用紫砂壶浇着茶宠，一旁焚香弹琴；东洋的茶客静静地跪坐着，一把秀气质朴的茶筅翻动着瓷碗中的抹茶，都可谓是“茶道”。而英国人这丁当作响的喝茶程序，也算是西洋的一种茶道了。
然而初到英国的我，对英国人的茶道实为不屑。自恃来自东土，茶之故乡，何必在饮茶上学西洋。家父在我十几岁的时候迷上用紫砂壶喝茶。我临行前，亲自包上了个青瓷的小茶具。莲藕的造型，放下盖儿就是茶碗儿，剩下的莲藕托儿就是个迷你茶壶，不大不小，刚好够一个人喝上几小杯。在异国他乡，怀念起故国时，饮上一杯岂不美哉？然而每日功课繁忙，茶也从雅兴之源堕落为提神药汤。焚香弹琴、烧水洗茶的仪式早就跟不上伦敦城里快节奏的生活。每天早上，掀开纸盒子，两个指头夹出个英国早餐红茶包，丢在大茶缸子里，一壶开水浇下来泡到发黑，几口喝下，颇为狼狈。然而即便是落魄到茶道尽失，我依然保留着最后的一点尊严：喝茶不加奶。这是多年来的习惯，也是心中认定喝茶最本真的方式。虽说我上大学那会儿见证了珍珠奶茶的流行，但是打那会儿我就颇为保守，满打满算，四年里也就喝过不到十杯罢了。驱车北上来到青城呼和浩特，当地的“锅茶”里，咸奶茶咕嘟着，里头的奶豆腐和炒米翻滚着，第一次去内蒙就被它俘获。然而尽管喜欢，也不是我能天天都喝得上的，即便去喝也更像是体会草原的异域情调。真的要喝茶的时候，一壶水，一把红茶，简简单单。
然而没想到不仅是我在喝茶上自视甚高的，英国人也是。这就让我和英国人在喝茶上曾经水火不容。加奶不加奶，若加奶，是牛奶还是豆奶；加糖不加糖，若加糖，要加几个茶匙，甚至茶匙里的糖是冒尖儿的还是平的，糖是白糖、红糖还是木糖醇……这些个问题就和英国人丁零当啷的喝茶程序一样，一桩桩，一件件压到主顾身上，点上一道茶就跟买保险签合同书一样琐碎。也难怪英国人把一个人喝茶的这些个琐碎的喜好称为 Tea Policy， “饮茶政策”亦或是“饮茶条款”，小小一杯茶如何喝就如同国家大事般严肃。对坐喝茶的两人不同意彼此的“茶策”，就好比两国间断交开战般剑拔弩张。甚至有些人以自己的“茶策”为荣，使其成为自己身份认同的一部分。好比说六七十年代的英国工人，就以红茶加奶和两匙白糖为标志，若是不这样喝上一杯，下午就 打不起精神。而这种茶久而久之也得了个“工人茶”的名号。于是乎，即便是到一个炸鱼薯条的摊子，要的茶也仅仅是五大三粗地装在白瓷大马克杯的，忙得蓬头垢面的老板娘也要在百忙之中，攥着小本儿和圆珠笔，小心翼翼地问我，要加奶还是不加奶，加奶要多还是要少，还是差不多就成，生怕挑起一场战斗。而我的“茶策”也可能是英国上下最简单粗暴的：茶，别的不要。然而就是这么一条简单的政策，在当地人看来却颇为奇特。我和英国人普遍“加奶加糖”的“茶策”也就有了冲突。虽说没到“召回外交人员”的程度，但是也闹出了不少啼笑皆非的事儿来。
到英国的第一年，我还是个初来乍到的研究生，窝在管早饭和晚饭的学生宿舍，名叫爱佛依梵（Ifor Evans）。每天早上七八点钟，下楼来到食堂，拿起盘子，从打饭的阿姨们那里接过烤香肠、煎培根、炸薯饼和烤豆子，边儿上撒些蘑菇，再码一个烤得略焦的西红柿，便是一顿英式早饭了。然而，自秋天到次年夏天，每天早上都是香肠培根，未免单调油腻，即便丰盛也吃不下去。于是乎茶就成了去腻消食的汤药。每天打完饭，未等坐下，先踱到附近的热饮机器前，从一旁拎出一个白瓷缸子，打上一缸子红茶。一股黑色药汤般的红茶直直落下，热气腾腾。我每天就着红茶咽下肥腻的早饭，却不知道我早已被一双好奇的眼睛给盯上了。食堂里头，总是有个清洁工立在角落，蓝色的短袖，露出黑粗强健的手臂，双手握着拖把，一双眼睛好似乌木雕像上镶嵌的缟玛瑙，硕大的眼珠骨碌碌地转着，看着来往的我们，好似个人类学家。一个夏天的早上，我径自一人坐在个大桌子上，正吃喝得出神，便看到他慢悠悠地来到我桌子对面，拉出椅子，不紧不慢地坐下，眼睛则一直盯着我，仿佛是见到了野外的小鹿，生怕把我惊跑了。他坐踏实之后，强壮的双臂放到桌上，身体向前倾着，小心地低声说：“打扰了，我能问您个事儿不？”
