Brownstone Billiards was once the skinflint boozer’s Shangri-La. “But you can’t tell anyone,” my acquaintance Andrew commanded. “You’ll ruin it by writing about it.” I followed his order for five years. This is my longest-kept secret. Heck, it took me just 24 hours to inform my circle of friends about a pal’s marriage-by-Elvis in Vegas. That’s testament to my shoddy treatment of friends—and how much Brownstone meant to me.
This cavernous below-ground pool hall, oriented outside Park Slope’s Seventh Avenue subway stop, was a lovely leisure complex. About three-dozen pool tables were available, alongside ping-pong tables and air hockey machines. The sprawling, shopworn room was paradise for stoners, teens and lackadaisical sportsmen who adored the un-
spoken policy.
“Why hide that Coors tall boy in a brown-paper bag?” a pool player once asked me. “No one cares if you bring in your own beer.” Oh, BYOB, how you bring joy to my drunken heart! This is why I didn’t blow the lid off Brownstone.
Instead, the owners blew up the pool hall I adored. About six months ago, construction workers descended en masse, dry-walling and hammering Brownstone into a glitzier, ritzier hangout more akin to Manhattan.
In came flat-screens aplenty, plump booths, a kitchen sizzling chicken wings and burgers and, most depressingly, a long bar stocked with 24 drafts, like Dogfish Head and Sixpoint ($5 each, with two-for-one happy hour from 3 p.m. to 7 p.m.). The writing was on the wall. Rather, the writing was on Brownstone’s front door: customers can’t bring in any alcoholic beverages, the hand-scrawled sign read.
Brownstone is now called Ocean’s 8 at Brownstone Billiards. Sports geeks sit at the bar and down drafts, cheering the Yankees, Mets and other men playing with balls. Kids and families dine at tables, waiters feverishly dash around
like ants.
“I think I’m going to cry,” a friend said, examining the renovation. “What happened to my pool hall?” Surprisingly, it remains integral to Ocean’s split personality: While the front half is suped up like a 51-year-old’s midlife-crisis Ferrari, the gaming area’s largely unchanged. Pool and ping-pong prices remain the same ($5 per hour, or $20 for three hours for two people), as does the motley stew of Caribbeans, yuppies, old-timers, collegiates and kids with salty tongues.
“You couldn’t shoot out of a paper bag,” one wannabe shark shouts on a recent evening. The rebuttal, “At least my mom didn’t give me money to play pool.” Such colorful repartee is what made Brownstone a down-to-earth, no-bullshit hangout. Pay to play, and no one bugs you. Now, inexpert waitresses bumble around, as pesky as flies. Overbearing managers add to the uneasiness, chiding servers in plain view. It’s hard to aspire to upscale airs in a basement pool hall.
So why serve bowls of crunchy Japanese crackers, when salty peanuts will do? Why pour wine? Why are children here, munching cheesy nachos? Good gosh, the pool hall’s in Park Slope—you’d think this would be the one place to avoid kids. Then again, it’s never too early to teach them to hustle and drink.
Ocean’s 8 at Brownstone Billiards
308 Flatbush Ave. (at 7th Ave.), B’klyn
718-857-5555
