If you have spent any time watching matcha preparation videos online, or visited a matcha café outside of Japan, you may have seen it: a slender bamboo scoop being used to press matcha powder through a fine-mesh sieve, back and forth, until the powder falls smoothly into the bowl below. It looks elegant. It looks intentional. It looks very Japanese.
But is it right?
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What the Chashaku Actually Is
The chashaku (茶杓) is a tea scoop, traditionally hand-carved from a single piece of bamboo or ivory. Its sole purpose, in the classical sense, is to measure and transfer matcha from the tea caddy into the bowl, nothing more.
In the world of formal Japanese tea ceremony (sado/chado), the chashaku is far more than a spoon. A tea master will give their personally carved chashaku a name (a mei ) often reflecting a season, a poem, or a fleeting moment in time. During a tea gathering, guests may ask about the name as part of the quiet conversation between host and guest. At the end of the occasion, the chashaku is among the utensils offered for haiken, a respectful, unhurried inspection by the guests. It is handled with both hands, and with care.
In this context, the chashaku is an object of artistic and spiritual significance. Chashaku carved by the legendary tea master Sen no Rikyu are preserved as cultural treasures. The tool carries weight, literally and figuratively.
What Is Happening Outside Japan
This practice of using the chashaku as a sifting aid is seen most frequently outside Japan: in matcha cafés in the United States, Europe, and Australia, and in countless tutorial videos circulating on social media platforms. The visual appeal is obvious. The bamboo scoop looks purposeful and traditional, and using it to coax powder through a sieve makes for a satisfying, photogenic motion.
The intention behind sifting itself is perfectly sound. Breaking up clumps before whisking genuinely improves the texture and foam of the finished bowl. The question is not whether to sift, but what tool belongs in that role.
In recent years, this trend has also begun appearing in some matcha cafés within Japan itself, though it remains far more common abroad. For those trained in tea ceremony, encountering it can be startling.
When the subject was raised recently on Japanese social media, practitioners with years of experience in chado responded with considerable feeling. Many described the practice as something they had never imagined seeing. The chashaku, they noted, is a refined tool with a defined role. Scraping its delicate bamboo tip repeatedly against wire mesh risks damaging it, and more broadly, treats a meaningful object as a generic kitchen utensil.
A Question of Context and Respect
To be fair, a matcha café is not a tea ceremony. No one expects a barista to perform a full temae. And what we choose to do in the privacy of our own homes lies beyond judgement. Practices evolve, contexts differ, and the global enthusiasm for matcha has brought genuine joy to people who may never have the opportunity to experience a formal tea gathering.
And yet, if a café chooses to use the chashaku precisely because it evokes something traditional and Japanese, does that not come with some responsibility? Using an object for its aesthetic appeal while setting aside its meaning is a particular kind of contradiction.
There is also a straightforward practical point. Sifting tools designed specifically for matcha already exist. The furui, a small matcha sifter, often comes with a dedicated bamboo spatula (take-bera) for exactly this purpose. It does the job well, without any confusion about what belongs where.
*Image source: Amazon
No Easy Answer
This is not an argument for gatekeeping matcha, or for insisting that every café become a tearoom. Traditions breathe and change, and the tools of tea have always travelled further than the rituals surrounding them.
But it may be worth pausing over the small things. The way a tool is held. What it was made for. What it carries with it.
The chashaku has a name. It has been cleaned with a fukusa, admired by guests, and passed between hands with quiet appreciation.
Does it also need to be pressed against a sieve, while there are other tools readily available?
That is a question worth sitting with, perhaps over a slow, carefully prepared bowl of matcha.
What do you think? Is this a natural part of how traditions evolve as they travel the world, or does the chashaku deserve a different kind of care? We would love to hear your perspective.
