It is made from stems rather than leaves. Pour hot water over it and the colour that comes up is thin, almost apologetic, while the smell arrives well ahead of the taste. There is almost no astringency left at the back of it.

In 1902 a tea merchant in Kanazawa looked at what was left over once leaves had been finished for market — the stems, sorted out and set aside as a by-product — and decided to roast them. They were cheap and they smelled wonderful, and people bought them. He then gave the method to the traders' association rather than keeping it to himself, which is why the whole prefecture drinks this and not merely his own customers.

The roast is deliberately light. Take it further and you gain more of that toasted smell but you lose the tea underneath it, and the point here is to stop early, at the place where both are still in the cup. Judging that moment is essentially the whole craft. A lighter roast keeps more of the sweetness that was in the stem to begin with.

Boiling water, twenty-five seconds, done. Because it asks so little of you, it turns up everywhere in Kanazawa: after a meal, in the middle of the afternoon, pressed into your hands in a shop while you are still deciding about something else. A tea that refuses to brew strong has ended up being the one people drink most often.