As a tea addict in South East Asia I’ve long enjoyed the atmosphere of its traditional tea shops. Whilst I’ve sipped from cracked glasses at humble roadside stalls in Vietnam and taken high tea in the elegant Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong, for me the ultimate tea experience can be found in mainland China.

The Chinese Teahouse is an institution and, until the cultural revolution of 1949, they were the centre of communal life. Branded as dangerous centres for counter-revolutionary debates, many were closed down. However, relaxation in China’s internal policies has lead to a new flourishing of life in the teahouse, as I was to find out in Shanghai.

Shanghai is China’s biggest city with a population of over 16 million souls; it’s also fast becoming the most westernised; billboards for KFC and Channel overshadow roadways flanked by tiny food stalls, corporate logos can be seen affixed to the side of shining skyscrapers. Having first visited on business years ago, I was astonished with the transformation the city has since undergone.

Despite the rush to turn the sprawling downtown business district into a forest of glass and concrete, some of my favourite areas remain untouched. The Bund, Shanghai’s equivalent of London’s South Bank, is a mile long riverside boulevard flanked by a melange of architectural delights. Once the banking and diplomatic centre of the city, these wonderful gothic, neoclassical and baroque buildings now contain bars, restaurants and art galleries.

Craving a cuppa I decided to try out a brand new restaurant in “3 on the Bund”, a beautiful seven storey building on the corner of Guangdong Road: the Whampoa Club. Started by award winning Singaporean chef Jereme Leung, the art deco interior was thronged with 20-somethings. After being seated in one of the 3 sumptuously decorated tea rooms, a lady helped me through the mouth-watering list of Chinese teas on offer. I finally settled on Oolong – one of my favourites with its dark, bitter leaves. She explained, as we waited, that Oolong long been used by the Chinese as an aid to weight loss; drunk with a meal it enhances the metabolism and helps break down fatty food.

When the tea arrived it was served in the traditional way. “This is a green tea," explained my guide, "unlike gunpowder tea which is powdered, not strained, and drunk with the tea, the leaves of this tea are not broken, but dried into little buds." Here she offered me a small handful of leaves to smell; the scent was earthy, reminding me of forest loam. Next, leaves were added to an earthenware pot and boiling water added; the pot was filled to overflowing, to eliminate bubbles. Then, after the 90 seconds steeping time, it was transferred from the pot to a bowl which again was offered for my nose’s approval; a more subtle smell this time, halfway between mown grass and hazelnuts. Finally I actually got to drink it, and it was delicious and well worth the wait. Feeling I slight caffeine buzz, I decided to work it off with some sightseeing.

The Old Shanghai Teahouse is situated in the busy Old City, and is an oasis away from the heat and noise of the street. After a day’s exploration of winding alleys and curio crammed museums, in an area starkly in contrast with central Shanghai’s modern metropolis, the sight of the teahouse’s sweeping eaves was welcome relief. Passing a ramshackle collection of photos, memorabilia and local artwork, I climbed the stairs to the airy first floor tea rooms.

White tea has become increasingly popular for two reasons: low buzz and high benefits. Its name originates from the fine white hairs that still cover the premature tea buds when they are picked. As the leaves are still young, the caffeine content is relatively low, whilst medical trials have shown them to contain high levels of the antioxidant polyphenol which has been linked to cancer reduction.

My only complaint about this elegant, relaxed environment was the lack of genuine atmosphere – 90% of the clientele here were ex-pats and tourists. I wanted to get to know the feel of the real Old Shanghai, so I headed for the less well known Chun Feng De Yi Lou (“House of Spring Breezes and Happiness”) Teahouse a bit further down Middle Fanbang Street. Outside, red lanterns swayed in the breeze and tea lay drying over charcoal burners. Inside, men sat smoking, playing mah jong and reading the dailies, surrounded by songbirds in wooden cages. Here I tried long ding green tea, a cool fresh tasting brew. This time I really felt I’d found the genuine teahouse experience; tranquillity, community and tradition.

Although I’ve been to some amazing places to partake in my favourite beverage, my to-do list just keeps on growing: afternoon tea on a Chinese junk in Singapore harbour; browsing for antiques in Bangkok’s China Journal Tea Rooms; and gazing out at the Himalayas on the train from Darjeeling. I’ll get round to booking one of those trips soon, just as soon as I’ve put the kettle on.