I had just moved to Minneapolis, and I was living on the edge of Nordeast, a once-working class neighborhood of warehouses and breweries, now being colonized with indie shops and small restaurants. The gentrification was patchy, and between the rough-buffed newness, glints showed of the area’s gritty history: the polka bar, the bowling alley-steakhouse, the Ukrainian Event Center.

I took a wrong turn one day, looking for the new Nordeast—a tiki-pizza restaurant, I think—and braked in disbelief at evidence of the old one: A giant lit-up sign advertising “Dagos and Liquor.” I blinked, sure I was seeing this wrong, and drove around the other side. The sign there was even bigger: “Homemade Dagos,” it emphasized cheerfully. “Burgers. Soups. Cocktails.”

It’s likely you