Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel

by Mia Hopkins

  “Where’s my brother?” I call out.

  Nobody answers me because they’re too busy falling in love with Carmen.

  The Lady Chef enlists their help and soon the kitchen is full of loud laughter and delicious smells. Carmen even gives Vanessa’s daughter something to do. The little girl sits at the table crumbling a big chunk of white cheese with her fingers.

  I pop open a bottle of beer and sit on the couch, not because I’m feeling particularly lazy, but because it’s fun to eavesdrop on them as they cook together. Women’s voices are full of energy. I didn’t hear many when I was locked up. Your ears begin to miss that sound. The laughter. The music and the way they shape sentences. And Spanglish—bouncing back and forth between two languages to create something new. The language of home.

  My brother walks in through the front door. He looks exhausted, but his face lights up when he sees me in the living room. He puts his backpack down and runs his fingers through his hair. He’s taken a cue from me and grown it all out, along with a beard of his own.

  He’s wearing a T-shirt from his school, Greenbriar University, and an unzipped sweatshirt from Bay City Brews, the host brewery where he makes his beer.

  Muñeca runs out of the kitchen and throws her arms around him. Sal picks her up and kisses her cheek as she laughs with pure happiness. She calls him Sal, not Dad—her biological father died before she was born—but their strong connection is obvious. I have a flashback to our little sister but I shake off the memory before the old pain of her loss can catch up with me.

  Sal sits down on the couch next to me as Muñeca runs back to the kitchen to continue helping. I bump my brother’s fist and we pull each other into a half hug. We may not be able to stand each other as roommates, but after five years in separate correctional facilities, we never take for granted the time we spend together now.

  “So Vanessa sent me a long crazy text about a girl,” Sal says. “What’s this all about?”

  “Her name’s Carmen,” I say. “She’s a chef. She’s in the kitchen right now with everybody.”

  “A chef?” Sal looks at me sideways. “The chef? You found her?”

  Of course he’d remember that morning in Rafa’s trailer. He saw Carmen’s walk of shame through the garden. He saw the stupid little hearts in my eyes after she walked away.

  “Don’t be weird,” I say.

  He elbows me, hard, in the ribs. “Look at you.”

  “Ow, fucker.” I rub the spot as we laugh a little. But there’s important news I need to tell my brother, even if he probably doesn’t want to hear it. “Hey, listen.” I lower my voice. “I have to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “It’s about ESHB.”

  Again, the tiredness drops over my brother’s face like a shadow.

  “Eddie, I told you to lay low,” he says.

  I cut him off before he can start the usual lecture. “You need to know this. Ruben’s back.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I ran into him and Spider this afternoon.” I don’t tell Sal about the special job they have for me—he would be furious.

  “Did Ruben say where he’s been?”

  “No.”

  “This is not good.” Sal grows quiet as he rubs his beard. “Watch yourself, okay?”

  I nod, but I don’t say anything else.

  “Vanessa says you got a job at some restaurant downtown,” Sal says, changing the subject. “She says that it’s been good.” He punches my shoulder. “That’s the kind of thing I want to see you doing. None of these tonterias. None of the old bullshit.”

  He is my older brother. I owe him my life. But I hate it when he tries to boss me around. He’s tried to step into our father’s shoes since we were little, and it always rubs me the wrong way.

  “Yeah, so,” I say, swallowing down the irritation in my voice, “that job…it didn’t really work out.”

  “What?” His smile fades again.

  “Carmen and me,” I say. “We both got fired.”

  “What the hell did you do?”

  I shrug. “Nothing.” He looks skeptical. I add, “For reals. I swear. It just kind of happened.”

  Sal is about to unleash more judgment on me when Vanessa calls from the kitchen, “Dinner’s ready!”

  My brother gives me a dirty look before we get up and walk to the dining room. The table is almost set. Vanessa’s grandmother is showing Muñeca where the forks and spoons go. At each place there is already a bowl of hot soup, bright green and steaming. We sit down and bow our heads while Vanessa says a quick prayer.

