A beer by any other name...

In my--whoever I may be--travels across the Midwest, there were a few comforting constants: a Kwik Trip or Casey's every 50 miles. good breweries--even, for a while, in Pierre, South Dakota, and certainly still in Mandan, North Dakota. the delight of a nasally North Central American English accent, which I would replicate in kind.

But the simple townie bar is a joy unto itself.

Usually crumbling or run-down in some way, often with a promotional Leinenkugel's or Grain Belt sign from 25 years ago, faded but still hanging somewhere on a wall, and--to the chagrin of a strapped millennial--often cash-only, these places sustained me. Light beer, a couple grunts or "so what brings ya to town?" questions, and back we went to watching the Twins re-run on TV, pretending they didn't know the interloper was eavesdropping on the regulars as they lowered their voices ever so slightly to talk about whichever barfly wasn't there yet.

But the beer was always cold and--god love the VFW prices--cheap. Three dollars for a Coors Light or its ilk, served in some comically oversized glass. It goes down quick, best chased with another $3 beer and a Heggie's pizza made in the little pizza over that only the coolest kids' parents had and let you use when you were in middle school.

In the name of culture, though, many Midwesterners have turned to some little accoutrement to class up that light lager.

This is not, of course, a uniquely Midwestern phenomenon: peep, for example, the michelada (a Mexican staple, beer with a cocktail of tomato juice, lime, and perhaps a little hot sauce); the radler (German, usually with lemonade but any fruit juice can work here); or the brunchy beermosa (of course American, using orange juice).

But, true to its repressed form, the Midwest has found a way to underwhelm even those expectations: the red beer thing that denizens of South Dakota and Nebraska insist upon or the even more disgusting habit of sticking a pickle spear in a beer.

Of course, I would like to propose a simpler alternative: the Minnesota martini.

Cheap beer. Olives. Drink.

Some people will insist it's a "beertini", but some--OK, most--people are idiots. If you're from North Dakota or wisconsin, perhaps it's called a [that state] martini.

All of those names are fine, because this beer is excellent. Light, crisp, with a little salty snack at the end just to keep you wanting more. Also good is the craft beer version of this, Ben's Minnesota Martini from the soon-to-be-defunct Alloy Brewing in Coon Rapids (RIP).

Want to drink for distance--but feel a little classier while you do it? Grab a few olives (you weren't having more than one Bloody Mary anyway) and a light beer. When I feel saucy, I'll add a couple garlic-stuffed, but the plain old pitted green olives in the bartender's garnish tray are just fine. For an added bonus, they'll bob and bounce around the beer, a form of entertainment that rapidly replaces watching the Twins get pounded (stop it). Sip and enjoy your Minnesota martini.

You'll win friends and influence people--or at least have a slightly better experience while Rob and Mary gossip with the bartender about John and his new girlfriend Jenny, who did you know is ten years younger than him?