It was one of the first new restaurants to open at the Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza, which sat at the effective entrance of both the Baldwin Hills and View Park neighborhoods. In the 50’s these communities were predominately Jewish, but with the real estate patterns, and agent-driven “white flight,” these palm tree-lined enclaves became tony hosts to black professionals and celebrities. Living here was a true sign of having “made it,” especially if you lived amongst the “Dons”—the high-up streets in Baldwin Hills with near 360-degree views of Los Angeles. And in nearby View Park, there were still million dollar plus homes that sat on top of their side of the hill, with everything you could imagine in fancier parts north, like tennis courts, pools and even household staff. The renewed interest in View Park/Baldwin Hills brought increased opportunities for new businesses, like our beloved Post & Beam, but nobody could say they weren’t worried about losing some of the rich history and character of the area as well. Coming back was like revisiting my best memories—when I was a kid and everything seemed good and easy and on its way up.
Gentrification was changing the neighborhood, certainly. Each time I went back, I saw fewer and fewer of the people I knew from my time growing up there before my parents divorced. My friend Alexis had been my neighbor down the street, and that’s how we originally met. She still lived there, in a house a few blocks from her parents, married to Robert, her high school boyfriend. Robert, after a wild ride through high school and college, became a proud, card-carrying member of the married man club when he and Alexis were still in their twenties. As a complete departure from his younger self, he became one of those men who considered marriage and family an accomplishment worth having on his way to the new promised land of old-man Kangol hats, jazz festivals and social security checks. His parents were still married, as were Alexis’ and hers still lived in the same house down the street from my old one. We had been friends since our earliest memories and still had pictures of us together back in times that we were too young to recall. When we were younger, we were always thick as thieves and never had any problems until Robert came sniffing around at the end of middle school. Where I was the studious one, getting straight A’s and acting like a debutante even before I was one, Alexis filled out early, leading into her nickname “Sexy Lexi,” which is what all the boys, and I do mean all of them, started calling her. She was the first to develop breasts and a plump booty. She had all the curves that I could only imagine while my body stayed straight up and down, front and back as flat as a pine board. When my mom moved away, and I went to stay several miles away with Granny Tab in the Fairfax district, Lexi and I didn’t get to spend as much time with each other, because we also wound up at different high schools. Robert took the opportunity to fill in for my absence. He was a popular athlete and before long, he got “Sexy Lexi” to wear his cheap little gold chain with the fake-assed diamond name plate on it that his parents bought him at his insistence for legitimacy with his rap career that lasted 5 minutes and never went much past our neighborhood. Robert always swore up and down I didn’t like him. Honestly, it wasn’t that I didn’t like him, it’s just that after a certain point of drying Lexi’s tears, it seemed clear to me that Lexi could do better. But, evidently, she didn’t want to. She loved herself some Robert. They made me godmother to their boys, first Rob Jr. and then little Lexington. I hate to pick favorites, but that little boy Lexington, with his big brown eyes, curly woolen hair and mischievous snaggly smile would have you looking in your purse for candy that wasn’t there. If she weren’t married to Rob, Lexi would be living a version of my dream family life. She had a stable, helpful husband, two kids, and still-married parents who lived just down the street.
I was the first to arrive, so I secured a place at the center-situated communal tables for Alexis and Laila. I figured that Alexis would arrive first and Laila would come at her standard fifteen minutes late. Laila Joon was always late, but always worth waiting for. Laila was from the Bay Area and I met her in undergrad at USC’s journalism program. I was focused on broadcast news and Laila had intentions to be a syndicated newspaper columnist. She was all the way Oakland with her “hella” slang and long mane of bohemian dreadlocks. She never minced words, but was still as mysterious and enchanting as her name, “Laila,” which was pronounced, Lah-E-Laa, and was a version of the word that meant night in Arabic. Her mother, who came from a Black Muslim family, gave her the name to mark that side of her heritage, as she would automatically carry the Korean last name of her father, “Joon.” She looked black, she looked Asian and she never failed to look at people with extreme side-eye when they inevitably asked her “what are you?” with unrelenting frequency. Laila, who as a writer was quick-witted and basically fearless, once said to that question, “I’m mixed…” to an unsuspecting inquirer who pushed their luck, pressing for the second with what? follow-up. Laila said defiantly, “I’m mixed with black and mind your business.” What I loved about Laila beyond her fearlessness, was her ability to always be herself, even when it wasn’t comfortable or popular. Laila was the one who convinced me to apply for the job at KVTV and spent every weekend with me practicing my interview until I was as sharp and polished as a brand new razor. With Alexis married and with kids, when I moved back to LA, she became my wingwoman as we navigated the wilds of LA nightlife together as single girlfriends. This made tonight a rare occasion, with the three of us, because it was usually beyond difficult to get Alexis out at all.
To my surprise, after 10 minutes of waiting, with no sign of either one of my friends, at the door, Alexis finally appeared, walking in right along with Laila. They rushed me at the table, wrapping me with our customary big hugs and cheek kisses.
“Girl!” Laila said with her usual frenetic energy. “You sent the bat signal and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet! I knew some bulllll-shiiiiit must have gone down today. Where’s our waiter—I need a drink ASAP.” Signaling for the waiter with a raised arm, she turned back to look at me, “Um, hm, I see you. You couldn’t even wait for a sista, you’ve already been sippin’!” she said with her big wide grin.
“How you doin’ girl?” Alexis asked with her motherly sincerity. Even though I’d known her practically forever, but still couldn’t believe how much she’d changed from the “Sexy Lexi” that she was in high school. Her figure-8 curves from back then had rounded out significantly, and more so with each of her two children. She was still beautiful, brown and carried herself with the confidence of a longhaired siren, but you could see life lived and the obligations of family in her figure. Laila on the other hand, still had the physique of a track star. She was naturally beautiful, with freckles and honey-colored skin that always seemed to carry a glow of the California sunshine with it. This day, she had pulled her shoulder-length dreads up into a wide bun around the crown of her head.
“Girl, you won’t believe….” I started in, ready to tell them everything.
“Wait, just one second—Tab” said Alexis, settling her wide and supple hips onto the stool in front of me. “Let me just text Rob and the boys and let them know what time I’m coming home. I know they’re going to ask me to bring dinner—they act like they don’t know how to use an oven or a stove….”