Tea begins as a ritual, a series of deliberate steps designed for precision. It starts with measuring 2 grams of tea leaves—exactly. Every grain matters—no more, no less. The water is boiled, not simmered, but a full, rolling boil. You pour it carefully into a white porcelain pot, its edge designed for symmetry, marking 4 millimetres below the rim all around. Precision. Consistency. Timing. These are the foundations of the process.

Then, you wait. Six minutes. Not a moment more, not a moment less. The seconds stretch on, each tick of the timer almost unbearable. When the timer beeps, the tea is poured into a matching porcelain bowl, smooth and symmetrical, the way it was meant to be.

If you take milk, you’ve already measured it. Five millilitres for a large bowl, 2.5 for a small one. But the milk doesn’t go in yet. First, the tea must cool to exactly 65 to 80 degrees. Control. Consistency.

This isn’t just tea; it’s a standardised process laid out by ISO 3103 [1]. It’s designed for consistency in controlled environments, to be perfect for blind tastings, but it misses the mark when it comes to personal enjoyment. The tea is fine, technically correct, but it lacks soul. It’s bland.

ISO 3103 isn’t meant to tell us how to make our perfect cup of tea—it’s meant to ensure that every cup is exactly the same. And in the pursuit of uniformity, it removes the very soul of tea: the personal touch. Tea isn’t just a drink. For me, it’s a sensory memory, a bridge to summers in Bengal filled with the scent of mangoes and lychees. It’s the warmth of those days, the flavours woven into my culture, my heritage. My mum prefers her mangoes soft, juicy, and sweet, while I love mine tangy and crisp. Tea, too, holds those personal flavours.

When I sip my favourite tea—Twinnings’ Mango and Lychee, with a dash of honey—it’s more than just the taste. It's what floats among the tea leaves; conversations, laughter, quiet moments with friends. That’s where the magic lies.

ISO 3103 seeks to remove all the variability and turn tea into something that can be scientifically measured and compared. But what about the messiness of taste? The richness of cultural history? Tea, like so many things, is deeply personal. You can’t standardise it. You can’t reduce it to numbers or formulas and still expect to capture what makes it special.

Standards are everywhere—art, beauty, intelligence. The story of ISO 3103 is just one example. We often try to quantify the unquantifiable, to create rules that will make these things easier to compare. In doing so, we lose the nuance, the depth, the uniqueness that makes them meaningful. Beauty isn’t just symmetry; intelligence isn’t just a test score. What makes something great can’t always be reduced to metrics.

Standards have their place—logistics, communication, objectivity. But when it comes to the things that truly matter, the things that stir emotion and connect us to each other, they fall short. The ISO-standard cup of tea might be technically correct, but it’s a hollow version of what tea can be.

So go ahead. Drink the tea that means something to you. Whether it’s fruity, spicy, sweet, or bitter—embrace what makes it yours. The standardised cup will remain lukewarm and predictable, but your cup? It will be filled with memories, with culture, with personal taste. And that, I believe, is what makes it perfect.

Footnotes:

1. Tea — Preparation of liquor for use in sensory tests is a standard developed by the International Organisation for Standardisation (ISO) that outlines a precise method for brewing tea, intended for use in scientific and sensory evaluations. The goal of the standard is to ensure consistency in the preparation of tea for comparative taste tests, allowing for objective analysis of flavour, aroma, and quality. While ISO 3103 is widely used in controlled environments, it is not designed for personal or cultural enjoyment, as it focuses on creating a standardised cup of tea rather than a flavourful or experiential one.