The Rosie Effect
Page 9
‘Are you feeling less stressed?’ I asked.
She laughed. ‘Our baby is out of danger. Temporarily.’
‘Would you like a coffee? I put your blueberry muffin in the refrigerator.’
‘Just keep doing what you’re doing.’
The net result of continuing to do what I was doing was that the time window between breakfast and my aikido class disappeared, and there was no chance to discuss the Gene Problem. When I returned, Rosie suggested we cancel the museum visit to enable further work on her thesis. I used the freed-up time to research beer.
Dave drove us to a new apartment building between the High Line and the Hudson River. I was amazed to discover that the ‘cellar’ was actually a small bedroom in an apartment on the thirty-ninth floor, immediately below the top-floor apartment that it was to serve. The lower apartment was otherwise vacant. Dave had insulated the room with refrigeration panels and installed a complex cooling system.
‘Should’ve done more to insulate the ceiling,’ said Dave. I agreed. Any costs would have been rapidly recouped in electricity savings. I had learned a great deal about refrigeration since meeting Dave.
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Building management. I think they would have caved, but the client isn’t too worried about running costs.’
‘The client is presumably extremely wealthy. Or extremely fond of beer.’
Dave pointed upwards.
‘Both. He bought two four-bedroom apartments: he’s using this one just for the beer.’
He moved his finger to his lips in the conventional signal for silence and secrecy. A short, thin man with a craggy face and long grey hair tied in a ponytail had appeared in the doorway. I estimated his BMI as twenty and his age as sixty-five. If I had to guess his profession, I would have said plumber. If he was a former plumber who had won a lottery, he might be a very exacting client.
He spoke with a strong English accent. ‘’Ullo, David. Brought your mate?’ The plumber extended his hand. ‘George.’
I shook it according to protocol, matching George’s pressure, which was medium. ‘Don.’
Formalities completed, George inspected the room.
‘What temperature you setting it at?’
Dave gave an answer that I deduced as likely to be wrong. ‘For beer, we generally set it at forty-five degrees. Fahrenheit.’
George was unimpressed. ‘Bloody hell, you want to freeze it? If I want to drink lager, I’ll use the fridge upstairs. Tell me what you know about real beer. Ale.’
Dave is extremely competent, but learns from practice and experience. In contrast, I learn more effectively by reading, which is why it took me so long to achieve competence in aikido, karate and the performance aspects of cocktail-making. Dave probably had zero experience with English beer.
I responded on his behalf. ‘For English bitter, the recommended temperature is between ten and thirteen degrees Celsius. Thirteen to fifteen for porters, stout and other dark ales. Equivalent to fifty to fifty-five point four degrees Fahrenheit for the bitter and fifty-five point four to fifty-nine Fahrenheit for the dark ales.’
George smiled. ‘Australian?’
‘Correct.’
‘I’ll forgive you that. Go on.’
I proceeded to describe the rules for proper storage of ale. George seemed satisfied with my knowledge.
‘Smart fellow,’ said George. He turned to Dave. ‘I like a man who knows his limitations and gets help when he needs it. So it’ll be Don looking after my beer, will it?’
‘Well, no,’ said Dave. ‘Don’s more of a…consultant.’
‘I hear you loud and clear,’ said George. ‘How much?’
Dave has strong ethics about business practice. ‘I’ll have to work it out,’ he said. ‘Are you happy with the fit-out?’ Dave indicated the refrigeration equipment, insulation and plumbing that rose through the ceiling.
‘What do you reckon, Don?’ asked George.
‘Insufficient insulation,’ I said. ‘The electricity consumption will be excessive.’
‘Not worth the trouble. Had enough strife with the building manager already. Doesn’t like me putting holes in the ceiling. I’ll save it up till I put the spiral staircase in.’ He laughed. ‘All right otherwise?’
‘Correct.’ I trusted Dave.
George took us upstairs. It was incredible as an apartment, but totally conventional as an English pub. Walls had been removed to incorporate three of the bedrooms into the living room, which was furnished with multiple wooden tables and chairs. A bar was equipped with six taps connected by lines to the beer cellar below, and a large TV screen was angled high on the wall. There was even a platform for a band with piano, drums and amplifiers in place. George was very friendly, and got us micro-brewery beers from one of the bar fridges.
‘Rubbish,’ he said as we drank them on the balcony, looking out over the Hudson to New Jersey. ‘The good stuff should be here on Monday. It came over on the same boat as us.’
George went back inside and returned with a small leather bag.
‘So, tell me the bad news,’ he said to Dave, who interpreted this as a request for an invoice and passed over a folded piece of paper. George looked at it briefly, then pulled out two large wads of hundred-dollar bills from his bag. He gave one to Dave and counted a further thirty-four bills from the second.
‘Thirteen thousand, four hundred. Close enough. No need to trouble the fiscal fiend.’ He gave me his card. ‘Call me any time you’ve got a worry, Don.’
