The tea is bitter. Powdered, swamp-green, frothy from whipping with the boiling water in the tea bowl, its pungent aroma is followed by a bitter taste, textured first with the froth, then smooth with the water and finally, grained with the dregs. It is always bitter and in this, like any acquired taste, is its peculiar attraction, a specific for too much sweetness, for too much acceptability. The tea always tastes the same, and yet each bowl is slightly different; the nuances of substance are its essence. It can be a surprising school for taste or a dreary ritualizing of schematized foreknowledge. But always it plays of the nuances of sense, a dialogue between perception and raw or but slightly formed material.