Taihōan Tea House and Byōdō-in Temple in Uji

The Phoenix Hall and the sublime tea ceremony of Uji.

From Kyoto, we boarded a train one morning, bound for Uji – a quaint town nestled between Kyoto and Nara, revered as Japan’s verdant capital of green tea. Before surrendering to the allure of tea, we paused at Byōdō-in, a UNESCO World Heritage temple, and later sought the serene embrace of Taihōan, Uji’s storied tea house. Within Taihōan’s austere yet tranquil walls, I partook in my first authentic tea ceremony. Only then did I grasp why the Japanese devote lifetimes to perfecting the artistry of a single cup of tea.

Byōdō-in Temple

Uji greeted us with the tender light of dawn, a golden veil draped gently over the placid Uji River. A delicate mist lingered, carrying the faint scent of fresh grass and damp earth. We strolled toward Byōdō-in, a millennium-old temple whose architecture reigns as the pinnacle of the Heian era (794–1185).

From the temple gate, the Phoenix Hall emerged, its vermilion façade ablaze like a sacred flame against the azure sky. Its tiled roof curved gracefully, like the wings of a phoenix poised for flight, mirrored in the still lake below. A soft breeze stirred, rustling the leaves as if whispering tales from a thousand years past. I exhaled, and time seemed to pause, leaving only the dreamlike echo of an ancient world.

Originally a villa of the regent Fujiwara no Yorimichi, Byōdō-in was transformed into a temple for his mother’s Buddhist worship. At its heart lies the Phoenix Hall, its central chamber forming the bird’s head and body, flanked by two corridors like outstretched wings, with a smaller rear hallway resembling a delicate tail. Gazing at the roof, I glimpsed golden phoenixes gleaming in the sunlight, a fitting namesake for this ethereal structure.

The main hall enshrines a statue of Amida Buddha, crafted by the master sculptor Jōchō. The Buddha’s face exudes serenity, eyes half-closed in tranquil repose. Wooden walls bear reliefs of celestial beings, dancing and singing as they escort Amida to the Pure Land. Their movements, fluid and graceful, seem to defy the passage of nearly ten centuries, as if frozen in a divine ballet.

The temple garden boasts an immense wisteria trellis. Wisteria, or fuji in Japanese, symbolizes the Fujiwara clan, Byōdō-in’s former patrons. In bloom, its cascading purple clusters sway like silken curtains in the breeze, bathing the grounds in a lavender reverie. I visited out of season, encountering only gnarled, dark branches and a solitary trellis. Yet those barren vines spoke volumes: earthly glory fades, but nature endures, quiet and resolute. In that moment, I glimpsed wabi-sabi – not merely the beauty of imperfection, but an embrace of life’s transience like the Fujiwara’s once-mighty legacy now confined to ancient texts.

Leaving Byōdō-in, my heart still clung to the temple’s singular beauty. We wandered down a shaded path toward Taihōan, where a cup of green tea promised to extend Uji’s timeless narrative. If the temple had tethered my soul to the past, the tea house would teach me to cherish the present.

Taihōan Tea House in Uji

Without a modest sign by the gate, we might have passed Taihōan unnoticed. Its thatched roof and weathered wooden walls exude simplicity, yet this unassuming façade opens into the profound world of the tea ceremony, steeped in Zen.

Beyond the gate lies the roji or “dewy garden” – a small enclave of quietude. Its path, paved with rough-hewn stones, evokes a rugged mountain trail. Before the tea room, a stone basin (tsukubai) rests beside a bamboo ladle. Guests pause to rinse their hands, a gentle ritual to cleanse the dust of the world. With a few simple gestures, I felt my mind settle, as if the clamor of life had dissolved.

The tea room’s entrance is low, compelling me to bow as I crossed the threshold. Why such humility? Professor Cao Huy Thuần explains: “Be you noble or warrior, all must bow to enter the tea house. Samurai, proud with their swords, must leave their blades outside. To bow is to shed the burdens of the outer world and behold the marvel within – a marvel of emptiness, devoid of objects or words, only silent gestures.” (Chuyện Trò, NXB Trẻ 2012, p. 86)

Indeed, the tea room embodies austerity. Wooden walls, wooden pillars, wooden floors – no excess, no ostentation. A tokonoma alcove displays a simple calligraphy scroll, beneath which a rustic vase holds a few wildflowers, chosen with seasonal precision.

Our host, a diminutive tea master with silver-flecked hair, moved with deliberate grace, her voice soft and measured. Her presence radiated calm and elegance, each gesture like pouring water or placing a cup imbued with serene intention. She was the ceremony’s guide, preserving its sanctity and stillness. In her hands, I saw patience; in her eyes, humility; and in her seasonal choice of scroll and flowers, a profound refinement.

On the tatami mat, tea utensils were arranged with reverence. The chawan (tea bowls), crafted from unadorned clay, bore a quiet elegance. A chasen (bamboo whisk) stood poised, its delicate tines fanning out like a dried blossom. Nearby, a chashaku (bamboo scoop) curved with subtle grace, beside a glossy natsume (lacquered tea caddy). In one corner, steam rose faintly from a kama (iron kettle) on a brazier. These humble tools, I realized, were not mere implements but vessels of the tea ceremony’s soul.

The preparation unfolded like a sacred rite. The tea master wiped each utensil with a cloth, her movements meticulous yet unhurried, then warmed the bowl with hot water. Vibrant green matcha was scooped into the chawan, followed by a slow pour of water from the kettle. She took the whisk, stirring with rhythmic precision, conjuring a frothy emerald foam light as clouds. I closed my eyes, lulled by the whisk’s soft cadence as if cradled by a wordless Zen hymn.

When the tea was placed before me, I bowed, not only in gratitude but to shed the tumult of my thoughts. The first sip was faintly bitter, a gentle reminder of life’s trials. The second carried a whisper of seaweed, evoking nature’s quiet depth. The third, sweet and pure, offered solace, revealing that even the smallest moments deserve reverence. Ichigo ichie! I knew this cup, this moment, would never come again.

In the hushed room, we savored in silence. I recalled the tea master’s guidance: hold the bowl so its pattern tilts left, preserving both its beauty and cleanliness; sip thrice to let the tea’s essence unfold on the tongue. A wagashi sweet, pale pink like cherry blossoms, accompanied the tea, its delicate flavor enhancing the matcha’s lingering depth.

Stepping out of Taihōan, my heart felt as light as the morning mist over the Uji River. The restlessness of the traveler in me had yielded to a monk-like calm, as if I had emerged from a meditative dream. I knew that moment would dissolve into time’s current, yet its tranquil aftertaste lingered, like the fragrance of tea etched in memory. Beyond, Uji stretched forth, its emerald tea fields a testament that this culture of tea lives not only in the cup but in the slow, deliberate rhythm of this land.

mlefood – Minh Lê

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