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I passed by the bar, precariously balancing a tray of black IPAs. Nitro hummed with the beat of drums reverberating off the shiny silver brewing tanks and bodies squished together around high-top tables. The crowd was somehow bigger than yesterday’s, which seemed impossible. Our nanobrewery was as stated—nano, as in tiny. We brewed small batches of craft beer in our boutique space nestled in the Northern Cascade Mountains in the Bavarian village of Leavenworth, Washington. While some brewers dreamed of expanding and distributing their products nationally, I was quite content to keep things small.
Garrett Strong, my partner in crime, had opened Nitro just over two years ago after inheriting his Great-Aunt Tess’s two-story Bavarian inn with its brocade façade, brown hickory balconies and spires, and signature lion’s crest. While she was alive, Tess had used the old brothel as a boarding house and diner, but it had fallen into disrepair.
When Garrett took over, he renovated the building’s entire interior. The front served as our tasting room and bar, with bright white walls and cement floors. The twenty-five-foot-high ceilings made the dining area feel expansive. A long distressed-wood bar served as a divider between the dining space and our brew operations.
Garrett had kept Tess’s commercial kitchen and small office mainly intact and transformed the rest of the open space in the back into our brewing operations. Our stainless-steel mash tuns and shiny bright clarifying tanks were housed in the back, where all of the brewing magic took place.
Recently we had taken on the task of renovating the four upstairs guest rooms that had been untouched for years. After much deliberation, we decided to transform the rooms into Airbnb suites themed after the key ingredients in beer—water, yeast, hops, and grain. We offered guests an immersive beer experience with personal brewery tours, special beer tastings, homemade breakfasts, and extra touches like leaving hop-filled sachets under their pillows.
Last summer’s project involved building an attached deck on the side alley for more outdoor seating. There were always dozens of things on my checklist as brewery manager, but at the moment, my top priority was delivering this round of drinks without spilling them on the floor.
I squeezed past packed happy hour tables. The front windows dripped with condensation as the late afternoon sun trickled in. I breathed in the aromas of hops and chocolate. The chocolate was from my early morning baking session. And the hops were, well, obviously, from our newest line of dark and delicious winter beers. Midwinter in Leavenworth can feel sleepy, so Garrett and I decided to try our hand at hosting a variety of pub events—trivia and game nights, paint and pint nights, and hosting local bands.
Schools were on break for ski week, so we had brewed batches of special winter beers—peanut butter and chocolate stout, oatmeal spice cream ale, and my current favorite, our obsidian black IPA.
We partnered with Der Keller for the dark and moody IPA, the legendary brewery th
at had put Leavenworth on the beer map and was owned by my family. Technically speaking, ex-family, but the Krauses didn’t believe in the concept of ex-anything. That was fine by me. Otto and Ursula welcomed me into their loving family when I married their son Mac. If it weren’t for them, I never would have found my way to Leavenworth or ended up running a successful brewery.
In my early years of learning the brewing business, Otto taught me everything he knew, often to Mac’s displeasure. According to Otto, I had “ze nose,” which meant I had an innate ability to pull out each distinct flavor in a beer. It wasn’t a skill I had attempted to master, which irritated Mac even more. He had traveled to international brewing conferences and studied with world-class brewers in an attempt to hone his olfactory senses, with no success.
In hindsight, I wondered if that had been part of our problem. After we separated and now that our divorce was final, things had smoothed out between us like a crisp summer pale ale. Mac had found his role running operations at Der Keller, and I was content tinkering with unique small batches at Nitro while staying connected with the Krauses. Otto and Ursula had gifted me shares in Der Keller along with Mac and Hans, cementing my affiliation with them. It took a bit to sort out our future roles with the ever-growing brewery, but I was proud of the work we’d done. Our divorce could easily have gotten messy. We didn’t let it. Mac deserved credit for that, too. We had learned that we were better as friends, and we had one amazing common interest in our son Alex. I knew that Mac would do anything for Alex, and I was grateful we had come to a place of mutual respect and caring.
