Thursday night, I was eating a hot dog, listening to Willie Nelson, and waiting for John Coug--sorry--John Mellencamp to perform at the Grizzlies stadium in Sauget. None of this was typical for me, so I was enjoying it all hugely. The crowd was a happy mix of old hippies, young girls in maxis (déjà vu all over again), and wholesome families trying to ignore the T-shirts with the marijuana leaves on them. I saw one young dad waltzing with his little girl; in front of them, a couple in their 60s, both balding, were rocking out (a discordance new to humanity, now that the age span has stretched so far it’s possible for the old to revisit their youth repeatedly).
I sat in the balmy breeze, slurping up sauerkraut, and struck up a conversation with a guy who turned out to be a true foodie: Craig Stenson, silent partner in Onesto Pizza (which he pointedly reminded me SLM hasn’t reviewed yet). I scribbled a note to dining editor George Mahe on the spot, because Stenson was talking about how it all began: “Vito and I were on a barbecue team, and what’s better than a French-trained chef to make your sauce?” Sounded promising. Especially when he added that Vito was the brother of the owner of Racanelli’s.
I slipped into journalist mode, curious what Stenson’s favorites were, outside of pizza. He didn’t hesitate once. “The steak and cheese at Llywellyn’s. Pappy’s for barbecue. The Kreis steakhouse for prime rib. Sushi, Sansui on Manchester. The clay stockpot at Lemongrass: the rice gets carmelized.
“Their house soup is great, too,” he added, “and the spring rolls. That’s how I judge an Asian restaurant: on its spring rolls. Or, for Chinese, its hot-and-sour soup.”
We talked again about local produce, how the sweet corn (as opposed to what?) is in now, and the tomatoes, and how lucky we are to live at a crossroads where there’s both homegrown AND global food. He told me Onesto’s now got enough local farmers that they’re not going to be using any canned tomatoes for their sauce anymore. “Can’t wait to tell the staff,” Stenson chuckled. “Now they’ve gotta boil ’em and peel ’em…”
I wiped the mustard off my chin happily and turned back to stage, where Mellencamp was singing about the heartland.
--Jeannette Cooperman, staff writer
