By Gene Galin
Pittsboro, NC – Long before “craft beer” became a buzzword and brewpub patios turned into year-round community living rooms, Top of the Hill Restaurant & Brewery — known to generations of locals and students simply as TOPO—was a bold bet on downtown Chapel Hill’s future. Founded by Scott Maitland while he was still a UNC law student, the Franklin Street landmark grew from an idea sparked by a fear familiar to many small towns: that a national chain could flatten local character. What followed was a mix of entrepreneurship, civic ambition, legal improvisation, and cultural timing—plus a steady stream of personal stories from people who say the place helped shape their lives, from first dates to engagements to wedding receptions.
TOPO’s origin story is not a neat “startup success” parable. It is messier—and more instructive. Maitland arrived in North Carolina after a winding path that included growing up near East Los Angeles, attending West Point, serving in the Gulf War, and working in politics, before landing at UNC on scholarship. In a talk captured on video—part local history, part entrepreneurship lesson—he describes seeing how communities change, how downtowns can be remade, and how a single gathering place can knit together groups that otherwise rarely mix. His goal, he said, was to build a space where different parts of Chapel Hill could come together, not another bar aimed at one slice of the town.
Decades later, TOPO sits at Franklin and Columbia—one of Chapel Hill’s most visible corners—still functioning as restaurant, brewery, and event space, with an adjacent distilling operation that expanded the brand’s footprint and ambitions.
A Founder Shaped by Change—and Determined to Stop It
Maitland often explains his entrepreneurial drive through contrast: the hometown that raised him, and the college town he fell in love with.
In Southern California, he watched a landscape transform quickly—groves replaced by housing and strip malls. In the video talk, he recalls learning that Whittier had once been a major exporter of citrus, only to find the groves gone by the time he was a kid. The experience left him with a durable suspicion about what “development” can erase when it moves too fast or becomes too standardized.
When he arrived in Chapel Hill, he was struck by the town’s age and continuity—its sense of place, the fact that it had been there for centuries. That attachment to local identity became more than sentimental; it became a business strategy. TOPO, in its earliest conception, was an attempt to keep downtown Chapel Hill from becoming interchangeable with anywhere else.
The spark, by his account and by historical retellings, came when he learned a national chain was targeted for a new downtown building. He has described that moment as a line in the sand: he didn’t want a chain restaurant to dominate a prime corner and set the tone for what came next. The Chapel Hill Historical Society’s account of the address notes that Top of the Hill opened on Sept. 5, 1996—on the same night Hurricane Fran made landfall in North Carolina and pushed through Chapel Hill—an origin detail that has become part of the place’s mythos.
The Site’s Earlier Life: “Top of the Hill” Before TOPO
The corner itself carried history before TOPO ever poured a pint.
In his discussion with Dustin Miller at the March “Breakfast Club” at 79°West Innovation Hub in Pittsboro, Maitland tells the audience the location had been a gas station—something he says still surprises many people. The historical society account and outside recollections confirm the site’s earlier commercial life, with the building’s past captured in photos that remain part of the restaurant’s visual storytelling.
In the same conversation, Maitland mentions the old place was also known as the “Happy Store,” a detail that hints at Franklin Street’s layered identities: student strip, local crossroads, and evolving downtown economy. It also underscores an overlooked reality in preservation debates: sometimes the “old” a community misses isn’t a centuries-old building—it’s a modest corner business that anchored daily life.
That layering matters because TOPO did not simply “arrive” as a fully formed institution. It was built into a site that had already served as a kind of community utility—first as fuel and convenience, later as food, beer, and social glue.
The Early Craft Beer Era: Educating Customers One Order at a Time
Today, it is hard to remember how unfamiliar brewpubs once were to many customers. Craft beer is now a mainstream category; breweries are frequently marketed as lifestyle hubs as much as beverage producers. But in the 1990s, the concept of an on-site brewery was still novel in North Carolina.