Not that he still didn’t irritate me every now and then. Especially with his constant obsession to try every new trick of the trade, like when he invested ten thousand dollars into tabletop Keurig-style brewing machines that he claimed could revolutionize the dining experience for customers. His vision was that Der Keller guests could brew their own beer while waiting for platters of German sausages and potato soup. However, he forgot to read the fine print, explaining that the tech systems took two weeks to ferment.
Classic, Mac.
I chuckled to myself as I dropped the obsidian IPAs off at a table near the dewy front windows and stole a glance outside. Snow came down in heavy clumps as if being tossed from the towering peaks surrounding
our alpine village. Garrett’s parents and sister were due to arrive this evening. I hoped that they weren’t going to get stuck in the passes on their way from Seattle. Traveling to our remote location this time of year could be dicey. The passes often closed due to heavy snow and rockslides.
Garrett had been buzzing for weeks about their visit. I knew he would be disappointed if they couldn’t make it. At that moment, a snowplow chugged past Nitro, leaving a trail of fluffy white powder in its wake. It was a good reminder that the roads were constantly being cleared.
Stay positive, Sloan.
I smiled and turned my attention to the tasting room. Kat and Garrett worked the bar, pouring pints and chatting with customers. People mingled in the brewery, where we had set up extra folding chairs for guests to listen to the band. We’d installed tents, heaters, and firepits in the front and on the side deck, doubling our seating capacity. Garrett had been worried that no one would want to be outside, but the opposite was true. Beer lovers bundled up in parkas and ski hats and huddled near the crackling fires while sipping on porters and sampling our beer and cheese pretzel fondue.
I was about to go check on the outdoor crowd when I noticed a familiar face. Hazel, a young doctor, was crammed against the exterior door that led to the back patio. She reminded me of a turtle with her puffy yellow ski jacket tucked over her head. “Hazel, I didn’t see you there. You’re shoved into that corner. Can I find you a better spot?” I motioned toward the brewery.
Hazel looked up from her laptop and stared at me with a blank expression. “Huh? Did you say something?” She yanked an earbud from her ear.
“I asked if you wanted me to find you another seat. You look kind of cramped at that table.” I wondered how Hazel was able to get any work done with the noise from the crowd and the band. Not to mention the constant wind blowing inside anytime someone opened the door.
“Oh, sorry. Uh, thanks. No, I’m fine.” She tugged off her hood and took out her other AirPod. Her shoulder-length hair frizzled from the static and cold.
“I’m impressed that you’re able to focus with so much going on.” As if to prove my point, a round of cheers and applause broke out
in the brewery as the band finished their song.
She twisted the string on her ski coat around her index finger. “It’s called being a resident. Medical school taught me how to tune out anything. When I was at University of Washington, I used to study at bars. They were open late, so I would bring my laptop and AirPods and stay until closing.”
“Wow, that is dedication. We’re lucky to have you here.”
The band started their next set. Hazel’s eyes drifted in that direction where a group of her colleagues, some of them still wearing their scrubs from their shifts, were gathered around one long folding table.
She slammed her laptop shut and then shook her head while still fiddling with her coat string. “I wouldn’t say that, and I’m trying not to get attached because I don’t know how long I’m going to have a job.”
“Really? Why?” I couldn’t help but wonder if that was why she had stuffed herself at a high-top table near the exit instead of sitting with the other doctors.
Hazel had become one of our regulars. Nitro was located a couple of blocks off Front Street, near Waterfront Park and the hospital. Given our proximity, medical staff tended to stop in for a pint or two at the end of their shifts. We appreciated the steady business, and they appreciated that Nitro was slightly off the beaten tourist path. City code in Leavenworth dictated that every storefront in the village adhere to strict Bavarian design standards. Our German architecture, cobblestone streets, alpine mountains, and festivals brought a steady stream of tourism to town. Nitro’s exterior matched the Bavarian aesthetic, but unlike some of the shops and restaurants that catered to tourists seeking German cuisine and tchotchkes like plastic cuckoo clocks and knee-high beer stein socks, we had opted to carve out space as the local hangout.
She clutched her laptop to her chest and bit her bottom lip. “It’s a long and complicated story, and right now, I don’t know if I’m even right about what I think I might be right about. If I am, then I don’t even have the slightest idea what I’m going to do.” She shot her head in the direction of the other doctors and then trailed off. “Never mind. You’re super busy. I should let you get back to work.”
