Spike Hill


Spike Hill

184 Bedford Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11211
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Cuisine: Pub Food
Our Rating: ★ ★ ★
Cards: All major
: $
: Mon-Thur 11:30am-2:30am; Fri 11:30am-4am; Sat 11am-4am; Sun 11am-2am
Booze: Full Bar
Subway: L to Bedford Ave.
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: Take-out only
We say:

If you’re lucky enough to be seated in one of the dark mahogany booths, scavenged by Spike Hill co-owner, Tom Schmitz, you’ll find the perfect refuge from the packs swelling outside on Bedford Avenue. The bar in the front offers twelve rotating draft beers and a healthy selection of scotch. Inexpensive dishes range from traditional pub fare like Fish & Chips to neo-American comfort dishes like Blue Point Oyster Po’ Boys with chipotle lime mayonnaise.
While the Thursday night open-mike musician set up his microphone, appetites were whet with a Kielbasa starter — the one hat-tip to the neighborhoods’ previous settlers. The Buffalo Wings were average and the Oyster Po’ Boy was more fry than oyster. You’re best served if you think of the joint as a watering hole where carnivores and pescetarians can nurse a hangover or take a preventative approach to drinking by laying down a greasy base. while imbibing.
When the check arrived there was a whistle of shock and delight. Though not officially on the menu, the majority of the table had ordered the Spike Hill Burger. The dangerously low price of $2.75 per burger was responsible for the impossibly cheap bill.
Fridays throughout the summer, Spike Hill is offering $1 Blue Point oysters and Little Neck Clams between 5-8 PM.

NY Mag says:

This clean, comfortable brewpub, with its fancied-up bar food, sweet-natured staff, and frequent Bugaboo sightings, seems at first glance to have been whisked off its foundations in Park Slope and plopped down in Williamsburg by a tornado. It’s not quite what you’d expect from owner Tom Schmitz, who has been a proud resident of the ‘burg long before the area saw its first designer stroller—in fact, he also owns venerable indie record shop Earwax down the block. But regardless of the bar’s bona fides, the hipper-than-thou rockers who slink by with a disdainful glance towards the open front window and sleek signage are missing the point: it’s much more fun to sit inside watching the parade, or to canoodle in one of the delightfully private booths, with dividers that go all the way up to the ceiling. In fact, in the form of a frosty pint of Smithwick’s, gentrification goes down remarkably smooth.