Japanese Food Bites: Indulging in the Taste of Summer

If you told me my most magical day in Japan would start with a cartoon mascot and end with a bowl of rice swimming in tea, I might have raised an eyebrow. But that’s exactly what happened the day I hopped onto the Obubu Tea Farm bus in Kyoto and tumbled into a world where tea leaves arch like rainbows and every cup tells a story.

The ride from Kyoto Station was a breeze, and as we rolled up to the farm, I was greeted by a panorama of rolling green hills, tea bushes arching in perfect rainbows, and distant mountains peeking through the mist. It was the kind of view that makes you want to write poetry or, at the very least, a very enthusiastic blog post.

Welcomed by our guide, we were led to a special section of the tea fields reserved for tours. Here, I had my first taste of Hoji Genmaicha. I drank a warm, nutty, and surprisingly refreshing tea that instantly made me question every other beverage choice I’ve ever made. As we sipped, our guide explained the secrets behind those perfectly arched tea bushes: a rainbow-shaped cutter, favored by the head farmer, trims each plant into a gentle curve. It’s adorable, yes, but also practical. Manual trimming would take ages, and the cutter gets the job done with a flourish.

Winter brings its own challenges, but the Obubu team has it covered, where giant fans blow through the fields to keep frost at bay. In the hot summers sunlight is harnessed to naturally dry and pest-proof the leaves. Our guide confessed he sometimes plucks a leaf straight from the bush for a quick snack—tea farm perks, I suppose.

Next stop: the machinery. The processing building felt like a time capsule, filled with old machines rescued from other tea factories. Everything here is about preserving flavor, dehydrating the leaves just enough, moving them gently along conveyor belts, and finally packing them in epic three-layered bags that could probably survive a trip to the moon. Tradition meets innovation, with machines designed to mimic the careful handwork of generations past.

After a crash course in tea types. Green for the purists, oolong for the adventurers, black for the bold. We also learned about the two main growing styles at Obubu: Roji (open field) and Kabuse (shaded under mesh). The real fun began when we got to brew our own tea. First, a gentle steep with warm water for 15 seconds—light, mild, almost ethereal. Then, a hotter, shorter brew—8 seconds of intensity, yielding a darker, nuttier cup. Who knew a few seconds could make such a difference?

One of my favorite moments was watching my friend Bennett take on the role of matcha master, whisking up a bowl of bright green tea for us to try. As he carefully rotated the whisk in his hands, I asked him how he felt about the experience. “Honestly, I was a little nervous I’d mess it up,” Bennett laughed, staring into the foamy abyss. “But there’s something really calming about the whole process. It’s almost like meditation.” He handed me the bowl with a grin. “I never thought I’d be able to make real matcha in Japan! I think I’ll need to practice my whisking skills when I get home.” We both took a sip, appreciating the creamy texture and gentle bitterness, proof that Bennett’s first attempt was a success.

Lunch was ochazuke (rice with tea poured over it) accompanied by a spread of side dishes. I’ll admit, it didn’t look like much at first, but by the end, I was happily stuffed and already plotting my next tea-infused meal.

As we said our goodbyes to our guides, the tea bushes, and the ever-cheerful mascot, I felt a little pang of nostalgia. Maybe I didn’t find my soulmate among the leaves, but I definitely left a piece of my heart on the hills of Uji.