The Midway Men's Club Cold Beer and Food Stand

A Minnesota State Fair Bonus Story for August 26, 2025

We're sharing this story with all of our subscribers today. But if you're a paying subscriber to the Heavy Table... thank you. Heavy Table exists solely because of the support of people like you - you make it possible for us to tell the stories of food and drink in the Upper Midwest.

The Heavy Table has made a name for itself over the past 15 years for reviewing truckloads of new foods at the Minnesota State Fair. That sounds like a long time until you bump into a place that’s been at the Fair since 1960. And while we’re all about the gimmicks and fusion and insanity of the Fair’s food list, there’s another more side of things that just as important to making the event work: the lesser-known, hard-working, unglamorous spots that keep coming back year after year after year to keep people fed, building a community while they do it.

Today’s bonus story about the Midway Men’s Club Cold Beer and Food stand by M.C. Cronin and WACSO is all about that second side of the Fair - the people who bring old-school charm and four dollar burgers to an event that sometimes feels like it’s drowning in 20-second video clips and $19 novelty foods. Dig in, and enjoy! 

‘IT’S FOR THE KIDS’
A portrait of the Midway Men’s Club Cold Beer and Food Stand at the Minnesota State Fair.
By M.C. Cronin

At first glance, the Midway Men’s Club might come off like a relic. They don’t have a catchy name or a flashy sign. The words “Cold Beer” and “Food” are the primary adornment on the front of the building, as if they were painted on in 1960 when they opened and left untouched since. Tap to pay? Newfangled credit cards? Nope. It’s cash only, bub.

But while it may be as old-school as it gets, the place is anything but dusty. It hums with life. Fairgoers swarm every side of the nondescript building, lured by what’s rumored (loudly, and often) to be the cheapest beer at the fair — maybe the worst-kept secret in St. Paul. Inside, workers sling burgers and beer out of every side of the building, moving as fast as the flat-top and the taps will allow.

Despite the name, women work at the Midway Men’s Club booth too, shoulder to shoulder with the guys, and absolutely no one behind the counter is collecting a paycheck or looking for recognition. They’re here for one reason, repeated like a mantra by our server Rick: “It’s for the kids.” Every dollar raised goes right back into youth activities in Ramsey County. There’s a long list of the youth organizations they support on a sign in the back patio.

Drop a couple extra dollars to tip on your order, and Rick doesn’t pocket it. He grins, nods, and reminds you: “Thanks. It’s for the kids.” His two son-in-laws work beside him, hustling beers down the line, ferrying burgers across the counter. Nobody’s cashing in here. They’re sweating, grinding, and busting their tails — all for the kids.

Thing is, it doesn’t feel like a sacrifice. It feels like a party you were lucky enough to stumble into. Whether you’re a volunteer pulling taps, a patron in line, or a stranger grabbing a metal folding chair and bellying up to the counter, you’re invited in. The stand feels less like a concession booth and more like someone transplanted a St. Paul neighborhood bar into the fairgrounds — complete with its own regulars, banter, and sense of belonging.

Good humor is an essential ingredient here. Not the forced kind, but the easy back-and-forth of people who actually want to be here. When an escapee from the neighboring Butterfly House fluttered into the kitchen during our visit, without missing a beat a volunteer quipped: “Who ordered the burger and fried butterfly?” Later, Rick leaned over the counter and asked if we wanted another beer. “We’re good for now,” we told him. He paused just long enough, then deadpanned: “How about now?”

While jokes and good-natured ribbing swirl around him, the grill man doesn’t so much as smirk. He’s locked in, flipping patties like he’s operating heavy machinery. His sidekick — the expediter — readies buns, piles on pickles, wraps sandwiches with the muscle memory of someone who could do this blindfolded. Orders run on a pencil-and-paper checklist. Burger or cheeseburger? Fried or raw onions? Pickle or no pickle? It’s a system that could belong in a church raffle or a VFW bingo hall — simple, unglamorous, and bulletproof.

The beer prices are cheap ($7 for a small draft, $9 for large), but the burgers seal the deal. At four bucks a pop, they’re one of the best bargains at the fair. And the double — for a mere dollar more — makes ordering a single feel like amateur hour. For a fried burger, they do a convincing impression of a White Castle slider, only bigger: soft, squishy bun, thin patty, onions steamed into translucence, the whole package smushed together into a tight deli-paper wrapped bundle. It’s not gourmet, and you wouldn’t want it to be.

There are no Instagram walls, no new-food gimmicks, no influencers “going live.” And yet the place is consistently packed. Sure the prices don’t hurt, but it feels like there’s something more at play here. Rick puts in an eight-hour shift on opening day every year. Patrons make it a tradition, even as their friends beg them to try newer, buzzier spots. Perhaps what draws people back is that subtle, pervasive sense of good — the kind that surfaces in little ways, like when you sneeze and a stranger you can’t see calls out “Bless you.”

This isn’t just a cash grab with a turnstile. It’s a space where generosity runs beneath the surface, revealed in small, human moments if you pause long enough to notice.

We saw it firsthand when the owner of another booth came by, red-faced, desperately hunting for pickles after his “new food” item outsold his supply. The manager of the Midway Men’s Club disappeared into the back and re-emerged with an industrial-sized container of sliced pickles. No hesitation, no IOU, just: “Take them, don’t worry about it.” That’s the kind of gesture you won’t catch if you’re sprinting through the fair. A good reminder that if you sit down, settle in, and watch the fair unfold, you’ll see the real magic of the State Fair.

At some point during our visit, our smartwatches buzzed, warning us about the noise and reminding us it was time to stand. But we weren’t going anywhere. Not yet. After all — as Rick kept reminding us — it’s for the kids.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This newsletter and the entire Heavy Table magazine presence is made possible by you and everyone else who subscribes to our enterprise. We’re incredibly grateful for our support - it’s the only way we can keep writing, editing, visually documenting and publishing so much Upper Midwestern culinary news.