There was something about Hazel’s breathless tone that put me on alert. I could only imagine how stressful her schedule as a r
esident had to be. I wondered if the long hours and lack of sleep were taking their toll. My motherly instincts kicked in. “I’m never too busy to talk.”
“No, I need to go. I should go check with Tad, our IT guy. He might be able to figure something out.” She stuffed her laptop into a matching bright yellow messenger bag and pulled her hood over her head again. “Just forget I said anything. I pulled a double shift and haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. I’m probably just stressed, you know? I’m overworked and running on cheap coffee and fumes.”
“Totally understandable, but my offer remains. If you ever need a listening ear, I’m always willing to listen. It’s the tap tenders’ and brewers' code. Pints on the house, okay?” I tried to meet her gaze, but Hazel stared at the floor. “You and the entire team at the hospital work so hard to keep everyone safe and healthy, it’s the least I can do.”
Hazel gave me a weak smile. “I appreciate it. We all love Nitro’s end-of-shift free pint. Like I said, I’m probably tired. I need some sleep, and then I’m sure I’ll feel better.”
“Sounds like a good plan. If you change your mind, I’m here.”
“Thanks.” She bounced her leg on the stool for a minute before eyeing the exit and heading for the door.
I didn’t know Hazel well. She’d been coming in at least once a week for a post-work pint since she’d arrived in Leavenworth last fall. Most of our interactions had been casual. I had given her a few recommendations on hiking trails and ski runs nearby, and we had chatted about beer and her research. The motherly instinct in me kicked into high gear as I watched her scurry out of the pub and out into the cold. Hazel was in her late twenties and practicing in a field with a high burnout rate. She didn’t have family here in Leavenworth, and I wasn’t sure what other kind of support network she might have at the hospital. I hoped she would take her own advice and get some much-needed rest.
As I returned to the bar, I made a mental note to check in on her over the weekend.
“Sloan, we’re killing it out there and it’s not even after five yet.” Garrett flashed a smile and angled a pint glass beneath the tap handle. “How’s the snow looking?”
I tried to ignore the fluttery feeling in my stomach that seemed to surge any
time Garrett was near. This afternoon, he looked particularly handsome in a pair of jeans, leather boots, and an indigo pullover sweater that brought out the flecks of gold in his deep brown eyes.
“It’s coming down,” I said, looking toward the front windows where the light was beginning to fade. I placed the empty tray on the counter and cleared some empties into the sink. “Have you heard anything from your parents?”
“No. They texted when they left Seattle, but I haven’t heard anything since then. Do you think they’ll shut down the passes?” He scrunched his face in concern as he tried to get a better look outside.
“I don’t think so. The plow seemed to be moving fine. I’m sure they have the bigger plows on a constant rotation on the highway.” I flipped on the switch for the twinkle lights that hung above the bar. Soon it would be time to light the votive candles on the tabletops. Once the sun sank behind the mountains, the village would be plunged into darkness.
He pushed a strand of wavy walnut-colored hair from his eye. “I hope so. It’s going to be such a bummer if they get stuck.”
“I agree, but I’m staying positive. Think good thoughts.” I made a funny face and stuck out my index finger in a warning.
“You’re always positive, Sloan,” Kat chimed in, her dimples widening as she smiled. She assembled bowls of our pub snacks, Doritos, nuts, spicy popcorn, and chocolate trail mix at the counter. Kat was in her mid-twenties with bouncy curls, bright eyes, and a can-do spirit.
“I’m glad you think so, too. We have to stay positive, right?” I winked at her in solidarity. “Of course, Alex might not agree when I’ve asked him a dozen times whether he’s finished his essay for his college applications.”
“Does he know where he wants to go yet?” Kat tossed a couple of nuts into her mouth as she finished filling the bowls and then placed them on a tray so she could take them to the tables.
