Is there such a thing as Minnesota-style pizza?

That is our question.

The popular opinion among pizza punditry is a resounding "no." Ed Levine, author of Pizza: A Slice of Heaven and administrator of the blog Slice admits he's never heard of such a thing. Pizza Today magazine appears downright confused by the question. "We've never heard of a Minnesota-style pizza," says managing editor Mandy Detwiler. "Do you mean taco pizza?"

No. We do not mean taco pizza.

True to the scientific method, we hypothesize our own answer: Yes, there is Minnesota-style pizza. It is what Minnesotans think it is: thin crust, round, cut into squares. It is available throughout the state and in a few neighboring states as well. Certain other states, such as Indiana, could theoretically claim it as their own, but they haven't. Minnesota-style is popular even if the label is not (yet), although at least two pizzerias actually use the words "Minnesota-style pizza" on their menus. One is Jake's in New Ulm; the other isn't even in Minnesota (more on that in a second). It is very greasy.

We follow our hypothesis with observations. We will tally the styles of pizza served in the Twin Cities and throughout the Midwest. Pizza history in our state is about as deep and rich as its crusts and sauces, but no matter: As with the 'za, we'll dig in anyway. We will hunt down the origins of this pizza, tracing its roots and branches all over the country. Mostly, we'll eat a ton of pizza.

Before we begin, a few parameters.

First: What distinguishes one pizza style from another?

As with its preparation, pizza taxonomy begins at the crust, which author Peter Reinhart correctly points out in his book American Pie: The Search for the Perfect Pizza is "at least 80 percent of the pizza experience and is worth five times more than toppings." New York-style pizza is thin, floppy and, in the most authentic circumstances, made with skunky New York City tap water. Chicago's deep-dish crust is thin but flaky, not doughy, and folded up on the sides to contain the massive pie's contents. Chain pizza, abominable but delicious, usually has thick crust, oily and sweet.

Sometimes the cooking method matters: Neapolitan pizza is baked like hell in a wood-burning oven. New York-Neapolitan uses coal. They grill their pizza in Providence, R.I.

Shape matters, too: New Haven, Conn.-style pizza is oval. Sicilian is rectangular; in Detroit, square.

Sauce doesn't play a huge role, although if it's on top of the cheese you can be sure you're in Chicago or Trenton, N.J., where they call it "tomato pie."

Toppings, which by Reinhart's curious culinary math equal 16 percent of the pizza "experience," is a determining factor in only a few rare examples. In St. Louis they put a Cheez-Whiz-like concoction called "Provel" on their pizza. California-style is any pizza with toppings you'd otherwise find in a health-club salad bar: carrots, broccoli, artichoke hearts. And Chicago's stuffed pizza is identical to its deep-dish, with one additional topping: more crust.

Second: What relation must a pizza have to a region in order to become the official pizza of that region? A pizza style ought to have been developed in the region bearing its name, so origin is important. But there are other factors to consider, such as discrete availability—you can't get Provel on a pizza anywhere outside of St. Louis, for example. Separate but related is popularity. People in St. Louis love Provel, while everyone else in the world thinks it's gross.

Origin, discrete availability and popularity: If our theory is correct, these are the pillars that will support our pizza, Minnesota's flag planted proudly mid-pie.