“行啊。”我点了点头，心想可能这位想学点儿中文的暄罢了。心中瞬间开始把“你好”“再见”排了个序，把“谢谢”排在了最后。心想英语国家的人，多数发不出“谢”。
“我看了你快一年了，有一件事儿我不太明白。”他的眼珠往下骨碌，落到我右手边儿的白瓷缸子，里面是冒着白气儿的黑汤儿，“您喝茶怎么不加奶啊？”
我当即一愣。心中一方面抱怨白准备了这些个暄，一方面又想不出如何回答这个问题。最后只能支支吾吾地说：“我打小在中国就这么喝的，习惯了。”这位专业清洁工兼“业余人类学家”点点头，道了谢便走了。
专业的人类学家都说，有时候，被采访的当地人，并不知道自己为何要做一些外人看来不太平常的事儿，于是乎就编一个解释搪塞。我那会儿何尝不是呢？喝茶不加奶真的仅仅是习惯使然？还是背后藏着点儿小心思呢？扪心自问，多年来，我确实把如何喝茶和如何为人挂钩了。坚持喝茶不加奶，与其说是坚持自己的“饮茶政策”，不如说是执着于一种人生态度。茶之为茶，在于苦涩。红茶入口，莫急着咽下，让茶水带着那苦味，给口中镀上薄薄的一层膜，洗去了所有餐饭的油腻。缓缓呼气，回甘自来，在之前苦涩映衬之下，弥足珍贵。国人的文化，讲求的就是吃苦忍耐，而后苦尽甘来，和喝茶的方式完全一致。
英国人则不然，似乎完全喝不得这苦涩，要让牛奶遮掩，方能入口。红茶注入了奶，虽然多了层香气，却也消弭了茶的苦涩。之后的回味也伴着牛奶温婉的香气而来，少了一番苦尽甘来的气息。有的时候，奶中的脂肪，和早餐中的肥油沆瀣一气。一阵肥美油腻的香味扫过之后，留下的是黏答答的藉。
喝茶如此，过日子更是如此。英国人似乎特别善于在生活的苦涩中加上点奶。下午三四点钟，办公室里的同事们捧着纸杯子，喝茶聊天，五六点钟下班，毫无昂扬奋进的样子。晚上七八点钟，街上五颜六色，琳琅满目的小店和酒吧喧嚣不止，毫无质朴耐劳的气质。这样回避苦涩，享受安逸的国民，怎能让国家强劲向上并品味到国力发展后的回甘呢？自视甚高的我心想，自己万不可以接受英国人这种沉湎于安乐的态度。虽然嘴上不说出来，但是每次要茶都会倔强地告诉对方：“劳驾您，红茶，不加奶，不加糖，谢谢您。”
然而英国人却不领会我的“茶策”，隔三差五就往我的茶水中兑上牛奶。我心中颇有不悦，但是始终没有胆量抱怨。午饭的时候，往往在学校周遭的咖啡馆凑合一顿。一个三明治，一杯茶，十分钟里风云际会，不待细嚼慢咽，甚至最后一口还在喉咙里，就已经起身回办公室了。要茶的时候，我经常直接说“black tea”。大多数情况下，对方就知晓了，这位主顾不加奶。然而咖啡馆里往往吵闹得很：嘈杂的流行音乐，往来人群的说笑，咖啡机的隆隆轰鸣，这就让我说出的词儿，到了对方耳中，被淹没了一半儿。原先的“black tea”，经过这番过滤，就剩下了“le”和“tea”。对方也都是久经沙场的老将，耳朵里钻进了“le tea”之后，就以迅雷不及掩耳之势，给我做了一杯拿铁咖啡 Latte，还拉出了个颇为精致的奶花来。我接过这杯咖啡，只能一阵苦笑，心说也算赚了，拿铁咖啡好歹比红茶贵了那么几分钱。然而最让我哭笑不得的是，明明是为了避开加了牛奶的红茶，说了“black tea”，最后换得的，反而是杯加了奶的咖啡，南辕北辙，不过如此了！这种事情多了，自然觉得仿佛整个英国和生活都在和我作对。喝一杯不加奶的红茶，有这么难吗？
