Along the way, Shin tried homebrewing-“too much work.” Imported Belgian beers were in vogue, but what Shin really loved was an IPA. It beat the socks off his regular party rotation of Rolling Rock and Zima.Īfter graduation, he worked a few jobs before cofounding a business with an optometrist friend. Fat Tire was new to the Northwest and tough to find. “Literally amazing” is how Shin describes that first sip. Which might have something to do with Shin himself.ĭuring Shin’s senior year studying economics at University of Washington, a friend happened to hand him a bottle of Fat Tire, an amber ale from Colorado’s New Belgium Brewing. That hospitality extends to beer neophytes, not to mention women, drinkers of color, and all the people who were waiting just beyond that tired cliche of craft beer being the domain of white dudes with beards. He made geekworthy beer accessible to the average person and cloaked Serious Beer in a koozie of snob-free hospitality. Then he threw open the doors to families and alumni reunions and friends who enjoy playing board games. First he created a gathering spot for Seattle’s craft cognoscenti-and a critical mass of products that come from our Northwest backyard. What Chuck Shin did do was democratize really, really good beer. People who know him describe him with extreme fondness as an idea guy. ![]() He’s hardly the first guy to let you drink a stout on a concrete floor, in proximity to your offspring or your spaniel. ![]() He didn’t invent the notion of the beer convenience store. The man who set this in motion 13 years ago is now 53, with a voice that’s soft like his plaid flannel shirts and stylish glasses befitting his time running an optical store. “I don’t know that many places in the country can be as successful at having that combination.” “It’s a family friendly place, but at the same time, it’s got a really good reputation in the beer industry,” he says. He’s watched Chuck’s unite two seemingly separate aspects of the beer drinking experience. Geoff Kaiser has spent the better part of a decade blogging about events like beer festivals and special releases on his Seattle Beer News website. “Craft beer was something very particular places would sell,” Chuck Shin says. Overhead, enormous screens display some of the largest, most competitively curated draft lists in the city. Rows of coolers emit a cold white glow and the sort of riotous color you can only achieve with roughly a thousand different cans and bottles. Photos of regulars’ dogs cover the walls. Coolers hold Full Tilt Ice Cream, shelves are full of gummi candies and bags of chips that help parents keep kids occupied. ![]() Imagine a band of barflies broke into a beer warehouse, filled it with tables and chairs scavenged off Craigslist, and ushered in a pack of dogs and a rogue kindergarten class. Children recognize him when he visits the Fred Meyer by his original store. In beer circles, he looms so large that nobody bothers using his last name. Today Shin owns three locations of the very particular phenomenon known as Chuck’s Hop Shop.
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