Maitland’s recollections, echoed by broader histories of the craft boom, capture the era’s odd friction: customers would walk into a brewery and order mass-market beers out of habit. He describes variations of the same exchange repeating thousands of times—someone asks for a Budweiser or a Coors Light; staff explain that TOPO sells what it makes; the customer tries again with another national brand. The moment is funny, but it also reveals how much early brewpubs had to teach consumers before they could sell them anything.
Wikipedia’s summary places Top of the Hill among the early microbrewery wave in the state, noting it opened in 1994 at the Franklin-Columbia corner and was among the first microbreweries in North Carolina. (Other accounts, including Chapel Hill’s historical write-up, emphasize the Sept. 1996 opening date.) The discrepancy itself is a reminder that local history often gets compressed or retold differently depending on source and what each is counting as the “start”—idea formation, licensing, first pour, or formal opening.
What is not in dispute is TOPO’s longevity and influence: it has remained a flagship downtown institution through multiple cycles of Franklin Street change, including new competitors, shifting student habits, rising commercial rents, and the broader normalization of craft beer.
A Business Model with a Civic Goal: Mixing a Town That Didn’t Mix
One of the most distinctive parts of Maitland’s account is that the “why” behind TOPO is explicitly social, not just financial.
He says that as a law student—older than many classmates because of military service and a nontraditional path—he moved among different social circles: undergraduates, second-career students, graduate students, town professionals. What he noticed, he says, was that these groups rarely mixed anywhere in town. His solution was a third space, built deliberately to invite overlap: students and locals, university staff and entrepreneurs, newcomers and longtime residents.
It is a familiar urbanist idea today, but TOPO operationalized it before “third space” became a popular framework. And because the restaurant sits at a literal crossroads—Franklin and Columbia, campus and town—it became an easy default meeting point.
79 Degrees West’s Dustin Miller offers his own origin story: visiting Chapel Hill as a community college student to see his girlfriend at UNC, going to Top of the Hill on one of their first weekends—and later marrying her. Maitland responds that he hears versions of that story constantly: people who met there, got engaged there, or decided to move to Chapel Hill while eating at TOPO. The details are personal, but the pattern is sociological: a commercial space becomes a memory machine, a place that helps people make big decisions simply because it is where life happens.
Raising Money Without Money: The “Founders Club” Before Crowdfunding Had a Name
Maitland’s story also offers a case study in scrappy fundraising before the era of Kickstarter.
He says he had no real restaurant experience and little money—until a tragic event changed his financial reality. In the talk, he recounts receiving $50,000 after his father died, money he used as seed capital. The emotional weight of that detail is clear: the business began, in part, as a conversion of personal loss into a community asset.
But $50,000 does not open a full-scale brewpub in a prime downtown location. To convince a skeptical landlord and raise meaningful startup funds, Maitland describes inventing an early version of what would now be recognized as a “deal” or membership-based pre-sale: community members could contribute $100 to $1,000 and receive double that value in gift certificates once the place opened, plus public recognition and a T-shirt. He says about 540 people participated.
That structure did more than raise money. It built a customer base before the first day of service. It turned the opening into a shared local project and created psychological ownership: people didn’t just plan to visit; they had already bought into the idea—literally.
Then came the twist that only a law-adjacent founder could tell with equal parts frustration and pride: about a week before opening, the state’s securities regulators intervened, asserting that the “Founders Club” functioned as an illegal sale of securities. Maitland describes being forced into court to argue what amounted to a foundational question: when does a “gift certificate” become a security? In later years, he says, he got calls from former classmates who recognized the case from continuing legal education materials—his business problem turned into a teaching tool.
Even without a formal case citation in the public retellings, the narrative captures a broader truth about entrepreneurship: founders often discover that innovation doesn’t just happen in products—it happens in navigating definitions, regulations, and the gray zone between what’s allowed and what hasn’t been imagined yet.
The Smoking Decision—and the Backlash That Followed
The TOPO story also intersects with a now-distant cultural shift: smoking in restaurants and bars.
Maitland says he built TOPO as the first nonsmoking restaurant in Orange County—well before smoke-free indoor dining became standard. He frames the decision partly as personal preference and partly as anticipating where policy and public health were heading.
