From firehouse to fermentation…
Every town has its ghosts. Old brick buildings that once mattered, now sitting there like tired relics, waiting for someone to notice again. In Brodheadsville, that ghost was a firehouse. Sirens gone. Trucks moved out. The place was a shell, a memory of men in heavy coats and steel-toed boots rushing off into the night.
Most people would have walked by and left it at that. But two fathers—Joe Elias and Christopher Pohorence—saw something else. Not a husk. Not an eyesore. A place with bones, with stories baked into its walls. The kind of place that could still serve a community, just in a different way.
That’s the origin of Brix Brewhouse. Not a corporate brainstorm in some boardroom. Not a carefully calculated business model pitched to investors. Just two guys who met at a school bus stop, swapping stories while waiting for their kids, and admitting to one another that they’d been homebrewing for years. That maybe, just maybe, they could do it for real.
The Firehouse Reborn
Now they’re standing inside that 12,000-square-foot brick firehouse on Route 715, transforming it into a brewery. Seven thousand square feet of working space for stainless steel tanks, malt, and hops. A 1,400-square-foot game room where the original shuffleboard table still sits, scuffed and worn, waiting for new memories. A small stage for local musicians. Outdoor seating for those late-summer nights when a cold pint feels like oxygen.
And then there’s the mural. Local artist Larry Meng is painting a 40-by-7-foot masterpiece across a retaining wall, barley and hops curling up alongside brewing formulas, the phrase “Cheers to you” anchoring it all. It’s not just a wall anymore. It’s a message.
The Name Matters
“Brix” isn’t some hipster wordplay. It’s the scientific measure of sugar in liquid—how brewers know what they’re working with, how winemakers gauge their grapes. But it also ties back to Saylorsburg, where Elias grew up. In 1894, that little town was the brick capital of America. The name is both a wink at chemistry and a nod to heritage.
A Brewery with a Community’s Pulse
Elias and Pohorence aren’t importing some sterile concept of craft beer into Brodheadsville. They’re building this place with the community in mind. The firehouse itself is part of people’s stories—weddings, fundraisers, spaghetti dinners. The landscape work, the mural, even the food trucks they’re planning to bring in—it’s all rooted in local hands.
When it opens, there will be 16 taps ready to go. The food won’t be overthought. Pretzels. Hot dogs. The kind of stuff that makes sense with beer. But there’s a twist: BYOF—Bring Your Own Food. If you want to carry in your favorite pizza from down the street or a box of pierogi from a church fundraiser, go for it. Pair it with their beer. Make the night yours.
The Big Question: When?
Here’s where it gets tricky. They signed the lease in July. Permits, inspections, licensing—all the red tape is still being wrangled with Chestnuthill Township and the PLCB. Nothing in brewing—or in life—is ever as quick as you want it.
But the goal is fall 2025. That’s what they’re pushing toward. Could be October. Could be November. The timeline depends on paperwork as much as plumbing. But when the doors open, the place will be ready to pour.
Why It Matters
Small towns need places like this. Not just for beer, though that’s a hell of a good reason. But for what happens around the beer. The shuffleboard games. The music. The conversations at long tables. The way a firehouse built to serve one purpose finds new life in another.
This isn’t about chasing trends or building an empire. It’s about taking something broken, something overlooked, and giving it back to the people it belongs to. That’s what Brix Brewhouse is trying to do in Brodheadsville.
And when those first pints are poured this fall, when the garage doors roll up and the mural stares down the street with its big bold “Cheers to you,” you’ll know the firehouse has come alive again.
Not with sirens. Not with smoke. But with the sound of glasses clinking, neighbors laughing, and a community finding its place at the table.
