Have you ever been haunted by memories of a lost connection, grieving the absence of what never was and never will be?

I’m not referring to fond recollections of times long past, of amber eyes in broken sunlight, shining through the gap in shoddy blinds like it was a spotlight just for her.

I’m referring to the hollow nothingness that slowly consumes you from within like a singular collapsing star, compressing into itself until nothing remains but the echoing rings of distant roadwork and the memory of cinnamon. I remember it as the beginning of the loneliest chapter of my life, not long ago.

For seven longsuffering, rewarding years, I had dedicated myself to becoming a true Nevadan. If you’ve never been to Nevada, initial impressions may bring images of Las Vegas’s Strip or downtown districts, of sprawling Western frontier towns, and endless stretches of jagged mountain peaks may come to mind, but those only encapsulate the very top and bottom tips. Between those enchanting destinations lie miles and miles of forbidden, death-giving terrain riddled with tiny settlements like so many bullet holes in a roadside sign. At the beginning of my time in Nevada, I had the misfortune of traversing the State from top to bottom during a road trip, and what I experienced changed me forever. For more on Nevada, I recommend watching Eye in the Sky and Mad Max: Fury Road.

I invalidated my sixty-five-year expiration Arizona drivers license in exchange for a neat, holographic, “Real,” Nevada license. I added several tattoos to my collection during my tenure therein, and each carries its own warm story. For seven years, I had referred to Nevada as, “home,” and she had been a good one at that. I knew the best routes to avoid tourist traffic, when and how to find the best local dives, and all the real best hiking trails around Red Rock and Charleston. My goal was to integrate into my community’s culture, so when it was time to leave, it felt like being ripped from the ground, leaving roots and bits of myself behind.

Thus built the house wherein the cinnamon-scented spectre haunts me.

My transition back to Arizona was an ordeal, and for six months, I found myself commuting between Arizona and Nevada twice a week. For those six months, my average week consisted of three and a half days in Phoenix and three and a half days in Nevada. I became a recognizable face at the airport bagel stand, and I learned how to ensure no one sits next to you on a Southwest flight: a sky marshal taught me.

Days spent in Phoenix were packed with work and meetings to make up for the rest of the week I’d be missing, and the afternoon sleepies struck hard everyday. Luckily, down the road a few miles, was a tiny coffee shop inside a converted home named after the Spanish word for sugar, Azukar. Its menu was a caffeinated homage to Xicanx culture, and Latinx heroes hung on the walls, hand painted with generations of admiration. My favorite spot was located beneath a portrait of Frida Kahlo, and my regular was a cafecito dulce miel. I was a regular facet of the background imagery on their social media pages, and the staff knew me and my order.

Being located on Central Avenue, the construction of the brand-spanking-new light rail began directly in front of Azukar. When the light rail was done, Azukar would be THE first caffeine stop after riding the light rail to the end of the line, but they began to wonder if they would last that long. As weeks melded into months, ubiquitous orange cones and barriers became as normal as lights and sidewalks, and Azukar’s business began to suffer.

And then I got a job and moved to Prescott.

For a while, I only wondered, afraid to check how my favorite cafe was faring, but eventually, news of Azukar’s death reached me, and I wondered what more I could have done to prevent it. My new city and new job prevented me from making the pilgrimage south to pay my respects, but I was too burdened with grief to confront it directly. Even after I had time to drive to Phoenix, I avoided where it used to be.

“They opened another coffee shop where Azukar used to be,” she said.

“They what?” I responded before I chose to.

“They opened another coffee shop where Azukar used to be,” she repeated.

Another coffee shop…

Months blurred past, and not one day passed where I didn’t think about Azukar’s horchata cold brew coffee or their fresh conchas and marranitos. I was stricken with the memories of a coffee shop that would never again exist. With my old coffee shop in the forefront of my mind, I drove to “another coffee shop where Azukar used to be.” I knew the way.

Familiar streets, familiar turns, and a familiar house beside a brand new light rail.

Where once sat a place of peace and safety for me, I noticed a new sign with the silhouette of a witch riding a spoon like a broom.

“Brew-ja’s,” I read aloud, struggling to repress my smirk at the cleverness of the name. To my relief, the mural depicting Mexican cultural moments and leaders was the same, but now there was a tall Halloween witch on the front porch. To those unfamiliar with the Spanish language, Brew-ja’s (pronounced broo-hahz), sounds the same as the Spanish word for witches, brujas.

The entrance is dimmed and cooler than the oppressive desert heat, and the dark purple and black decor and walls immediately remove you from the blinding browns and bland beiges outside. Above, large, whimsical tarot cards adorn a familiar ceiling, and the smell of sage and incense draws me in further. Amidst the incense and white sage, the unmistakable scent of espresso and cinnamon calls out to me, a recognizable landmark in an alien landscape. Comfy seating, dark decor, a modern playlist, and they have a dulce miel latte. I spent three hours inside Brew-ja’s, writing and reminiscing, reflecting on how much I had changed since I had been in the exact same seat I was sitting.

Brew-Ja’s has “it.” If you want a fast and easy cup of reproducible hot nonsense in a stamped cup, keep driving. Corporate coffee is fast and easy for a reason. If you’re looking for local flavor, local personality, and local business owners, Brew-Ja’s has all of it. After spending an afternoon amidst its witchy portraits, for-sale tarot decks and incense, and wicked-chill staff, I felt just as comfortable and welcome as I ever did at Azukar. Something inside me began to mend. Perhaps the curse that once settled upon this place had been lifted by a little espresso and sorcery.

Perhaps something deeper than the quality of beans, temperature of water, and size of grind contributes to the quality of Brew-Ja’s lattes and potions, but I’m not experienced enough in brujeria to declare anything with certainty. Even with writing demanding my attention, I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander the spooky paintings and mysterious trinkets for sale. A winding arrow is painted on the ceiling, leading toward a staircase to the basement, but I resisted the temptation to follow it down. Maybe you won’t be as strong.

If you’re in South Phoenix and  need a spooky stop to refuel and relax, Brew-Ja’s has your magic beans and potions prepared. If you believe that small coffee shops deserve a place on major roadways, Brew-Ja’s is open and ready. If you’re looking for a local coffeehouse with wifi that isn’t benefitting billionaires and corporations, Brew-Ja’s wants to transfigure your morning. If you believe in local businesses, and you love seeing passion come to fruition, Brew-Ja’s is waiting for you.

[[TL:DR– Spooky, tiny, local, Witchy coffee shop with great drinks and other trinkets to boost your spirits located on south Central Ave in Phoenix, AZ. It just takes me awhile to get around to it. 7 AM-7 PM, 7 days a week: 7246 S Central Ave, Phoenix, AZ]]

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