But what stands out is the reaction he says he received: death threats, delivered in old-fashioned ways, “letter under the door” style—an intensity that feels jarring now, but reflects how contested smoke-free norms were in the 1990s. The episode helps date the era and highlights a leadership principle that repeats throughout his talk: take a stance, accept backlash, keep going.
It is easy to forget that policies widely accepted today—like smoke-free restaurants—were once flashpoints that businesses had to choose, not simply comply with.
TOPO as a Launchpad: Entrepreneurship, Mentorship, and a Local Ecosystem
TOPO’s impact is not only in the beers it brewed, but in the ecosystem it helped reinforce.
Maitland has taught entrepreneurship for more than two decades at UNC business programs, mentoring founders and students on idea formation, customer discovery, and capital strategy, according to profiles and UNC-affiliated descriptions.
That teaching role matters because it ties TOPO to a broader Triangle narrative: the region’s rise as a place where startups are normal, mentorship is institutionalized, and entrepreneurship is treated as a civic resource. In his talk, Maitland contrasts today’s support networks with what existed when he started: fewer established guides, fewer local models, fewer organized communities for entrepreneurs. The modern Triangle startup scene—incubators, pitch nights, mentor networks—feels inevitable now, but the people who built early businesses downtown often did so without that scaffolding.
Expansion, Awards, and the Long Game of Staying Relevant
Staying open for decades is, in restaurant terms, its own accomplishment.
TOPO touts more than 70 “Best of the Triangle” awards and highlights beers that received major recognition, including a world-best fruit wheat beer designation for its Belltower Blueberry Wheat in 2010 and other category honors in 2012.
Independent listings and local media also show TOPO continuing to appear in “Best of” conversations, even as the Triangle’s brewery scene has exploded and new competitors have entered the market.
In 2010, TOPO expanded, adding event space and additional bar concepts, reinforcing its identity not just as a place to eat and drink but as a flexible gathering venue—weddings, alumni events, university functions, and community celebrations.
That ability to evolve—without losing the core identity of a Franklin Street anchor—helps explain why TOPO has outlasted so many adjacent businesses in a corridor known for turnover.
Distilling Dreams—and the Hard Reality Behind the Label
One of the most candid portions of Maitland’s talk comes when he discusses distilling—a venture that, in his telling, brought both pride and lingering frustration.
TOPO’s own materials describe the TOPO Distillery opening in 2012 and positioning itself around local sourcing and USDA-certified organic spirits, a notable branding choice in a crowded craft beverage market.
In his talk, Maitland emphasizes something many consumers still don’t know: to make liquor, you typically ferment first (beer or wine), then distill. He argues that a significant share of “craft” distillers do not actually distill; they buy bulk спирits and market them—legal, common, and, in his view, misleading. He speaks with visible irritation about the gap between marketing and production, describing it as a betrayal of the craft ethos he associates with early brewing.
That critique is part of a broader conversation in the spirits industry about transparency and sourcing, but in Maitland’s mouth it also functions as a cautionary tale: the public may celebrate “craft” as an idea while still misunderstanding what it requires in labor, equipment, and time. Entrepreneurs, in turn, may underestimate how much education the market still needs.
Leadership Lessons from West Point—and a Willingness to Talk About Failure
Throughout his talk, Maitland’s worldview returns to a few consistent themes: resilience, accountability, and the usefulness of failure.
He attributes part of his “get up off the mat” mentality to a difficult upbringing and to West Point’s training model: put talented people in situations where they will fail by design, then repeat until they succeed—and learn to help others up along the way. In a business context, that philosophy translates into an unusual openness about mistakes. Dustin Miller notes that many leaders protect their image; Maitland, by contrast, readily recounts “blood in your mouth moments” and the long list of things that didn’t work.
That posture matters because it reframes TOPO not as a seamless success, but as a venture built through repeated setbacks: skepticism from developers, landlord hostility, regulatory surprises, cultural battles over smoking, and later, a bruising education in the realities of distilling.
For local entrepreneurs listening to the talk, the message is clear: the story isn’t valuable because everything went right; it is valuable because so much went wrong and the business still became an institution.
