In the world of craft beer, there is a tendency to chase the shiny and new. We flock to breweries that opened last Tuesday, located in converted lofts that sell IPAs tasting vaguely of breakfast cereal and despair.

Summit Brewing Company, located in St. Paul, Minnesota, is the antidote to this frenzy. Founded in 1986, it is the elder statesman of the Midwest beer scene. Walking into their taproom (the “Ratskeller”) doesn’t feel like entering a trend; it feels like visiting a reliable uncle who knows how to fix a carburetor and has never used the word “curated” in his life.

The Auto Parts Genesis

Historically, when founder Mark Stutrud decided to open a brewery in the mid-80s, he was told by the brewing establishment that it would be a “long, hard road.” He ignored them and set up shop in an old auto parts warehouse on University Avenue.

There is something poetically sound about brewing beer in a place designed for car repair. Both industries are essentially about fluid management and trying to get a machine (or a human) to run smoother than it did an hour ago. Summit wasn’t built on the back of a marketing gimmick; it was built on the stubborn belief that Minnesota—a state with winters so cold they offend the laws of physics—deserved a beer that actually tasted like something.

The EPA Constant

Philosophically, Summit represents the virtue of Consistency. Their flagship beer, the Extra Pale Ale (EPA), has been the default setting for Twin Cities social interaction for nearly four decades.

In a modern era defined by “FOMO” (Fear Of Missing Out) and the constant urge to upgrade our phones, partners, and snacks, the EPA is a comforting anchor. It tastes exactly the same as it did when the Berlin Wall came down. It is a liquid monument to the idea that sometimes, you don’t need to “disrupt the industry.” Sometimes, you just need to make a pale ale that doesn’t challenge your worldview, but simply agrees with your sandwich.

The Anti-Hype Machine

Ultimately, Summit is a reminder that being “first” is often less important than being “still here.” While other breweries are busy fermenting glitter and lactose into a sour ale named after a meme, Summit is quietly sitting by the Mississippi River, brewing a pilsner that adheres to the German Purity Law of 1516.

It is a place of zero pretension. You do not need a monocle or a degree in chemistry to order a drink here. It is a sanctuary for those who believe that beer should not be a “journey” or an “experience,” but rather a cold, bronze-colored reward for surviving another day of being a person.