Attaya

Making Senegalese tea (Attaya). The Process. Ready. Let’s Go. So I think that I can describe very well much you need to know about this ritualistic process from a tea experience that I had last Friday (March 6).

Ok, class ends. It’s five o’clock on a Friday. We are burnt out from a week of sitting in class and cultural immersion. Go get a beer right? Wrong.

“Hey Pete, you wanna go make some attaya. I’m really fiendin’.”
“Yeah man, that sounds so incredibly perfect. Cody you down?”
“Uh, yeah…I’ll help make, but I’m not going to drink. You guys are addicts.”

But let me clarify what Cody means when he says we are addicts. We are only addicts in the best way possible. And I know that I really sound like an addict in denial when I say that, but attaya is truly a great thing. It’s not just the tea. It’s the process. I will explain and then I will let you judge for yourself.

So after splitting GENSEN (our learning center), we had to decide where our tea session would take place. We decide on Pete’s and Cody’s house. The other option is my house. My house is perpetually controlled by three women and two crying babies. As you may guess, not the ideal location for three young males to ritualize and unwind.

Ok, so now we have to visit one of dozens of corner stores (there are literally about 5 stores in every 50 yard radius of where you are standing in Yoff that stock exactly the same things—its interesting: no one has an edge and they are all seemingly doing good business. Well, I guess it makes sense because there are no real grocery stores here. Everything food related comes from a vendor on the street, the bakery, or one of these little corner stores. There is a high demand) and pick up our ingredients, otherwise known as the big three: A small box of “premium” Chinese green tea, a bag of sugar, and bundle of mint. We don’t really have much of a choice to make (the sugar is usually in a generic plastic bag, and the mint is taken out of the fridge cut and tied and wrapped in newspaper). However, the one choice we do have to make is critical (or so I was told). This is the choice of the tea, of which there are multiple brands. However, there are only three that you should choose: Cheval (Horse) or Forté (Strong) or La Force (The Strength). Personally I prefer Cheval, but simply because the box looks cooler.

Anyway, we pick up our big three, and stroll down the sanded alleyway to the house with a sense of a deeply absorbed pleasure. Our hearts like a large, dry cotton ball for the golden-brown candy liquid we are about to consume. But when I say candy, I don’t mean anything repulsively artificial and gaggingly sugared. It’s more like the nectar from a bright and blooming flower that blissfully intoxicates the bee. Or drops of blood from a lover’s drunken heart. And while these over-the-top emotional descriptions might just be unique to me, something similar is evoked in many people. It is the power of the tea and her beautiful process. So let’s actually delve into the process that I keep talking about.

Firstly we had to choose our weapon: Gas or charcoal. For me, this is only a decision if time is a factor. If you don’t have a few hours to fully enjoy yourself, you should choose gas. But by choosing gas, you really miss out on the full and truly wonderful experience. So I am not going to talk about gas because that is not what we chose on this fine Friday afternoon.

So now we have to get some charcoal from one of the two charcoal vendors within three football fields of each other. The vendors make their charcoal onsite and all of the charcoal is stored (and I think made) in these 12’ high and 15’ diameter wood-woven cylindrical containers. It’s actually very impressive. The going price for 2 kilos (which will half fill an ordinary plastic bag) is 300 CFA (about 60 cents). So we take the charcoal back, put it in our charcoal cooker (a small contraption made of sheet metal that consists of an upside down cone (where you put the charcoal) connected with a grate in between to a cylinder that has an opening in the center to allow air flow (therefore giving the charcoal the ability to catch flame and burn). It is an extremely handy device that allows you to heat up anything of a modest size, just about anywhere (I intend on instituting it, and tea, in my life when I come back to the US).

Ok so back to our day. We got the charcoal going and we are all sitting around it on small wooden stools in front of the house on a sort of porch type area. Nothing could be better. The methodical process begins. So let me explain. There are three rounds to the tea making process. The premier, the deuxiéme, and the troisiéme. The premier is quite strong, but balanced by an equal amount of sweetness (By the way, the Senegalese adore their sugar and generally likes things quite sweet). It has been called diesel fuel (actually that’s mostly when I make it…). The deuxiéme is still a modestly strong tea (if you didn’t add the whole packet of tea to the premier, you can add the remaining to the pot for the deuxiéme). However, the deuxiéme adds a new wrinkle: mint. So the deuxiéme is of medium strength, sweet, and minty. It is my favorite. Next comes the troisiéme. It is the lightest, sweet, and should be quite minty (the decreasing strength makes sense logically and practically: you keep using the same tea leaves so the tea will become lighter and lighter, the more times you boil it. But it’s always nice to end on a light note, so boiling’s laws of nature work out well). It is the perfect way to end the process. And let me assure you every round was just right that Friday afternoon.

There are details about exactly how much water, sugar, tea, and mint to add. As well as, how hot your charcoal should be and how long you should let your tea boil. You can also get specific about when you should add the sugar. I am not going to get into these details for the fear of boring you. Also, as with anything else, there is no universal rule to making attaya. Everyone has their own technique and preferences, which makes for more fun and flavor.

But I do need to inform everyone about another aspect of attaya. This is the presentation when it is served. First of all the tea is served in small glasses that are reminiscent of shot glasses. They are filled halfway with tea, but with the best of presentation, the glass is completely full. This is because of the mousse (foam): a process in of itself that is essential to the overall process. The mousse is achieved by high-powering the tea from one glass to another causing the formation of bubbles, which can (if done correctly) turn into half a glass of foam. Mousse equals style points.

As you may have noticed, a lot of this reflection has been focused on the details of making attaya. The details and cultural specificities are important and a piece of the beauty of the process. However, another piece of the beauty is the absolute lack of details. It’s a sweeping tranquility. It’s about sitting back, talking to your friends, listening, reflecting, and soaking life in. These are things that don’t always happen in our hectic and technologically centered lives. It’s a break from the current paradigm. It’s brings us back to our roots as reflective, inventive, processing, social creatures. And it’s never individualistic, never selfish. Always inclusive, always selfless. The one making tea offers the tea to passersby whom he may not know before he himself drinks. It is truly a beautiful process. A beautiful human-connecting process.