Why TOPO Still Matters on Franklin Street
Franklin Street is not just a commercial corridor—it is a symbol of Chapel Hill’s identity. And TOPO’s corner is among the most symbolic.
That is why changes around the building often become community conversation pieces, including high-profile retail shifts and the constant tension between prestige location and high rent. In recent years, the ground-floor spaces in the area have drawn attention precisely because the corner feels like shared civic real estate, not merely a private property.
TOPO’s endurance has also helped stabilize the narrative of downtown Chapel Hill as a place where local institutions can survive amid national pressures. It has, in a sense, served as proof of concept for the very argument Maitland says motivated him in the first place: that a locally rooted operation can compete at the most visible intersection in town.
And then there are the stories—hundreds, perhaps thousands—of people who attach a personal milestone to TOPO. Those stories are not incidental. They are the product.
Restaurants often market food, drinks, and ambiance. The best ones also market memory: the sense that if you go there, something might happen. Scott’s joke during his talk—that visiting TOPO means you’ll marry the person you went with—lands because it feels very plausible in a town where so many people can point to that corner and say, “That’s where my life turned.”
The Corner That Became a Community
The “amazing story” behind Top of the Hill is not only about beer. It is about place-making: how one founder’s resistance to a chain restaurant became a multi-decade institution that helped define Franklin Street’s social geography.
From its site’s earlier life as a gas station to its rise during the early microbrew era; from an improvised “Founders Club” that foreshadowed crowdfunding to a smoke-free stance that provoked extreme backlash; from award-winning house beers to a distilling venture shaped by hard lessons about transparency and craft—TOPO’s history reads like a compressed biography of modern downtown America, told at human scale.
Watch on YouTube – The Amazing Story Behind Top of the Hill Brewery!
The Inspiring Journey of Scott and the Legacy of Top of the Hill Brewery in Chapel Hill
00:16 Scott founded Top of the Hill Brewery, impacting Chapel Hill’s social life and entrepreneurship.
- While in law school, Scott launched Top of the Hill, which became a cornerstone of Chapel Hill’s community.
- Over 20 years, Scott has taught entrepreneurship at UNC, mentoring many early-stage entrepreneurs in the region.
02:49 A personal journey leads to the founding of a local brewery.
- Scott reflects on childhood experiences, discovering local history through an old school report on Whittier’s citrus industry.
- After military service and law school, Scotts’s desire to prevent chain businesses in downtown Chapel Hill inspires the brewery’s establishment.
05:13 Top of the Hill Brewery aims to unite diverse community groups.
- West Point instills a mindset of perseverance and teamwork in overcoming challenges. aimed to create a welcoming space for all community segments to interact and share experiences.
- Originally a gas station, the location now serves as a hub where individuals can bond over meals and stories.
07:28 Top of the Hill Brewery blends rich local history with the craft beer revolution.
- The restaurant evolved from historical sites and local legends, like the graffiti of ‘Big Bertha’ at the old Carolina Theater.
- The owner draws inspiration from early craft breweries, especially Sierra Nevada, to create an inclusive atmosphere for all beer lovers.
10:06 Community support drives the success of Top of the Hill Brewery despite initial doubts.
- The brewer faced skepticism from local development leaders but used it as motivation to prove them wrong.
- Initially, customers were unfamiliar with craft beer, often requesting popular commercial brands instead of the local offerings.
12:39 The founding of Top of the Hill Brewery stemmed from personal loss and a vision for non-smoking spaces.
- Scott received $50,000 in seed money after the passing of his father, a heavy smoker.
- Top of the Hill became the first non-smoking restaurant in Orange County despite receiving death threats from opposition.
15:12 Scott’s innovative funding approach led to brewery’s successful launch.
- Scott used a compelling offer of gift certificates and recognition to raise funds, attracting 540 members.
- Legal challenges arose when the state deemed the membership gift certificates as securities, demonstrating the complexities of startup funding.
17:44 Leadership is about honesty in failures and resilience through adversity.
- Strong leaders share their failures to empower others and foster openness.
- West Point instills a mindset of perseverance and teamwork in overcoming challenges.