Photograph by Matthew O'Shea
I left home for college—as did my older brother and sister. And while they studied a flight away and I just a drive, we were all part of the same family tradition on the first night of our return to St. Louis. About an hour before we were expected to arrive, one of my parents would phone one of the family’s key contacts: Farotto’s pizzeria in Rock Hill.
My father, who’s been eating Farotto’s thin squares since he was a kid growing up in Webster Groves, has long had a deft scheduling touch, a valued quality for a family attempting to reunite around a still-warm pizza during the days before cellphones. He’d call in our orders from a kitchen land-line, requesting pickup times (Farotto’s doesn’t deliver) on the basis partly of knowledge of the roads and airport and partly of hunches developed over the years. (No doubt Pizza Karma played into it, too—perhaps as a result of our restaurant loyalty.)
It always seemed to work—with me pulling into our Glendale driveway on schedule, or my father turning into Farotto’s tiny lot at just the right time, en route home from the airport, a son or daughter and some luggage in tow. Newly reassembled around the kitchen table, our bags by the downstairs door, we’d dig into the pies—often a pepperoni, always a sausage–and–black olive—and reforge our connections.
With this month’s cover story (“The Best Pizzerias in St. Louis,” p. 54), SLM takes a good long look at the city’s impressive, varied pizza scene. The magazine’s four food critics—including dining editor George Mahe, who edited the feature—have named their top 18 and crowned a surprise winner. While we might be starting new arguments among your friends and loved ones, maybe we’ll also start a new dining ritual or two as well. There are those, of course, who need no help from us. When I mentioned my family’s Farotto’s tradition to George, he immediately told me of his brother-in-law, who has a standing menu every time his son comes home from college: an Imo’s pizza and a six-pack of Schlafly Pale Ale, on a table that’s set as soon as the younger one calls crossing over the river. To that I raise my glass—and my slice.
Stephen Schenkenberg
