I started chasing beer in Brooklyn around 2010, and back then, the borough felt like it was still hungover from something—maybe the 90s, maybe just a lack of good yeast. Portland and San Diego had already planted their craft beer flags. Manhattan was getting its sea legs. But Brooklyn? We had Brooklyn Brewery, the old guard, and Sixpoint was slinging cans out of a Red Hook warehouse before anyone thought cans were cool. Still, the idea of a real, breathing scene was mostly a rumor you’d hear over a pint at Barcade. Now, in 2025, Brooklyn isn’t just part of the national beer conversation—it’s shouting over everyone. The change has been loud, messy, and occasionally ridiculous. I’ve been drinking through all of it, so here’s what stuck, what flopped, and what still makes me scratch my head.
The Early Days: A Handful of Hop Heads
In 2010, if you said “Brooklyn beer,” you meant Brooklyn Brewery. It had been around since 1988, the dependable anchor. Sixpoint was the scrappy little brother, cranking out Bengali Tiger and Sweet Action from a warehouse that felt more like a clubhouse you had to know the password to enter. Finding their beer meant hunting down a few dedicated bars—Spuyten Duyvil, Barcade, The Double Windsor if you were lucky—or making the pilgrimage to Red Hook for a tour that still had a whiff of the underground.
A brewery taproom as a place to hang out? That was barely a concept. Most production spots didn’t have a public bar. You showed up Saturday afternoon, shuffled through a tour, drank your three samples, and maybe filled a growler if the stars aligned. The whole culture was tight-knit, almost clannish. You’d see the same faces at every bottle release. Words like “dry hopping” or “Brett” were insider code. The average drinker wasn’t arguing about East Coast vs. West Coast IPA; they were just relieved to find something that didn’t taste like watered-down corn.
The Taproom Explosion and the IPA Arms Race
Then 2013 hit, and the ground shifted. New York’s farm brewery license, passed in 2012, was the spark. Suddenly, a small brewery with a taproom wasn’t a pipe dream—it was a business plan. Other Half Brewing opened in Carroll Gardens in 2014 and basically set off a bomb in the IPA world. Their hazy, juicy, lactose-thick double IPAs weren’t just beers; they were happenings. People lined up on Centre Street for can releases like they were waiting for limited-edition sneakers. I remember freezing my ass off for a can of All Citra Everything, thinking, “This is either genius or the beginning of a long, weird hangover.” It was both.
Other Half rewired the business model. The taproom became the cash cow. Direct sales, four-packs to-go, a relentless conveyor belt of new labels—distribution felt like an afterthought. Grimm Artisanal Ales, Interboro, and eventually Threes Brewing copied the playbook, with Threes adding a full kitchen and coffee bar. The taproom wasn’t a warehouse with a drip tray anymore; it was a lifestyle hub. Bring your laptop, your dog, your toddler. Beer was just the soundtrack for a whole afternoon.
The Sour and Wild Frontier
While IPAs were printing money, a quieter, weirder thing was happening in oak barrels. Brooklyn’s beer scene has always had a stubborn streak, and as haze fatigue set in, brewers started looking backward. Mixed fermentation, spontaneous ales, fruit-heavy sours—they bubbled up in odd corners. Transmitter Brewing, tucked into a shipping container in the Navy Yard, went all-in on farmhouse ales and Brett-driven beers. No flagship IPA. No taproom circus. Just small, bottle-conditioned batches that demanded your attention. It was almost monastic, and it built a following of people who wanted complexity, not just another juice bomb.
Then the wild ales got serious. KCBC (Kings County Brewers Collective) started dedicating tank space to mixed-culture projects. Evil Twin, after years of wandering, planted a massive taproom in Ridgewood with a big outdoor area and a sour program that could go toe-to-toe with dedicated lambic blenders. The local palate was growing up. Drinkers who’d cut their teeth on Citra and Mosaic were now trading cans for cork-and-cage bottles of spontaneously fermented beer aged on local peaches. It felt like Brooklyn was finally developing its own terroir—not from the soil, but from a culture of restless experimentation.
Neighborhood Breweries and the Hyperlocal Shift
By 2018, the brewery map looked like a patchwork quilt of neighborhood pride. Bushwick alone became a crawl: KCBC, Braven, and later Evil Twin’s outpost. Gowanus, still funky and industrial, had Strong Rope Brewery leaning hard into New York ingredients. Even Crown Heights got in the game with Bitter & Esters, a homebrew shop that doubled as a community hub, spawning garage brewers who’d eventually go pro.
This hyperlocal shift rewired how people connected to beer. You weren’t just drinking a Brooklyn beer; you were drinking a Bushwick beer, a Red Hook beer. Breweries became neighborhood anchors—block parties, farmers markets, charity drives. The line between bar and community center got blurry. In 2010, a brewery was a place that made beer. Now, it was a place that meant something to the people three blocks away.
The Pandemic Pivot and Its Lasting Scars
2020 didn’t just test Brooklyn’s breweries—it broke some and reshaped the survivors. Taprooms went dark overnight. The direct-to-consumer model, once a golden goose, became a trap. Breweries scrambled for delivery, online ordering, curbside pickup. Folksbier didn’t make it. Threes pivoted hard into packaged beer and Zoom tastings. The sweaty, shoulder-to-shoulder can release was dead, replaced by contactless handoffs and virtual cheers.
But the pandemic also forced a reckoning with an overheated market. The endless churn of new IPAs, the hype cycles, the FOMO buying—it all suddenly felt exhausting. Breweries built on scarcity had to learn consistency. Some nailed it. Wild East Brewing opened in Gowanus right in the thick of 2020, focusing on lagers and mixed-culture beers from day one. No haze chase, just calm, deliberate beers. That patience paid off; they’re now one of the most respected names in the borough.
