Berkley Center

Ataaya. The sweet nectar of the gods when the mercury pushes a hundred and the lack of electricity has taken the chill out of all other beverage options. I think the gods would also enjoy a nice box cake and frosting right about now, but I digress.

Composition: one part Chinese green tea leaves, two parts sugar, three parts water—by the end of the brewing cycle, water and sugar will measure equally. Twenty cents for the tea, 80 cents for the sugar, and if you can afford it (or have a garden plot nearby), get a handful of mint as well.

From what I can remember from high school biology, there is something to be said about a piping hot drink during the heat of the day. In short, the beverage in question raises your body temperature, which jump-starts your various cooling mechanisms. Though I would still prefer a Coke and tall glass of ice, a tiny cup of tea also does the trick.

So you have gone to the local boutik, greeted your way through a purchase, and returned to your coal stove under your nearest shade tree with water, pot, and cups on standby. What now? You have plenty of time—time enough to perfect the art of brewing and pouring. Place water in the pot along with three-quarters of the box of tea. While the leaves simmer away, you start talking with the others around, since shade trees do a fine job of attracting companions to while the heat away.

The conversation begins, as it has for centuries past, with a discussion of heat; heat in general, the day’s heat in particular, your personal heat, and how your job and family are doing with the heat. Condolences and agreements are given in response, and conversation takes a slower turn—talking quickly and heatedly is only for controversial subjects, evenings, and those who care little about conserving energy.

A while later, once the leaves have boiled plenty enough, you add in the sugar. Then you continue to fan yourself and sit. The conversation turns to the rising price of food, religion, lack of jobs, and the dangerous speed of motos and kaars passing by. You take the caramelized liquid off of the stove and fill each of the tiny cups, which you then pour back into the pot. Repeat the process until the tea-filled glasses no longer burn your fingers. Set one cup of tea aside, and place the pot back on the coals. Add in the mint if you have it.

Next you perform an act some would call pouring tea. Others call it an act of courage. I call it magic. Take the cup you put aside and pour it, with little to no spill, into the other. Repeat this act until each cup is three quarters full of sugary tea foam. Good luck.

Take your teapot and pour tea onto the foam. Depending on how many have joined you under the tree, the amount of tea poured will change. Guests are served first, then oldest men and oldest women, and as brewer, you get the remaining drops. Never fear, however. The afternoon is not over yet, nor is the tea. Repeat the steps above, with slight variation, twice more for full enjoyment.

Back in the United States where phrases such as “time is money” rule daily schedules, taking an afternoon to sit back and spend hours brewing tea with mere ounces as a result would be taken as a sure sign of laziness. The question of whether or not you can afford the time spent brewing, however, never rises. In fact, when asked, even the most bourgeois of Senegalese would answer that ataaya tastes better when brewed slowly over coal rather than quickly boiled over gas—those in a rush will have little but burnt tongues and a bitter aftertaste to show for it.