Gunpowder's defining trick is mechanical, not chemical: leaves get rolled tight into small pellets that look uncannily like the cannon ammunition the tea is named for. That shape protected the leaves on long trade voyages, sealing in aroma and guarding against moisture and physical damage, which is part of why this style spread as far as it did from its home in China's Zhejiang province. Zhejiang has been producing it since as far back as the Tang Dynasty, and the basic method hasn't changed much since — leaves plucked in the early morning while still damp with dew, then wilted, rolled by hand into their pellet shape, and dried.
The cup itself is bold and a little smoky, with a savoury, earthy backbone running under it. There's lemon and honey brightness at the edges, a warm current of spice, and a thickness to the body that leaves a drying finish lingering after each sip. Pour it alongside savoury food and it holds its own, which is part of why it's stayed popular well beyond its original trade routes.
To brew it, start with a teaspoon of leaves per cup and water at a rolling boil, around 90-95°C. Give it roughly three to four minutes to steep — the pellets need that time to unfurl and let go of their flavour — then strain before drinking. Plain is fine, or add honey or lemon if you want to echo those same notes already present in the cup. Keep the leaves in an airtight container away from light, moisture, and strong odours between brews; they're absorbent enough to pick up smells from whatever's stored nearby, so a cool, dry cupboard away from direct heat is the safer spot for them.