  I look from face to face to face at the table and have another flashback. Our house—back when we were whole. Sal was there, but so was our younger brother, Angel. Our mother and sister were still alive, before the accident. And our father—Dreamer—sat at the head, proud of his family, proud of the food he put on the table with legit money.

  “Amen,” Vanessa says.

  I blink and I’m back in the present.

  “Crema de verduas.” Carmen announces the dish just like she did in the restaurant. But this time she adds, “Vanessa made this.”

  “Sure, with your help,” Vanessa says.

  We eat. The warm soup tastes like an entire vegetable garden in my mouth, but smooth and creamy. I look at everyone’s faces as they eat. They are caught in different states of ecstasy, all from a spoonful of soup. I look at Carmen and smile. I love how she has done this—made everyone so happy.

  We chat about everyday stuff, work and school and bingo, regular chisme about the neighborhood including the three families on the block who recently decided to sell their houses.

  “They didn’t even have to put up for-sale signs,” Vanessa says. “Buyers come knocking every week.”

  “Things are definitely changing,” her grandmother says.

  I clear the plates and Carmen brings out the main course. “Mole verde,” she says. “This was made by me and Muñeca. Muñeca cut the herbs from the garden for me.”

  The little girl’s smile is so big, it cracks me up. We dig in. The taste of tomatillos and fresh herbs fills my mouth.

  Third course. It all unfolds like a story, chapter one, two, and three. “It’s Lent, so I decided to make my father’s favorite, capirotada. Chinita helped me with this one,” Carmen says.

  The old lady points to her granddaughter. “And Muñeca helped with the cheese.”

  Again, the little girl smiles big. I ruffle her hair.

  Capirotada is a bread pudding made with eggs and brown sugar. There’s cheese and raisins in it, and it tastes like the best of my childhood in one bite.

  In prison, I would have done unholy things for a home-cooked meal like this. Carmen put it together without much thought, and she got the family to participate and make it their own.

  I turn to my brother. “Sal, Carmen is Slim’s daughter. Her family owns La Golondrina Bakery.”

  Sal looks at Carmen, and a kind of sad understanding shadows his face. “I was sorry to hear about your dad,” he says quietly. “How’s he doing?”

  “Better.” Carmen puts down her coffee cup. “A lot better.”

  “Is your mother taking care of him?” Vanessa’s grandmother asks.

  Carmen nods. “A home healthcare worker helps her in the afternoons.”

  The table is quiet for a moment. I didn’t know the extent of Slim’s injuries, and the news makes me slow down as I realize the difficulty of what Carmen had to do today. That bakery was her family’s business for generations. Her father was badly beaten in the parking lot. Her mother is home taking care of her father. Without siblings, Carmen must look after the business and tie up all the loose ends alone. I’ve seen her handle pressure—she can do it, no problem—but when I realize what she’s going through behind the scenes, I can feel the weight of her burden.

  Muñeca asks for a second helping of capirotada. Her mom gives her one more spoonful.

  “I wish you could cook like this, Mommy,” the
little girl says.

  Awkward, but honest—Vanessa is an awful cook.

  “Mommy wishes she could cook like this too.” Vanessa leans over and blows a raspberry on Muñeca’s cheek as the little girl squeals.

  We clear the table. Vanessa’s grandmother takes Muñeca upstairs for bedtime. Vanessa pours us some fresh coffee as we all sit down in the living room. I take a look at Sal, who’s staring at me with a look that says, What is about to happen?

  Carmen takes out her portfolio with all the information about the bakery.

  I clear my throat. “So, remember how we were talking at the gym about how much you wished you had your own place to sell Eastside Beer? Carmen and I have a proposal.”

  To start off, Carmen talks about the property. Then I talk about the possibilities of a taproom. In my own ears, I sound like a combination of a slimy used car salesman and a kid standing in front of a classroom giving a book report for a book he didn’t actually read. But as I talk, Sal and Vanessa listen—really listen—to what I’m saying. So I get overconfident and say, “Carmen, she can even make food.”

