Kissabō (喫茶房) is a sixteen-seat tea bar in Prenzlauer Berg, Berlin, with no rush in it — the tea, from single farms in Japan, is the way in. Founded by Małgorzata and Marcin Chełkowski as the place they needed themselves: somewhere to sit without obligation, where an hour passes slowly. A conversation with Marcin takes us further into the space dedicated to tea and presence.
Kissabō opened its doors earlier this year. Did the idea of a tea bar brew in your minds long before this, and what was the journey like until the noren was finally up to invite guests to step in?
It started a few years ago. We wanted to reconnect with something meaningful, be closer to Japan, and give something to a community. Through tea we discovered how much context sits around a bowl of matcha or a teapot: the growers, the makers, the stories behind them. We felt those stories were worth sharing, so we dreamt of a place where you could feel all of that first-hand, in a one-hour visit. And a place where people can catch a quick breath in a busy day.
We found Kopenhagener Straße while walking through different neighbourhoods. We wanted somewhere a little outside the busy spots, but still easy to get to. When we found this one, we knew we were lucky. Renting it took several months, and getting the paperwork just to start renovating took several more.
No one thing took longer than planned. Everything did: finding the spot, renting it, the permissions, finding the ingredients we wanted and importing them to Europe. We do every little thing in Kissabō ourselves. We couldn't do the electrics or some of the building work, but with a huge amount of help from friends we got the space to where it is now. It wouldn't be the same without Hiromu Suzuki and Yoshiki Negoro, who brought the vision to life, or Tim and Max from Kreislauf, who co-designed and built the bar and the tatami.
Then there's the tea. Getting one tea to the table takes at least six months: getting to know the growers, tasting, learning their story and their product. Wherever we can, we buy from the growers themselves and try to build relationships that last.
Your bar seems to carry a beautiful kinship between Nordic simplicity and culturally significant Japanese elements – tatami, handmade bowls of raku-yaki and hagi-yaki, and Noguchi lamps. How do these heritages speak to each other in the space?
We didn't plan anything Nordic, but I can see why you'd find it. The room is mostly oak, paper and clay, with a lot of space left empty around things. In Japanese that space has a name, ma.
The Noguchi lamps are the clearest link for me. Noguchi was half Japanese and half American. In 1951 he went to Gifu and worked with the lantern makers there, and his Akari lamps are still made by hand in the same town, washi paper over bamboo. It's an old Japanese craft that feels at home in any room in the world, and that's what we'd like our tea to be too. When the lamps go on, the whole place begins to feel like home, a room where you feel safe, cosy even.
Somewhere in the change of the seasons, Kissabō closes the room for a day and sits down with a handful of people at a time. Could you tell us more about these special gatherings around tea, and other events you are hosting once in a while?
Japan's old calendar splits the year into 24 sekki, short seasons of about two weeks each, and our sweets change with them. Four times a year, at the solstices and equinoxes, we close the room for a day and hold a gathering to welcome the new season.
For us, one of the most important things is that it's a social occasion. Friends, and strangers too, sit together for two hours, drink tea, share simple sweets, and bonds form or deepen. At the end of September we gathered for the start of autumn. Some people knew each other, some met for the first time, and they all started talking. They shared their stories, and some talked about meeting outside the gathering. I'd say that's the most important part.
Once a month we also open the room early for Still Hours: two hours before opening, ten people. On the first one, people shared the room, left their phones at the door, and took back some of the time they usually give to work or to caring for others.
Guests sometimes step in with no prior knowledge about tea, and are encouraged to order by telling you about their day. How do you make the pick, and what are your personal favourites at the moment?
Based on their mood, the time of day and the weather outside, I try to imagine how I'd feel and what would help me, either to turn the day around or to make more of the feeling. If it's late in the day and the weather is awful, I'd suggest a warm hōjicha, a roasted green tea. It always makes me feel cosy and taken care of. If someone wants an experience, I'd suggest our gyokuro brewed three times, at 35, 60 and 90 degrees. The tea changes its character with each cup, and it always surprises people.
My favourite right now is a three-year bancha from Miyazaki prefecture. Gosia's is a hōjicha from Uji.
How has the immersion into the world of Japanese tea altered your personal relationship with consumption, time and everyday sustainability?
I buy things that will last, that have a story, and that age well: things that time makes more my own. In tea that's everywhere. A Kaikado caddy picks up marks from the hands that open it every day, and that makes it more valuable, not less. A Hagi bowl changes colour as tea soaks into the glaze over the years. A broken bowl mended with kintsugi becomes more beautiful than it was. Aging gracefully has value.
That's also why guests pick their own bowl from our shelf and drink from it. Friends told us we were mad to share the collection with strangers. So far, every bowl that's broken was broken by us.
What do you hope people carry with them after leaving your tea bar – and how do you feel on your way home?
I hope people leave a bit more at ease than when they came in. When I go home I'm usually tired. But on the days when people were open and told us how they've been, when we made a few connections and saw that the idea really works, we feel grateful that we get to do this for people.
Photography: Clemens Poloczek.
