In sixteenth century Florence, the art of hand-dyed wool was threatened by the rise of faster looms. Weavers who once studied the rhythm of sunlight and mineral-rich water to fix color to cloth were suddenly asked to trade instinct for industry.
This pattern is also repeated in the violin makers of Cremona, who refused to abandon wood aged for decades; in the watchmakers of Switzerland who resisted the quartz revolution; in Japanese indigo dyers who kept stirring natural vats long after chemical shortcuts became available.
What each of them understood is what we are again being asked to remember. That craft and tradition, once lost, cannot be remade overnight.
Many of you, our dear readers, will probably already be familiar with some of the points that will follow in this article. We hope to shed a bit more light on the Matcha boom, and shortage, from our experience in the field.
The surge
Towards the end of last year, and until this spring, the tea markets in Japan were tense. A colder than expected winter and early months of 2025 gave the plants what they needed to build depth — hibernation, slowness — but it also reduced the yield.
Around 10% of tea was lost. And, in that scarcity, tea prices, chief among them Matcha, rose by more than 185%.
But with this demand comes a narrowing. Since 2018, the land mass devoted to non-Matcha cultivars in Uji has dropped by over 30%. Where once there was space for hand-rolled tamaryokucha or Gyokuro, now there are fields optimized for Tencha (precursor to Matcha) production.
Farmers who focus on regional cultivars and traditions - Matcha, especially in its culinary grades, offers a buffer: wider windows, greater flexibility, less pressure to be perfect in the change of adverse climate.
Rewind to eighteen months prior. The Matcha boom didn’t start in Kyoto, or even in Tokyo. It started on phone screens. It was kindled not by centuries of ceremony, but by a new kind of ritual: reels choreographed to music, each frame, lovingly, capturing the swirl of emerald froth against ceramics and milk.
A social media movement transformed a sacred beverage into a cosmopolitan icon. Of course, matcha has long been available—since the early 2000s and even before, for those who had traveled to Japan or sought it through specialist importers. But due to recent TikTok reels, the global public, many for the first time, became spellbound by the idea of Matcha.
Matcha’s journey to Japan, however, began long before algorithms. During the Tang dynasty in the seventh century A.D., Chinese monks consumed powdered tea as part of their meditative practice. This form of tea mostly disappeared from Chinese culture over time, supplanted by loose-leaf methods. But in 1191, Zen monk Eisai returned to Japan from China, carrying tea seeds.
Over time, especially during Japan’s two hundred year period of self-imposed isolation - Sakoku - matcha evolved uniquely. Powdered tea became deeply Japanese, soft, buttery and contemplative. It shifted from status to subtlety, from utility to beauty.
Strained supply chains
Today, the renewed attention to matcha is sincerely welcome. Yet in this welcome lies a quiet tension: the delicate balance between preserving tradition and meeting unprecedented demand.
In many tea-producing regions—particularly Uji, Yame, and Kirishima—farmers are adopting methods aligned with European organic standards. They avoid synthetic fertilizers, foster biodiversity with cover crops and mixed vegetation, and work in concert with the rhythms of nature. These practices are not new, but they are now more visible, and increasingly requested by European buyers who prioritize transparency and ecological care.
But organic cultivation, especially in Japan’s mountainous terrain, brings costs: lower yields, increased labor, and longer cycles between harvests. For smaller producers, this means making difficult choices—between scale and soul, yield and integrity.
Meanwhile, Japan’s tea distribution system remains rooted in tradition. Unlike French wine, where a regulated chain of growers, importers, and distributors scaffolds the trade, the path of tea to the international market is far more personal—and built on cultivating relationships.
At the center of it all are the Tonyasan: tea wholesalers who act as stewards and translators between producers and the world. Their role is not just to move product, but to maintain quality, context, and relationships—often built over decades. Some Tonyasan handle international business with fluency and precision. Others are more locally focused, unaccustomed to customs paperwork or overseas shipping platforms.
Few operate in English. Many rely on handwritten records and fax machines. And while this system has historically worked—beautifully, even—its infrastructure is now struggling to keep pace.
Teas with a different voice
The Matcha shortage is presenting possibilities for drinkers, but also posing questions to farmers. Is this increase real? If farmers acquire more land, will the demand still be there in ten years?
Newcomers to Japanese tea are now also seeking deeper understanding. They are learning the difference between different tea growing regions of Japan, pan-firing and steaming, spring harvests and the appeal of teas that grow in the dark.
Curiosity is expanding beyond ceremonial tins into the subtle realms of regional character and cultivar nuance. And in this curiosity, farmers see a quiet opening.
Where Matcha delivers richness—dense, buttery, umami-forward—Kamairicha, a pan-fired tea from Kyushu, offers something else entirely: toasted sweetness, hints of roasted chestnut, a softness that lingers like afternoon light on tatami. It is a tea not of performance but of comfort. Its flavor is intimate, less grassy, more nostalgic.
In our singular focus on Gyokuro, we’ve witnessed a similar dynamic: a tea at risk of being overshadowed, yet holding immense cultural weight.
One multi-generational farmer told us, as he packed his first delivery of the season, “It is important to preserve the timeless, even as the world moves quickly.” Gyokuro is not made in haste.
Then there’s Wakōcha, Japanese black tea. Once overshadowed by its Indian and Chinese cousins, it now finds quiet renaissance through cultivars like Izumi. A good Wakōcha is soft, malty, with undertones of persimmon or cinnamon bark.
None of these teas are made for mass appeal. They’re not algorithmic. But they are made with utmost care — often by families who commit to land for decades and centuries, even as younger generations aspire to work in offices and away from the land.
Developing deeper interest
There are parallels in other crafts. Small winemakers band together to preserve near-extinct grapes. In Japan’s woodworking community, masters of kanna planes refuse to automate, insisting that the rhythm of their hands remains irreplaceable. Everywhere, makers resist volume in favor of something older: meaning.
To imbue something with a soul is to create an unforgettable experience. In Shinto, the indigenous spirituality of Japan, it is believed that kami, or spirits, dwell in natural forms: stones, rivers, trees, tools.
Even the hand-hewn blade used to trim a tea bush is said to carry a presence of its own. And when something is crafted with care—whether a cup, a chisel, or a tea—it becomes more than its form.
To build something with beauty, to grow with intention, or to shape with care—these acts invite spirit. The object becomes a vessel, a home. And once that beauty is rooted, other kami are drawn to it. In this way, a well-made thing is not static. It is alive.
To lose these teas is to lose part of Japan’s language that cannot be translated.
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In closing, we return to the question that started it all.
What does it mean to preserve craft in a time of consumption?
To care for something even when it’s not trending? To choose a cultivar not for its yield, but for its voice?
If we can begin to answer those questions—not with theory, but with how we spend, how we source, how we drink—then the story of Japanese tea may yet unfold with the complexity it deserves.
Thank you, as always, for reading till the end.
Mahmoud