说难，也不难。红茶不加奶，就是要其苦涩和回甘。而当时的生活，已全然不缺苦涩了。攻读博士的前两年，白天钻研史料，撰写报告；日落后，龟缩宿舍，蜷在桌前，翻译书籍。不到几个月，脖颈痛到不能点头，两肩僵硬摆臂不得。而驱动这副破烂躯体继续工作的，正是一杯杯漆黑不加奶的红茶（抑或是不得不喝的拿铁咖啡）。苦涩之后，回甘自来。11 月的伦敦，黑色的树干顶着或红或黄的残叶，街市上点缀着深绿的冬青和金黄的落叶；灰色的天空，西边的乌云突然被划开了一角，露出缕缕落日的光辉。一时间温暖和冷清，生命与死亡交相辉映。四体疼痛的我撂下手里的工作，一瘸一拐地漫步在一丝灵顿（Islington）的大街小巷，以求内心的平静。沿着安为大街（Amwell）踽踽南下，突然望到左侧瘦削的圣马可教堂高塔，被夕阳染成了金黄，刺向灰色的天空。四周映衬着或绿或黄的树冠。四下无人，唯有鸟鸣。若是普通的时日，这番景致不过尔尔，但是在苦涩的工作后，这静谧的教堂，平静的秋景，却格外地喜人。以至于距今已有六年，提及那段时光，就会有个哥特高塔突然从脑中钻出，刺到我的眼前。
然而，过日子真的和喝茶一样，总有不知道打哪冒出来的一股牛奶，注入你的茶汤。冬去春来，我的生活中多了一个人，我未来的夫人。读书漫步之外，生活里多了一番陪伴和温情。她说周末里我应该放下工作，休养身体。于是工作之外，我的生活里有了公园里的私语，四体的疼痛也神奇地消失了。我们俩每天早上会一起在学校附近的小咖啡馆喝一杯茶，再开始一日的工作。如胶似漆的我们，共享着一杯红茶，但是和往常一样，这杯红茶红得发黑，两人一起在经历着苦涩后的茶香。告别恋人，来到系里，遇到导师，谈的也不仅仅是学问，而是如何注意颈椎健康。我的第二导师是个活泼大气的苏格兰人，一日匆忙间见我拿着一块司康饼，捧着一杯红茶，愣是停下脚步，退回来，对我说：“司康饼以后要加奶油和果酱才有滋味。”办公室里，到了三四点钟，同事们拿起纸茶杯，三三两两说着闲话。有一天，我也摘下了耳机，回过头去，拿起了自己的茶缸子，丢进去个茶包，端在手里，加入了他们的聊天。有时候说笑间就有了灵感，真是“不知道哪块云彩有雨”。
苦涩的日子最后还是消退了。而有一天，我突然感受到了口中逐渐褪去的茶的苦味，心说不好，我的红茶里，开始一点一滴混入牛奶了。然而，恋人、师生和同事关系中的种种欢乐和甜蜜，远比苦涩后的回甘更有滋味了。或许，红茶里加点奶也未尝不可。何必死守着自己多年来的“茶策”而抛弃英国奶茶的清甜？于是乎，有一天，夫人问我：“这次咱俩的茶是不是加一点奶啊？”不久之后，我端着一杯茶，黑色的茶水被牛奶染得花白，回到了她面前。从那次之后，我们的餐桌上，也响起了白瓷奶罐子、茶杯和小茶匙碰撞的丁丁当当，一杯杯红茶变为一杯杯奶茶，茶香和奶香交汇，不见了对苦涩和回甘的执着。不过有时候，当我只身一人，进了茶馆儿。要了茶，提搂起那小奶罐，我会突然忆起故土青山下鳞次栉比的水泥居民楼，忆起家父装饰着松枝的紫砂壶。那个刹那间，我突然放下了小小的白瓷罐儿，举起茶杯，抿了一口苦涩的红茶，熟悉的苦和涩爬满口腔，而就在茶香慢慢显现的时候，我又举起了奶罐。白色的牛奶氤氲在黑茶汤中，仿佛水墨交融。加奶，不加奶，最终由得我来决定。拥抱英国生活里的安逸，还是坚守故土对吃苦的追求，也最终在我的一念之间吧。
作者介绍
田天，伦敦大学学院埃及考古学博士，伦敦大学伯贝克学院历史系
研究助理。在英求学工作近十年，常撰文介绍英国历史人文。
Both the Chinese and English editions of Haha! Britain can be purchased at the following platforms:
· BOOK FAN