Various Flavors of Coffee by Anthony Capella

to me I knew that this was going to prove difficult.
    “Imagine that you are whistling,” he explained.“And whatever you do, be decisive.”
    I glanced at Emily. Her face bore an expression of studied dis-interest.“Perhaps your daughter would prefer . . .” I suggested.
    “Prefer what?”
    “Not to be present at what might, I fear, prove a somewhat indelicate display.”
    Pinker turned to his daughter, who responded,“Oh, come, Mr. Wallis. Let us be thoroughly modern, and not shrink like violets from what is only natural.”
    “Yes,” I said.“Of course.” I turned reluctantly back to the table. “Together?” Pinker said. He spooned some coffee into his mouth. I followed suit. We aspirated and aerated, and then he
    pinged a thin stream of brown liquid with deadly accuracy into the bucket.
    I leaned toward the bowl, paused to collect my thoughts, and expectorated as delicately as I could. Unfortunately, my delicacy was counterproductive: it simply meant that I squirted coffee randomly in the general area of the receptacle. Most missed the target altogether.
    “I do apologize,” I said, my face as red as beetroot. Neither Pinker heard me. The father’s shoulders were shaking. His eyes were closed, and from underneath the lashes tears squeezed. Emily had jammed her hands under her armpits, and was rocking herself backwards and forwards on her chair, while her bowed head nod-ded vigorously with the effort of containing her laughter.
    “I see this is amusing for you,” I said stiffly.
    Pinker put a hand on my shoulder. “If you ever fail as a poet, Wallis,” he gasped, “you have a certain future in the music halls. It is the preparatory pose, sir—the pose is wonderful. As if you were about to declaim, rather than dribble.”
    “I don’t believe I dribbled.”
    “And the facial expression!” he continued rapturously. “The solemnity! The look of comic surprise you contrive!”
    “I’m not sure I know to what you are referring.” I was still rather red in the face.
    “My dear young fellow,” he said, suddenly serious, “we have baited you enough. Forgive us. I will let you resume your duties.”
    He went to the door.When he had gone there was a silence. I said bitterly,“I suppose you think me ridiculous.”
    Emily said quietly, “No, Robert. But perhaps you now think yourself ridiculous, and that, I think, is what my father intended.”
    “I see.”
    “If we are to work together we must be comfortable with one another. And we cannot do that if either of us is attempting to get the upper hand.”
    “Yes. I understand.”
    “I will promise not to laugh at you, if you will promise not to flirt with me.”
    “Very well.You have my word.” I sat down heavily.
    “Believe me,” she added, her mouth twitching,“it is I who lose most by the deal.”

    [ nine ]

    The basic difficulty in coffee flavour terminology is inherent in our language. Although many words describe the sensations of sight, sound and touch, few words describe the sensations of smell and taste.
    — lingle , The Coffee Cupper’s Handbook

    *

P
    erhaps Pinker remained suspicious of my intentions. At
    any rate, we were soon joined by a dark-haired young woman, a couple of years younger than Emily. She placed a large pile of books on the table with a thump.
    “My sister,Ada,” Emily explained.“Ada, this is Robert Wallis.”
    Ada’s terse “Pleased to meet you” suggested that she probably wasn’t. I picked up one of the books and glanced at the spine. “Water Analysis for Sanitary Purposes. Good heavens.”
    She removed the book from my hand. “Professor Frankland’s work is the standard text on the valency of compounds.”
    “Ada hopes to go up to Oxford,” Emily said.“That’s where you were, Robert, wasn’t it?”
    That got Ada’s attention.“Oh? Which college?”
    “Christ Church.”
    “Are the laboratories any good?” “I have absolutely no idea.”
    “What about the Clarendon? Is that an