Meet me in St. Louis

On feeling at home for the first time in my adult life

Thank you for being a subscriber.
If you enjoy this newsletter, please consider recommending it to others. They can sign up here.

Have feedback? Send me a note at mcrossman98@gmail.com.

—

The following appears in the latest issue of Missouri Life. You should go buy one because they’ve given me great assignments for years. That issue also features an interview with the director I mentioned in this story.

—

The first sign this was going to be a different day were the shoes. As I walked around downtown St. Louis before the St. Louis CITY’s first ever home game, I saw two men wearing identical hot pink adidas sneakers. I thought their matching shoes, so incandescently bright, were an inside joke. Then I saw another pair, and another, and another. I stopped counting at 12. Finally, while at a tailgate party outside Schlafly’s near CITYPARK stadium, I asked someone about the pair on his feet. He told me they were the official shoe of the soccer team, and I later learned that color has a name: CITY red.

Only in St. Louis, I thought to myself, would fans wear shoes visible from space in support of the home team.

I arrived at the stadium with my friend Mike with hopes to see a good game, eat good food, and enjoy an historic day. I didn’t expect to find myself turning into a fashion critic. Nor did I expect to discover myself as deeply rooted in a sense of home as any time in my adult life. But that’s what happened. Indeed, “only in St. Louis” became the day’s theme in ways simple and profound.

I walked into CITYPARK eager to sample food curated by Niche Food Group’s Gerard Craft, the James Beard winner. The stadium has 25 vendors, all of them local, offering food from around the world prepared by some of the best and most creative chefs in the city.

And while I didn’t expect to eat something from all 25, I didn’t rule it out, either.

Our hours-long feast started long before the game. We jumped in line at Balkan Treat Box, one of my favorite St. Louis restaurants. Someone in our group suggested Mike and I split the beef kebab. “Pace yourselves,” she said.

I took that as a personal challenge. You think I can’t eat a whole one?!? I’ll show you! But then the cashier handed it over, and it looked to be as long and thick as my arm. I ripped it in two and gave half to Mike.

I raised it to my mouth, dug my teeth into it and …

Little did I know that an epiphany was soon to follow.

--

Before I get into that, I have to tell you two stories. One about my 14 years living in St. Louis, and another about that incredible day in downtown St. Louis celebrating food, soccer, and the very nature of St. Louis itself.

When I moved to St. Louis in 2000, I was immediately struck by how people talked to each other. Conversations had so many insider references that it seemed like everybody knew everything and everybody. I felt like the only spouse at a high school reunion who didn’t go there (at which, of course, everyone would ask me where I went.) Locals used “we” more than anyplace I’ve ever been. We’ve got Forest Park and a free zoo, and we’re the best fans in baseball.

For years, I made fun of St. Louisans for being overbearingly self-referential, for their obsession with how the world sees them, and because their directions often included a line like, “turn left where the Kmart used to be,” which did me no good, because if I knew where the Kmart used to be, I wouldn’t need directions.

Underneath my mocking was jealousy. They had something—deep-rooted connection—that I lacked. For the first 18 years of my life, I lived in one place. For the next 13, I lived in 13, including three in St. Louis. In my time here, I remained an outsider, an observer not a participant, a travel writer on permanent assignment.

I never let myself feel at home out of fear of becoming attached only to move again—and for good reason. My 14 years here came in two stints, separated by the eight years I lived in North Carolina. But now, with two teen-age daughters, roots growing stronger by the day and a bumper crop of deep friendships, I have found myself saying there are no circumstances under which I would move away. I have found a home in a way I had sought since moving out of my parent’s house when I left for college.

I didn’t even realize all that was happening until I ate that kebab.

--

St. Louis has long been a soccer town without a team, and now we—yeah, I said we—have one. I wanted to be there to soak in that truly historic moment. Mike and I drove downtown at noon, seven and a half hours before kickoff, so that we could get a tour of the stadium given by Matt Sebek, the team’s chief experience officer.

An early indication that this day would awaken my sense of being at home was the fact that Mike and I separately had numerous mutual friends with Matt. St. Louisans crave validation (that’s something else I mocked them for), and without realizing it I framed questions to Matt so that he would show how the stadium validated how cool St. Louis is. At some point in my 14 years here, I became fluent in St. Louis-ese: I asked inside St. Louis questions and he gave me inside St. Louis answers and I understood them in a way I would not have when I first arrived.

I marveled at, and was grateful for, how the team conceived the entire experience of attending a game as a uniquely St. Louis event, especially the food and the creators of it. The food celebration wasn’t unique to the opener; every game will be like a food festival. Suffice to say, we’ve come a long way from hot dogs and beer (though there are plenty of those if you want them, too.) All told, I ate Balkan, Vietnamese, Cuban and Mexican (twice).

 “We wanted to anchor it 100 percent local, which has never been done,” Sebek said. “This is a way we can give back and give a glimpse of hope for small business owners.”

Balkan Treat Box is one of those small business owners. When the team surveyed fans about what restaurants they wanted in the stadium, it ranked No. 1. The kebab’s tangy joy showed why.

I tried to balance my desire to eat all of it at once with savoring it. It appeared someone in our group was about to throw some of hers away, and I summoned all of my self-control not to stop her. “I’ll finish that!” would have been un-live-down-ably weird and 100 percent worth it. But she was throwing away something else.

With the kebab in a wrapper in my left hand and a fork in my right, I watched the mass of humanity gathered in advance of the game. It looked like there were far more people than seats in the stadium. A sense of unusual calm amid the chaos descended on me as I finished the kebab and entered the stadium. I kept thinking about that calm as I walked through the stadium, cheered the team to victory, and reminisced about it with Mike in the weeks that followed.

I understand now, in a way I didn’t before, that St. Louis has an unmistakable sense of place, and it was long past time for me to embrace it. We—yeah, I said we, again!—know who we are, and we are proud of it. It’s fitting this started at the soccer stadium because it is the “most St. Louis” place in the whole city. From the local vendors to the miniature arch to the fans decked out in the home team’s gear to the well-orchestrated callouts to the city’s history, everything about it positively screams St. Louis.

I need more of that in my life—that sense of familiarity, that sense of place, that sense of belonging. And, let’s be honest, more of that delicious food. There’s a ton more to be sampled, so I’m going to go to another game soon. To get there, I’ll turn left where the Kmart used to be.