The Lager Renaissance and a Return to Roots
If the 2010s were the IPA decade, the 2020s are shaping up to be the lager decade. And honestly, it’s about damn time. Brooklyn’s scene has matured enough to admit that brewing a clean, crisp, technically flawless pilsner is harder than dumping a pound of hops into a whirlpool. Greenpoint Beer & Ale Co. and Talea Beer Co. have made lagers the main event, not the sad afterthought. Talea, founded by two women in 2021, opened a taproom that felt more like a chic café than a beer hall. Their core lineup—a kolsch, a Vienna lager, a hazy IPA that actually has balance—pulled in a crowd that had been turned off by the bro-heavy haze culture.
This lager revival is also a homecoming. Before craft beer was a twinkle in anyone’s eye, Brooklyn was a lager town. German immigrants in the 1800s built massive breweries in Bushwick and Williamsburg, churning out pilsners and bocks. The new lager-focused spots are, in a quiet way, reclaiming that history. It’s a full-circle moment that feels earned, not focus-grouped.
Diversity and Inclusion: A Long-Overdue Shift
Let’s not sugarcoat it: the early Brooklyn craft scene was overwhelmingly white and male. The bro culture wasn’t a stereotype; it was the room you were standing in. Women, people of color, LGBTQ+ folks were often consumers, rarely owners or brewers. That’s finally changing, though it’s been a slow crawl. Talea’s co-founders, LeAnn Darland and Tara Hankinson, are a visible example, but they’re not alone. Beer Kulture, a nonprofit pushing for diversity in the industry, has a strong New York presence. Events like Fresh Fest, spotlighting Black-owned breweries, have dragged the issue into the light.
There’s also been a quieter shift in who’s behind the bar, who’s designing the labels, who’s in the brewhouse. It’s not perfect—no scene is—but the conversation has moved from “we should do something” to “we are doing something, and we’re being held accountable if we don’t.” That’s actual progress, not just a press release.
The Hazy Hangover: What We Lost in the Hops Race
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss some things about the old days. The IPA innovation brought energy, sure, but it also brought a kind of sameness. Walk into a bottle shop now and you’ll see a wall of nearly identical 16-ounce cans with abstract label art and names that sound like metal bands or internet memes. Inside, the beers are variations on a theme: soft, sweet, hazy, bitterness dialed down to a whisper. They’re tasty, but they’ve shoved other styles to the margins. Try finding a well-made English mild or a classic West Coast IPA in Brooklyn right now. It’s a scavenger hunt.
Then there’s the price creep. A four-pack of IPA from a hyped brewery can run $24 or more. That’s a premium product, and it’s pushed beer into a luxury bracket that feels at odds with its working-class roots. I’m not saying breweries shouldn’t charge what they need—margins are razor-thin, rent is obscene—but the accessibility of good beer has narrowed. The $5 pint of something interesting is a rare bird now.
Where We’re Headed: A Prediction or Two
So what’s next? I see a few threads pulling in different directions. First, the brewpub model will keep evolving. Places that nail both food and beer—like Threes or the newly expanded Strong Rope—will thrive because they offer a full evening, not just a flight. The bare-bones taproom with a food truck parked outside is on borrowed time; people want a kitchen, a cocktail, a reason to linger for three hours.
Second, collaboration will shift from marketing gimmick to survival tactic. Breweries are already sharing distribution, co-hosting events, even sharing brewing space. The era of every brewery as an island is over. The ones that build real partnerships will outlast the lone wolves.
Third, and most importantly, the beer itself will keep diversifying. The lager trend will deepen, but I also expect a comeback of classic styles done with modern precision: dry stouts, bitter ESBs, even craft light lagers that don’t apologize for being crushable. The pendulum always swings back.
Frequently Asked Questions
What was the first craft brewery in Brooklyn?
Brooklyn Brewery, founded in 1988 by Steve Hindy and Tom Potter, is widely considered the first modern craft brewery in the borough. It paved the way for the scene we know today, though it was preceded by a rich history of 19th-century lager breweries that have since disappeared.
Why are hazy IPAs so popular in Brooklyn?
Hazy IPAs exploded in popularity thanks to Other Half Brewing, which perfected the style with intense fruit flavors, low bitterness, and a soft mouthfeel. The style’s visual appeal and approachable taste drew in new drinkers, and the limited-release model created a collector culture that fueled demand. However, many locals now feel the market is oversaturated with similar offerings.
Are there any breweries in Brooklyn that focus on traditional European styles?
Yes, several breweries have moved away from the IPA trend. Wild East Brewing specializes in lagers and mixed-culture beers, Greenpoint Beer & Ale Co. produces excellent pilsners and ales, and Strong Rope Brewery emphasizes New York ingredients in classic styles. These spots offer a refreshing break from the haze craze.
How has the pandemic permanently changed Brooklyn’s brewery scene?
The pandemic accelerated the shift toward packaged beer sales, online ordering, and delivery. It also forced breweries to rethink their reliance on crowded taprooms, leading to more outdoor spaces and a focus on consistency over hype. Some breweries closed, but those that survived emerged leaner and more community-focused.
Brooklyn’s brewing scene has grown up. It’s less scrappy, more polished, and occasionally a little too pleased with itself. But it’s also more diverse, more thoughtful, and more deeply stitched into the borough’s fabric than ever. I’ll always have a soft spot for the wild west days of 2010, but I’ll take a well-poured pilsner in a sunlit taproom over a cold wait in a warehouse line any day. The beer is better now. The people are better. And the best part? We’re just getting started.