A Rebours is the St. Paul hot spot for A-list eaters, attracting the heavyweights of St. Paul politics, out-of-town talent like the cast of the Prairie Home Companion movie, and the usual crowd of the upwardly mobile and beautiful. The restaurant has every last sparkle you’d expect: tiled floors, high ceilings, gleaming wood, linen, and fresh flowers. But A Rebours’ brightest light isn’t savoring a drink: She’s waiting tables.
Sharone LeMieux is the restaurant’s weekend brunch manager and she commands attention—make that adoration—even while filling water glasses in standard black pants and a bow tie. A striking bottle blond pushing fifty, Sharone makes the most pedestrian task seem glamorous, even regal. She’s cut from the same hot-mama cloth as Cher and Madonna, but with more children: Sharone has six. Neighbors refer to her as the “Fabulous Sharone.” She doesn’t object.
Sharone doesn’t get dressed; she “costumes.” Lounging around the house for her means wearing sequined cowboy boots, chandelier earrings with matching bangles and beads, and a flattering mini-skirt. Her idea of sportswear is a straw hat and red polka-dot dress circa 1950, with a skirt wide enough to straddle a 1957 Western Flyer. Sharone drives a purple Mini Cooper convertible with her name on the plates. In a St. Paul neighborhood where more plebeian moms show up for playgroups with bleary eyes and stained sweatpants, Sharone floats in on perfume, expertly lipsticked. They eat Oreos. She brings truffles. She takes center stage. “Not all queens are gay,” she’ll say.
Sharone is also a jazz singer with a twenty-five-year track record of steady work. She has two CDs to her credit. After her shift at A Rebours, she frequently gigs at various lounges around town—ERTé, Downtowner Woodfire Grill, or Woodbury Broiler Bar. She also sings lead vocals for the Simpletones, a quartet that includes Star Tribune reporters Jackie Crosby and Bill McAuliffe, and goldsmith Bill Plattes. Still not content with her already-crowded resume, a few years ago Sharone enrolled in the St. Paul Police Academy. Up until her fourth child arrived, Sharone was a St. Paul Police Department crime prevention coordinator on the East Side. She undoubtedly wore blue beautifully. And way back when, she was a seamstress at Paisley Park, where she helped create stage props for the Prince of Chanhassen.
Sharone does everything full throttle. When her boys wanted to play baseball, Sharone gave a momentary shudder and then plunged into the Parkway Little League. She raked the field, managed the money, and showed up for every game in high heels and movie-star shades. When her sons turned their attention to football, she memorized the starting lineup at Notre Dame. On Super Bowl Sunday, she still hosts an annual party for thirty teenage boys. As they scramble outside for a sandlot scrimmage during halftime, Sharone sips champagne.
Mother’s Day? She slips into an evening gown, puts on the tiara, and pours martinis. Wedding anniversary? Sharone celebrates every month, with her husband, Star Tribune reporter Mike Kaszuba. Stomach flu? Might as well paint the living room, since you can’t leave the house—that’s what Sharone did last fall. When she was a Pannekoeken waitress and an elderly regular had cancer, Sharone didn’t just nurse him through chemo, she accompanied him on a pilgrimage to Ireland.
Despite the usual festive atmosphere, Sharone’s disciplined household makes neighbor children quake. Her younger girls, ages five and eight, are in bed by 7:30; they eat their veggies and ask their mother for permission to talk. Her teenage boys are required to have jobs but aren’t allowed to spend their money; nobody drives ’til they’re eighteen. The oldest daughter has a husband, house, and career, all by age twenty-four. The trick? “‘No’ is the most loving word you say to a child,” she says. —Mary Petrie