From as far back as I can remember, I was in the bar business. My father was a third-generation Polish-American police officer who ran a bar. He passed away when I was young, and my mother, Maria—who moved to Chicago after marrying my father in South Korea in the ’60s—took over the business. In the late ’80s, she bought a bar (now called Maria’s) in the city’s Bridgeport neighborhood. She was a single Korean lady in the middle of this historically white, racist, sketchy area.

But Maria made the bar a safe place. She’s a very charismatic woman: very stern, takes no s*#%. She’s not a hardass, but she learned how to deal with different types of people—especially barflies. She didn’t tolerate people being aggressive, and over time Maria’s became known as a bar where you could be of any color or class and hang out.

When I started bringing in craft beer, my mom kept calling it crap beer.

My brother and I are bar babies, so I’ve been bartending my whole life; I served Miller High Life on draft for a dollar and shots of Christian Brothers brandy for $1.50 to retirees and delivery guys for decades. Like my mom, I would try to make sure that anyone who came in felt welcome—I’d look people in the eye and greet them personally. It’s genetic.

As we got older, my brother and I would say, like, “Hey, Mom, can we clean this place up a little bit?” and she would just pooh-pooh every idea. We wanted to make it a spot where we could hang out with our friends and drink, with cocktails and good beer. But when I started bringing in craft beer, my mom kept calling it crap beer. She doesn’t drink or smoke; she has no idea how this stuff tastes, but she’s sold millions’ worth of beer and cigarettes.