Drinking Milk Tea in Burma

We share the following submission from a guest contributor:

I had always been a traveler with a purpose. A wandering Russian with a penchant for curiosities, my current quest was as unexpected as it was delightful—to sample and compare as many milk teas as I could find in Mandalay, Myanmar. As someone with a background in comparative literature, I had spent years exploring texts, narratives, and cultural expressions across different societies, often buried deep in academic analysis. But after a particularly exhausting stretch of work, I felt an urgent need for a break—something visceral, tangible, and far removed from the confines of literary theory. This journey was my way of reconnecting with the world, not through books but through the senses.

I had arrived in Mandalay with a singular focus: I wanted to explore the city's vibrant tea culture, particularly the creamy, sugary concoctions served in tea shops scattered across the town. And I wanted to do it with the zeal of an adventurer who had found his new frontier. I knew that most foreigners who came to Myanmar either overlooked the milk tea culture entirely or approached it with a limited perspective—perhaps intrigued by its novelty but lacking the understanding of its cultural significance. My mission was different. I wasn't just here to drink tea, I was here to understand it.

The first shop I visited was nestled in the bustling Zegyo Market, where the thick scent of spices, fresh produce, and fried snacks mingled in the air. The tea shop was modest, a small stall with a couple of tables shaded under a plastic awning. The shop owner greeted me warmly, his broad smile instantly making me feel at home. The first cup of tea arrived, steaming hot and impossibly sweet. It was thick, almost syrupy, with a layer of creamy foam on top. The shopkeeper—a man named U Min—explained that the tea was made using a blend of strong black tea, evaporated milk, and condensed milk, brewed over an extended period to create a deep, robust flavor typical of Burmese milk tea. Many travelers might not appreciate the intricacies of such a process, but I knew better than to dismiss the importance of U Min's careful craftsmanship.

I sipped it carefully, letting the warmth spread through me as I savored the complex interplay between sweetness and bitterness. I could taste the smokiness of the tea, a strong and earthy undertone that anchored the sweetness of the condensed milk. There was a slight hint of caramel too, likely due to the extended brewing time, which is traditional in Burmese tea preparation to achieve the characteristic intensity and depth of flavor. The experience was rustic and comforting, reminiscent of the strong tea served back in Russia during long winter evenings, yet distinctly foreign with its sweetness, yet deeply connected to the Burmese cultural love for indulgent, rich flavors. I knew that few foreigners took the time to understand the purpose behind the overpowering sweetness—it was a reflection of local tastes, a desire for warmth and indulgence in each cup.

The next morning, I ventured deeper into the city, to a small teahouse known as Chan Thar. The place was busier than the stall in the market, filled with chattering locals and the clatter of teacups. It was a typical Mandalay tea shop—noisy, bustling, and full of life. The tables were crowded with young students, elderly men debating politics, and vendors taking a break from the midday sun. The milk tea here was served in tall, clear glasses, showcasing the beautiful, creamy gradient from dark brown to soft tan. I watched as the tea was prepared—a blend of strong brewed black tea, condensed milk, and evaporated milk, poured repeatedly between two metal cups to aerate and create a frothy texture, a technique commonly seen in traditional Burmese tea shops. To an untrained eye, this ritual might seem merely practical, but I knew the artistry it entailed—each pour was a careful attempt to balance flavor and texture, a skill that spoke to years of practice.

The tea here was lighter, less sweet than the one at Zegyo Market. I could taste the subtle floral notes of the tea, which paired perfectly with the creamy richness of the evaporated milk. The texture was silky, almost velvety, and the bitterness of the tea peeked through just enough to keep the sweetness in check. It was more balanced, refined even, compared to the robust tea of the previous day. I realized that this shop catered to a different clientele—people who appreciated their tea as much for its aesthetic and balance as for its comforting warmth. Most tourists would probably prefer the simple sweetness of U Min's stall, but Chan Thar offered something more nuanced—something only those with a deeper understanding of tea culture could truly appreciate.

Later in the week, I found myself in a completely different setting. This shop was a chic, newly opened milk tea bar near the Mandalay Royal Palace, catering mostly to the younger crowd. It had sleek wooden furniture, minimalist decor, and a carefully curated menu. I scanned the options, realizing that they offered a whole range of fusion teas—matcha milk tea, taro milk tea, and even bubble tea, which had gained popularity in Mandalay in recent years. Curious, I decided to try their signature ginger-infused milk tea.

The ginger-infused milk tea was unlike any I had tried before. The sharp spiciness of the ginger cut through the creaminess of the milk, creating a surprising contrast. It was invigorating, with a warmth that spread through me, different from the comforting sweetness of the previous teas. I could tell that this milk tea bar was all about experimentation, about adding a modern twist to a traditional favorite. It was a place where young people came to socialize, to enjoy something novel, and to savor the fusion of tradition and modernity in every sip. It was interesting to observe how tea culture was evolving here—something that most foreigners might fail to grasp. This wasn't just a trend; it was a reflection of Mandalay's growing openness to global influences while still honoring its heritage.

As I sat in the sleek tea bar, sipping my ginger-infused concoction, I couldn't help but reflect on the different tea cultures I had experienced throughout Mandalay. Each shop had its own unique character, a reflection of the people who frequented it and the tea they served. From the rustic, smoky sweetness of U Min's stall in Zegyo Market to the balanced, floral notes of Chan Thar, and finally to the bold experimentation of the new tea bar near the palace, I had tasted not just milk tea but also glimpses into the soul of Mandalay.

Each cup told a story—of tradition, of community, of change. And as I finished my last sip, I knew that this journey through Mandalay's milk tea culture was more than just a quest for flavors. It was a window into the heart of a city, one cup at a time. Unlike the casual traveler, I had taken the time to truly understand the layers of meaning in each brew, the cultural significance that made each cup far more than just a drink—it was a testament to the history, resilience, and warmth of Mandalay itself.