Sunday Night at Saputos
Nobody Suggested Going Elsewhere
by Dean Adams
Thursday, September 3, 2026
If you're in town for the Springfield Mile, chances are you will eat at Saputos. It's one of the oldest restaurants in town and popular with the race crowd.
It's an Italian restaurant in the American Midwest, close to the original asphalt of Route 66, so you can call it Italian food—as long as no one from Italy is sitting at your table.
The race comes to Springfield and Saputo's simply absorbs it.
After a few visits you'll get a feel for how everything works and feels at Saputos. It's always been owned by the same family, and for as long as I have eaten there the patriarch and matriarch of Saputos have sat at a table near the front door, every night. They warmly greet regulars, usually by continuing the last topic of conversation they had with that particular person.
"Is it better?" they ask a woman who has barely stepped inside.
She grimly shakes her head no.
"When do you go back?" the matriarch asks.
She replies that she's having a problem getting an appointment.
"GO TO CHICAGO!" she's told. "Crystal went to Chicago and they did amazing things for her. Those doctors are amazing."
And then the door opens again and the next installment of somebody else's life walks in.
If you didn't make a reservation—nobody does on race weekend—you might have to sit at the bar. The bar is full-on American supper club. Everyone at the bar is in the middle of a conversation with the patriarch and matriarch, who are at their table right next to the bar, sometimes playing cards.
"How far away did you have to park?" the patriarch asks a man sitting silently at the bar.
A couple of blocks, he says.
"They say it's going to be finished on the 18th," the silent man is told.
"You didn't ride your motorcycle tonight, did you?" the matriarch asks him, seeing that he's drinking alcohol.
"No? Good, good."
A couple of, maybe five, years ago I sat alone at a table by the front table. We chatted. The patriarch kept one eye on a ball and stick game being televised on the bar television. Sample conversation:
"The race came back in the early—THEY'VE GOT NO HITTING! NONE!—90s I think. No, it was before that. Maybe 1984? No, maybe it was before that—NO HITTING!—might be 1982." It's that kind of place.
Then one year, a motorcycle racing team came to Saputos to celebrate their Springfield Mile win. Tables were pushed together and a tab at the bar was started.
It's just that the team owner was unable to join them inside the establishment.
He'd had a little too much fun celebrating at Saputos the year before and was, well, nobody used the term "kicked out," but he was not allowed inside Saputos, this year.
After the first round someone from the team tried to negotiate his entry. No dice. If you're kicked out of an Italian restaurant, you're kicked out.
At no time did anyone on the team suggest they go elsewhere. They don't eat anywhere else on Sunday night in Springfield.
So the team owner sat in his truck in the parking lot. All night.
The waiter brought his dinner out to him, on a tray, with cutlery. When the team did their celebratory shot of whiskey, someone brought one out to him.
He wasn't allowed in Saputos this year.
That didn't mean they weren't going to feed him.
The race comes to Springfield and Saputo's simply absorbs it.
After a few visits you'll get a feel for how everything works and feels at Saputos. It's always been owned by the same family, and for as long as I have eaten there the patriarch and matriarch of Saputos have sat at a table near the front door, every night. They warmly greet regulars, usually by continuing the last topic of conversation they had with that particular person.
"Is it better?" they ask a woman who has barely stepped inside.
She grimly shakes her head no.
"When do you go back?" the matriarch asks.
She replies that she's having a problem getting an appointment.
"GO TO CHICAGO!" she's told. "Crystal went to Chicago and they did amazing things for her. Those doctors are amazing."
And then the door opens again and the next installment of somebody else's life walks in.
If you didn't make a reservation—nobody does on race weekend—you might have to sit at the bar. The bar is full-on American supper club. Everyone at the bar is in the middle of a conversation with the patriarch and matriarch, who are at their table right next to the bar, sometimes playing cards.
"How far away did you have to park?" the patriarch asks a man sitting silently at the bar.
A couple of blocks, he says.
"They say it's going to be finished on the 18th," the silent man is told.
"You didn't ride your motorcycle tonight, did you?" the matriarch asks him, seeing that he's drinking alcohol.
"No? Good, good."
A couple of, maybe five, years ago I sat alone at a table by the front table. We chatted. The patriarch kept one eye on a ball and stick game being televised on the bar television. Sample conversation:
"The race came back in the early—THEY'VE GOT NO HITTING! NONE!—90s I think. No, it was before that. Maybe 1984? No, maybe it was before that—NO HITTING!—might be 1982." It's that kind of place.
Then one year, a motorcycle racing team came to Saputos to celebrate their Springfield Mile win. Tables were pushed together and a tab at the bar was started.
It's just that the team owner was unable to join them inside the establishment.
He'd had a little too much fun celebrating at Saputos the year before and was, well, nobody used the term "kicked out," but he was not allowed inside Saputos, this year.
After the first round someone from the team tried to negotiate his entry. No dice. If you're kicked out of an Italian restaurant, you're kicked out.
At no time did anyone on the team suggest they go elsewhere. They don't eat anywhere else on Sunday night in Springfield.
So the team owner sat in his truck in the parking lot. All night.
The waiter brought his dinner out to him, on a tray, with cutlery. When the team did their celebratory shot of whiskey, someone brought one out to him.
He wasn't allowed in Saputos this year.
That didn't mean they weren't going to feed him.
— ends —
