Pia Vo
Google
For those still feeling the need to leave reviews after pint’s doors have shut, I’d like to offer a different perspective. In an age where online criticism gives the vengeful guest far too much power, I’d like to remember what this place really was.
Here’s to Brookland Pint, my second home.
To me and to many others, this place was not just a restaurant, but a safe haven. A heartbeat in the neighborhood, a warm light spilling out onto Monroe Street, drawing in people from every walk of life.
I got to watch lives unfold here, year after year.. I got to serve a couple on their very first date and later pour their celebratory shots on the night of their engagement. I learned the standing order of the parents whose newborn was in the hospital down the street. I poured beer for the man who had just lost his wife, and I got to offer a quiet space to those who simply needed somewhere to sit and not be alone. I got to celebrate birthdays, graduations, baby showers, new jobs, and all the little milestones that deserved a cheer. And I shared in the heartbreaks too..stories of loss, divorce, and loneliness told across the bar with the kind of trust only a stranger can sometimes hold.
I also got to meet people I never would have otherwise! Neighbors, students, professors, artists, families, even celebrities(!)all of whom somehow found common ground in a pint glass or a shared meal. Many of them I now get to call family.
Of course, it wasn’t always smooth. The inevitable angry crowds when the wait was too long, taps that kicked in the middle of a pour, and guests who forgot that the people serving them were human too. There were nights of exhaustion, sticky floors, and jokes traded in the service alley just to keep each other going. And when something (inevitably) went wrong, we’d laugh and shrug and also joke about well.. Pint!
Brookland Pint was never about perfection, it was about people. About a small staff who poured their hearts into this place, about regulars who claimed their favorite seats, about strangers who walked in alone and left feeling just a little less lonely.
That’s the beauty of a small business: it doesn’t run on efficiency, but on love, chaos, and the fragile, extraordinary work of creating a space where anyone could belong.
So many lives passed through those doors, leaving pieces of themselves behind, taking pieces of us with them. Though the lights are out now and the barstools empty, its spirit lingers..in memory, in community, in every story told over a pint.
And if people cannot appreciate places like Pint because they expect them to run like a Cheesecake Factory or some polished corporate chain, then one day we’ll only be left with restaurants where you order through a screen bolted to the table.
So slow down. Take your dining experiences a little less seriously. Be kind to the people serving you. Notice the imperfections and love them for what they are. Appreciate your surroundings, the people across from you, and the humanity happening all around.
Lastly, a reminder to thank your local bar for quietly holding so much of your joy, your grief, and your lives together.