She laughed. ‘Our baby is out of danger. Temporarily.’
‘Would you like a coffee? I put your blueberry muffin in the refrigerator.’
‘Just keep doing what you’re doing.’
The net result of continuing to do what I was doing was that the time window between breakfast and my aikido class disappeared, and there was no chance to discuss the Gene Problem. When I returned, Rosie suggested we cancel the museum visit to enable further work on her thesis. I used the freed-up time to research beer.
Dave drove us to a new apartment building between the High Line and the Hudson River. I was amazed to discover that the ‘cellar’ was actually a small bedroom in an apartment on the thirty-ninth floor, immediately below the top-floor apartment that it was to serve. The lower apartment was otherwise vacant. Dave had insulated the room with refrigeration panels and installed a complex cooling system.
‘Should’ve done more to insulate the ceiling,’ said Dave. I agreed. Any costs would have been rapidly recouped in electricity savings. I had learned a great deal about refrigeration since meeting Dave.
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Building management. I think they would have caved, but the client isn’t too worried about running costs.’
‘The client is presumably extremely wealthy. Or extremely fond of beer.’
Dave pointed upwards.
‘Both. He bought two four-bedroom apartments: he’s using this one just for the beer.’
He moved his finger to his lips in the conventional signal for silence and secrecy. A short, thin man with a craggy face and long grey hair tied in a ponytail had appeared in the doorway. I estimated his BMI as twenty and his age as sixty-five. If I had to guess his profession, I would have said plumber. If he was a former plumber who had won a lottery, he might be a very exacting client.
He spoke with a strong English accent. ‘’Ullo, David. Brought your mate?’ The plumber extended his hand. ‘George.’
I shook it according to protocol, matching George’s pressure, which was medium. ‘Don.’
Formalities completed, George inspected the room.
‘What temperature you setting it at?’
Dave gave an answer that I deduced as likely to be wrong. ‘For beer, we generally set it at forty-five degrees. Fahrenheit.’
George was unimpressed. ‘Bloody hell, you want to freeze it? If I want to drink lager, I’ll use the fridge upstairs. Tell me what you know about real beer. Ale.’
Dave is extremely competent, but learns from practice and experience. In contrast, I learn more effectively by reading, which is why it took me so long to achieve competence in aikido, karate and the performance aspects of cocktail-making. Dave probably had zero experience with English beer.
I responded on his behalf. ‘For English bitter, the recommended temperature is between ten and thirteen degrees Celsius. Thirteen to fifteen for porters, stout and other dark ales. Equivalent to fifty to fifty-five point four degrees Fahrenheit for the bitter and fifty-five point four to fifty-nine Fahrenheit for the dark ales.’
George smiled. ‘Australian?’
‘Correct.’
‘I’ll forgive you that. Go on.’
I proceeded to describe the rules for proper storage of ale. George seemed satisfied with my knowledge.
‘Smart fellow,’ said George. He turned to Dave. ‘I like a man who knows his limitations and gets help when he needs it. So it’ll be Don looking after my beer, will it?’
‘Well, no,’ said Dave. ‘Don’s more of a…consultant.’
‘I hear you loud and clear,’ said George. ‘How much?’
Dave has strong ethics about business practice. ‘I’ll have to work it out,’ he said. ‘Are you happy with the fit-out?’ Dave indicated the refrigeration equipment, insulation and plumbing that rose through the ceiling.
‘What do you reckon, Don?’ asked George.
‘Insufficient insulation,’ I said. ‘The electricity consumption will be excessive.’
‘Not worth the trouble. Had enough strife with the building manager already. Doesn’t like me putting holes in the ceiling. I’ll save it up till I put the spiral staircase in.’ He laughed. ‘All right otherwise?’
‘Correct.’ I trusted Dave.
George took us upstairs. It was incredible as an apartment, but totally conventional as an English pub. Walls had been removed to incorporate three of the bedrooms into the living room, which was furnished with multiple wooden tables and chairs. A bar was equipped with six taps connected by lines to the beer cellar below, and a large TV screen was angled high on the wall. There was even a platform for a band with piano, drums and amplifiers in place. George was very friendly, and got us micro-brewery beers from one of the bar fridges.
‘Rubbish,’ he said as we drank them on the balcony, looking out over the Hudson to New Jersey. ‘The good stuff should be here on Monday. It came over on the same boat as us.’
George went back inside and returned with a small leather bag.
‘So, tell me the bad news,’ he said to Dave, who interpreted this as a request for an invoice and passed over a folded piece of paper. George looked at it briefly, then pulled out two large wads of hundred-dollar bills from his bag. He gave one to Dave and counted a further thirty-four bills from the second.
‘Thirteen thousand, four hundred. Close enough. No need to trouble the fiscal fiend.’ He gave me his card. ‘Call me any time you’ve got a worry, Don.’
