Hopwild is a small-batch brewery built on one stubborn idea: beer tastes best the week it's made. We brew in tiny runs, kick the keg before it gets tired, and never ship a thing we wouldn't pour at our own table. No flagship aging on a shelf. No tank-tired compromise. Just whatever the brewers got excited about on Tuesday — on tap by Friday.
Most breweries optimize for shelf life. We optimize for the glass in front of you. Here's what that actually means once it's in the kettle.
Our IPAs get dry-hopped twice while the yeast is still throwing off CO2, which drives hop aroma deep into the beer instead of letting it scrub off the top. That's why a Hopwild hazy smells like you stuck your face in a fresh hop bine — and why it fades fast if you let it sit. Drink it loud.
We brew in 8-barrel runs, roughly 250 gallons. Small enough to take a swing on a weird saison nobody asked for. Big enough to keep the Friday taproom lines moving.
Packaged into nitrogen-purged 16oz tallboys with dissolved oxygen we keep under 50 parts per billion, so the beer in the can tastes like the beer off the tap. Oxygen never gets a vote.
Our farmhouse ales ferment in open-top vessels and pick up the wild yeast and bacteria living in the room. No two batches taste identical, and we built the whole program around liking it that way.
Base malt comes from a family floor-maltster up the valley. We know the field, the harvest year, and the guy who runs the kiln by his first name.
The board turns over constantly — when a keg blows, it blows, and the next beer takes the line. Here's what's pouring right now, from a 5oz taster to a full pint, plus crowlers and four-packs to take home.
The flagship that refuses to behave. Citra and Nelson Sauvin hopped to the gills — mango, white grape, a pillow-soft finish. The beer that put us on the map and the one we brew most.
Decoction-mashed, lagered six weeks, pulled through a side-pull faucet for a dense cream cap. Crackery, firmly bitter, dangerous by the third. Proof we can do restraint when we feel like it.
Open-fermented and bottle-conditioned, dry and peppery with a lemon-pith snap. Different every batch, because the room decides the yeast, not us.
Cold-steeped cacao nibs and a fat scoop of flaked oats. Dark chocolate, espresso crema, zero roast harshness. The cold-weather handle the regulars start hoarding in October.
A throwback for the bitter faithful. Bone-dry, resinous, pine and grapefruit rind. Brewed brilliant-clear on purpose so you can watch the sunset through the glass.
Soured overnight in the kettle and dosed with whatever's ripe that week — right now tart cherry and lime. The patio beer that empties the keg fastest.
Pouring around town and showing up where the good beer is
Five years of brewing things we couldn't sit on
We didn't open a brewery to land on a grocery shelf. We opened it so you'd have somewhere to drink the beer at its peak, ten feet from the tank it came out of. The taproom isn't the marketing — it's the product.
Floor-to-ceiling glass between the bar and the brewhouse. Watch this week's batch ferment while you finish last week's.
Long communal tables, a record player someone's always fighting over, and dogs welcome on the patio. Bring a deck of cards, not your laptop.
A rotating food truck parks out front after 5. Tacos Thursday, smash burgers Friday, dumplings if we get lucky — posted on the app each morning.
Tour with whoever actually brewed it, taste straight from the bright tank, and ask the dumb questions. Free with a pour, 2pm sharp.
“Wild Static is the only hazy in town that actually tastes like the can promises. I stopped buying anything that's been sitting on a shelf for a month.”
“I came in for a food truck and left having joined the Mug Club. Six months later I know every brewer by name and my mug has its own hook on the wall.”
“The Backlot Pils is a clinic. People assume craft means loud and weird — this is the opposite, and it's the cleanest lager I've had this side of Prague.”
Membership is how the regulars do it: your own numbered mug behind the bar, members-only batches, and first dibs when something rare drops. Annual, and no auto-renew traps.
For the curious. No card, just thirst.
For the regular who's here every Friday.
For the collector who wants the weird stuff.
A handful of bottle shops in the city carry our cans, but the freshest beer — and almost all of the rare stuff — only lives at the taproom. We'd rather you drink it five days old than five weeks old off a shelf.
We can't ship beer across most borders, and frankly we don't want to watch a hazy IPA spend a week in a hot truck. To-go crowlers and four-packs are taproom pickup only.
Dogs are welcome on the patio, and well-behaved kids are welcome inside until 8pm. We keep a soda tap, cold brew, and a house-made ginger beer on for the non-drinkers.
The board turns over weekly, sometimes daily. The live tap list is in our app and on the chalkboard by the door — and if a beer's listed online but blown by the time you arrive, the next round's on the brewer.
Never. We almost always have a crisp lager, a sour, a stout, and something farmhouse pouring at the same time. The whole point of small batches is range.
Check what's pouring, grab a seat, and drink it while it's loud. The taproom's open Wednesday through Sunday on the edge of town.