We had a small pub menu at Nitro that consisted of daily soups, meat, cheese and veggie plates, seasonal specials like shepherd’s pie and mac and cheese, and rotating desserts sometimes infused with our beers. Snacking and savoring a frothy pint went hand in hand, so we kept tables stocked with bowls of chips and nuts. Additionally, we served a beer-inspired breakfast every morning to our overnight guests. I loved sharing traditional German recipes passed
down from Ursula and experimenting with new ways to add a splash of hoppy brew to pancakes or a touch of porter to chocolate babka.
“He’s still undecided,” I said to Kat. “UW is top of the list because it’s close, and he’s been a Husky fan his entire life. He’s not ruling out playing soccer at a small college, though.”
“I saw you talking to Hazel. She’ll probably tell him all the reasons he should be a Husky. When she was in here a couple of days ago, we were swapping our favorite Seattle spots.” Garrett angled a glass beneath the tap handle to fill it with our obsidian stout. “But once my sister gets here, she can twist his arm for Oregon.”
“Let the college battle begin.” I reached for a towel to mop up a little beer splatter on the counter. “We should connect Leah and Hazel. They have a lot in common. Med school, residency, and they’re about the same age. Hazel seems pretty stressed, and sleep-deprived. It might be nice for her to have someone going through a similar experience to talk to.”
“I’m sure Leah will be down for that.” Garrett set the pint on the counter and began filling the next.
There’s an art to pouring a perfect pint. It was something I had taught Kat from the first day she started at Nitro. Simply placing a glass under the handle and letting the beer flow would result in a foamy pour. Instead, we angled chilled glasses and slowly released the tap handle. Once a glass was about three-quarters full, then we would shift it upright and top off the pint with a nice layer of foam.
“Speaking of physicians. There’s a whole crew in the back that is due for another round of drinks. Do you want to go check on them?” Garrett asked. “Or you can take over the bar.”
“I’m happy to check on them.” I pointed to Kat’s snack bowls. “Can I steal a couple of these, too?”
“Go for it.” Kat swept her hand over the bowls. Her nails were painted like mountain tops with tiny green trees and snowy tips. “Take your pick.”
I took a bowl of Doritos and mixed nuts and made my way to the brewery. Typically, our brewing operations were off-limits to customers, but we had opened the space for happy hour and music tonight. The 80s’ cover band was cranking out the hits while a handful of people were dancing in front of the makeshift stage. The doctors were easy to spot amongst the growing crowd. Their scrubs and tennis shoes
were a dead giveaway.
“I hope you’re enjoying the music,” I said over the sound of the band. “Can I get anyone another pint?”
“Such service,” one of the physicians replied. It was Dr. Sutton, another one of our regulars. She was close to my age and quite stylish for Leavenworth standards. Her scrubs were made of a soft, silky material in terra cotta. She wore a matching pair of burnt orange oversized glasses and funky earrings.
“Only for you, Dr. Sutton.” I set the bowl of snacks in front of her.
She handed me her empty glass. “If you don’t mind, I wouldn’t turn down another black IPA. I preach slow sipping when I’m talking to patients about beer consumption, but I have to admit that was so smooth it went down faster than I expected.”
“Hey, come on, it’s Friday. It’s happy hour. Time to blow off steam,” the man next to her said, finishing off the last drops of his pint. His navy scrubs were form-fitting. The slim design showed off his muscular physique.
“Isn’t that what anesthesiologists do all the time, Dr. Ames?” Dr. Sutton shot her colleague a challenging look.
I couldn’t tell if she was teasing or if there was real animosity between them.
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” Dr. Ames said, flashing a hang loose sign. “We have to stay loose, and Nitro helps me do that. Also, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Shep? My dad is Doctor Ames. I’m not that old and cranky.” He shuddered and pointed to his now empty glass. “Can I get a refill, too?” His energy reminded me of Mac. He was attractive but held his body and my gaze in a way that told me he knew it.
“A black IPA for Dr. Sutton and Shep.” I stacked their empties on the tray and looked at the rest of the doctors. “Is everyone having the IPA?”
“I had the stout,” the man seated next to Shep said with a huff. I didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t wearing scrubs, which either meant he wasn’t a doctor or had changed after his shift.
“Sloan, have you met Jerry?” Dr. Sutton asked as if reading my mind. “No, ...