  Lady Chef barks, “Wait, what?”

  I ignore her. “We can have food and beer together. It’ll be just like Bay City Brews, but over here in the hood. A place to hang out, get a bite to eat, introduce people to the beers. What do you think?”

  Sal leans back and folds his arms. “I don’t know. This neighborhood—it’s not wealthy like Santa Monica. Who’s going to spend money on fancy beer here?”

  “Think bigger, dog,” I say. “That tide of dollars is coming. You can see it in the housing prices, the investors. Nothing is going to hold that money back. And we can be here to catch it when it comes.”

  He looks skeptical.

  “If you’re worried about selling out,” I say, “ask yourself, wouldn’t you rather we opened this business than some gringo? The white folks are coming, Salvador. You know it. It’s going to be homeboys versus hipsters in a couple years. Whose side are you on?”

  Sal shakes his head. “You’re so dramatic.”

  “Eddie,” Carmen says, “there’s more to the picture than that.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “The younger generations born and raised here, they’re going to school,” Carmen says. “They’re becoming professionals. Soon, they’ll have disposable income.” I realize she’s talking about herself, her own aspirations. “Craft beer, it’s a luxury I’m betting they will want. If the product is local, even better.”

  “You were looking for an opportunity,” I say to Sal. “Here it is. Keep Eastside Beer in the community. Build it at home.” I turn to Vanessa. “What do you think?”

  Vanessa stands and picks up her laptop where it’s sitting on the kitchen counter. She comes back to the living room, opens it, and starts it up as we watch.

  “Only one thing that matters here,” she says, “and that’s the numbers.”

  We watch as Vanessa plugs numbers into formulas. She runs some weird models and asks Carmen a million questions about the property, most of which Carmen knows the answers to. Sal and I sit back and watch the ladies in action. They are both smart, practical women at the top of their game. Sal’s a scholarship whiz kid and his beer is amazing. I’m a payaso surrounded by three goddamn geniuses. I look at them all closely, hoping a few brain cells will rub off on me.

  “Do you really think this is possible?” Sal asks Vanessa.

  “To be honest, I’ve been thinking about the business a lot,” she replies. “Making the beer at Bay City Brews and transporting it here is not cheap. A big initial investment in a home for Eastside Beer would pay off over time.”

  “We can call it Eastside Brewery,” I say. “It’s perfect.”

  “No, it’s nuts.” Sal’s eyes study the numbers on Vanessa’s screen. “I’m still in school. I barely make enough to pay my bills. With my record, what bank is going to extend a loan?”

  Vanessa looks at him. “Take your brother’s advice. Think bigger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Me. I have the money.”

  We all stare at her. I wouldn’t say we’re in shock, but we’re close.

  “What?” Sal says again.

  “There’s a reason our neighbors are selling their houses left and right,” Vanessa says. “My grandmother bought this place in the sixties. It’s paid off, and its value has gone through the roof. If Carmen’s parents’ price is right, the equity will cover rent, remodeling, and equipment—at least for a little while.”

  Sal shakes his head. “I can’t let you do that, hermosa. I can’t take your money.”

  “You’re not taking it. I’m not giving it to you, stupid.” Vanessa reaches over and takes my brother’s hand. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m an accountant. I don’t throw my money away. I invest it. And I want to invest it in you.” She looks around the table at all of our faces. “In us.”

  Eleven

  Carmen drives me back to Rafa’s. I’m amazed and giddy at what’s happened today. Vanessa has agreed to create a business plan. It’ll take a few days. Then we can present the idea to Carmen’s parents and see what they think.

  None of this was in motion yesterday. And now it is—because of me. I had the idea, and I made it real.

  I’m feeling pretty proud of myself.

  Carmen slaps the dashboard with her hand and brings me back down to earth. “Are you even listening to me?”

  I jump. Obviously, I was not listening, but I don’t admit this. “What? What’s the matter?”

  “You’re such a bully.”

