One woman’s search for the perfect teapot

I may have succumbed to esoteric salts and platinum-priced olive oils, but I always swore I would never turn into a tea snoot. When you drink as much of it as I do, one degree of separation from instant is fine.

And that of course means tea bags, which may not be the tasters’ choice but will at least do the trick in any pot you choose.

Unfortunately, my photographer consort came home from the tea plantations of Assam and Darjeeling in India last month with rather graphic descriptions of what goes into those all-too-convenient little bags. I always knew it was not the whole leaves, the fragrant and perfect parts, the ones that are sold loose for a premium.

The fact I didn’t want to face was that it was literally the sweepings from the processing floor.

But if taste couldn’t get me to elevate my standards, aesthetics would. I decided to switch to loose tea -- and I soon remembered why I had given it up after only a few tries in the first place. There’s that little problem of finding the perfect pot.

As it turns out, there’s been a bit of a revolution in teapots since I graduated from Coke for my morning caffeine. The kind I’ve used faithfully for years is the English ideal, the same kind of clean white china pot Fortnum & Mason pours from at its tea mecca in London. It’s beautiful and it’s functional for my kind of tea -- not green or Chinese or white or anything even faintly esoteric, just straightforward, middle-of-the-road, gas-up-and-go black tea.

There are many other options too: Chinese and Japanese, glass and ceramic, square and round, even cast-iron pots so heavy you can barely lift them. But I narrowed my choices to three simply by looking for an improvement on the fundamental flaw of the traditional pot: the china infuser designed to hold the tea as it steeps. I always just stuffed it into a drawer and forgot it because the leaves inevitably leaked through the slits in the sides and the whole dripping thing had to be removed, making a great mess, before I poured or the tea would continue brewing to bitterness.

Otherwise, my only quibble with the classic pot was that the solid color made it tough to tell whether the tea was strong enough before I started pouring. With a bag, timing is not so crucial. My kind of loose leaves, though, can go from zero to undrinkable in just an extra minute.

China’s pros and cons

A Chatsford pot recommended by a tea snoot solved one of the two problems. The classic white bone china pot, sold online through the high-end Upton Tea Imports in Massachusetts, comes with an infuser made of fine wire mesh that sits snugly inside and keeps every leaf corralled. A little handle on the side makes it easy to lift the infuser out when the tea is just right. Unfortunately, it still has to go somewhere unless you want stronger tea, and brown liquid dribbles all over the counter until you get it into a drip-catching receptacle.

Because the pot is opaque, there is also the problem of deciding when the tea is done. You can’t do it by eye, only by the clock, at least on your first 10 tries. There had to be a better way.

Glass was the obvious answer, and it has another clear advantage over porcelain or china: It doesn’t turn brown with age and heavy use.

I found several glass teapots with glass infusers, but that seemed like asking for trouble on a bleary-eyed morning. I’ve chipped too many porcelain pots to be comfortable with the idea of glass shards in my first cup of the day.

Instead, a tea press I had come across in more pretentious restaurants here and overseas and rediscovered online solved two problems. Like the classic French press for coffee, the Dimbula pot consists of a Pyrex pitcher in a casing with a handle, with a plunger for forcing water through leaves. I could instantly see how the tea was progressing, and the plunger kept the leaves out of the way until the pot was drained. It even looked cool, although I was able to order it only in “gold” rather than more kitchen-compatible chrome.

The pot, named for a tea-growing region of Sri Lanka, also can be used to make coffee. Coffee, however, needs pressure. Tea leaves just need to be displaced. And that’s why the Dimbula fell short. With either coffee or tea, the compressed dregs stay trapped in the bottom of the glass cylinder. You can’t shake them out as you can even with the worst infuser. You need a rubber spatula and patience, not a commodity in huge supply in my mornings.

The third pot was the charm. Made by Bodum and called an Assam press, it’s glass with a plastic handle and looks rather rudimentary. But the trick is the centerpiece, a cross between the Chatsford infuser and Dimbula press: a plastic infuser with a plunger.

The infuser has tiny perforations down to about half an inch from the bottom. When you press the leaves with the plunger, tea is forced through the holes and the leaves are trapped in the enclosed area, so they no longer come in contact with the tea. This effectively stops the steeping and a perfect pot stays that way.

The Assam pot also has a lip rather than a spout, which means it never gets grimy in a hard-to-scrub spot. When it comes time to empty it, the leaves shake out easily. The one or two that cling to the perforations are easy to swish out with running water.

Bodum makes several tea presses, but I prefer the Assam, and not just because the tea growers in India recommended it to my consort. The other pots have glass infusers or are larger or fancier. This one is a classic with a twist.

I test-steeped all three pots using the same amount of a tea I always liked in bags, Twinings Earl Grey, and made another discovery. The bergamot flavoring that’s blended just right in bagged tea is almost overpowering in loose leaves.

I hate to admit it, but I may have to clear out some olive oils to make room for new blends in my cabinet.

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Buyers’ guide

* Chatsford teapot is $32.20 plus shipping at uptontea.com.

* Dimbula tea press is $20.95 plus shipping at culinaryteas.com.

* Bodum Assam tea press is $24.95 in most kitchenware shops or $19.95 plus shipping

at amazon.com.