For some people, though, having access to better beer apparently isn't enough; they want cachet, too. Perhaps to distance themselves from stereotypical images of swill-slugging yahoos in pizza-stained T-shirts, at least a few connoisseurs of suds have looked for ways to make beer more exclusive—more like (let's be honest here) wine. Suddenly, the traditional beverage of the proletariat has acquired snob appeal. We think these connoisseurs are just being fussy, pursuing the rare or the unusual merely for the sake of the pursuit. (Similar attention has been trained on olive oil, chocolate, and coffee, among other commodities.) Beer can certainly be a complex beverage admitting many nuances of flavor and body—but it also happens to be one of the world's most ancient, elemental forms of refreshment. Instead of creating an aura of preciousness around it, I say we ought exalt its very humbleness. We're not opposed to connoisseurship, but we can't help noticing that the search for exquisite experiences sometimes robs us of simple pleasures. I recently confessed to a beer-world professional of my acquaintance that I occasionally go home and drink a Bud. He reacted as if I'd said "liquid Drano". That's his privilege, of course, but at our house we don't always want an archetypal doppelbock or a handcrafted lambic. Sometimes we just want a nice cold brew.