  “What are you talking about? Me? A bully?”

  “I don’t appreciate being made a part of your crazy plans.”

  “What plans, Carmen?” I look at her. She’s fuming. “Why are you so mad?”

  “You said to them, ‘Carmen, she can even make food.’” She drops her voice down low in the way women do when they repeat the things men have said that annoyed them. “And this afternoon, you assumed I’d make dinner for your family. I’m not a short-order cook, Eddie, and I’m not your maid. I have a career. I may have gotten fired from Giacomo’s, but that doesn’t mean I want my next gig to be frying tater tots and jalapeño poppers for a bunch of drunks.”

  “Oh, so it’s beneath you? Making food for regular people?” I’m teasing her. I know I shouldn’t, but to be honest, I’m planning ahead. If I make her mad enough, I can apologize. Then maybe we can have really good make-up sex.

  “At the risk of sounding like a pretentious ass, yes!” she yells. “Yes, it is beneath me. I’m not going to act like my three years in culinary school and three years in a top restaurant don’t mean anything. I can get a new restaurant job in a heartbeat, and I don’t need your weird form of charity to do it.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “I didn’t say you couldn’t get your own job—that’s not what I meant at all. I just got excited about the whole thing. My imagination went wild. I got carried away.” I want to explain to her that I don’t ever have good ideas—at least good ideas that everyone else agrees are good too. But this isn’t about me, it’s about her. “Obviously, we can’t afford you. You’re like, the Ferrari of cooks. We’ll get us a Ford Pinto. It’ll be fine.”

  That calms her down a little bit. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, testing out her reactions.

  “Real talk. Did you see how much they loved your food? That was amazing, how you did that without really thinking about it. Even Muñeca gobbled everything up.”

  Carmen’s shoulders relax, and I keep going.

  “When I was locked up, I would’ve done anything for a meal like that.” A bad taste comes into my mouth along with a bad memory. “Have you heard of the brick?”

  “No. What’s that?”

  “When I first got to prison, I had a hard time adjusting. I got in trouble. So they put me in the box. The prison guards called it the SHU—secure housing unit. Solitary confinement, basically. I was there for three month
s. An attitude adjustment—that’s what they said I needed.”

  I keep my voice light, but the SHU was nothing to laugh about. I was alone in a windowless cell for twenty-two-and-a-half hours a day. I got to walk the corridor and exercise in a small yard for ninety minutes. Alone time like that? It fucks with your head. I had to fight myself to stay sane.

  “The worst thing of all was the food,” I say. “When you piss off the guards enough, they put you on a special diet. They called it the brick.”

  She makes a face. “I’m afraid to ask, but what the heck is that?”

  “It’s like, they take vegetables, old bread, and the cheapest meat they can find, and grind everything to a paste. Then they bake it like meatloaf. You get two slices a day. There’s no salt, no flavor. It tastes like absolutely nothing.”

  “Is that even legal?”

  “It has the required nutrition, but I wouldn’t call it food.” I shudder a little bit. “Imagine. The same thing. Day after day after day. I would close my eyes at night and dream about real food.”

  “Like what?”

  “My mom’s pozole. Fresh salsa, red and green. Mangoes with chamoy and chili powder. Fuck, a French dip sandwich from Philippe’s. Tears—like, literal tears—would form in my eyes. I’d wake up straight-up sobbing, like a baby.”

  She’s smiling a little now, and I feel better. She pulls up to the curb in front of the garden.

  “When your world is tasteless, your mind tries to recreate flavors. Smells. It’s a way to stay alive.” I have a flashback of standing with Carmen in the garden. I remember how her lips tasted the first time I kissed her. I remember the sensation of her body against mine, like every craving I had ever had, focused in that moment. “What you made tonight was the meal of my dreams, no exaggeration,” I say quietly. “I know you’ve spent years of your life in the kitchen. For you, it’s just work. But don’t forget that it’s special.”

  “Lots of people can cook.”

  “No, it’s not the cooking that’s special.”