Saying Goodbye to Frank

 

I lost a family friend last night. Frank Camps was a part of my life since I was a very young child. He was something between a godparent and an uncle. He came to nearly every birthday party I had in Miami. He and his son Frankie, and his wife Carmen came to every Thanksgiving and Christmas of my childhood.

Frank was a chef. He cooked in more places than I could count. One of the places he cooked was a cafeteria for a pantyhose factory in Little Havana. He was a traditional Cuban cook, with a repertoire that ranged from plantains to Eye Round roast pork stuffed with carrots and ham. His black beans and rice changed my life. He taught me to love bread pudding and rice pudding. And without arroz con pollo, I probably would never have made it through college. 

When I was probably five or six, he invited us over for Nocha Buena (a Christmas eve holiday, celebrated by Cubans with family and lots of food). Frank's feast involved a huge pig, roasted in the ground, lots of people, music all night and endless food. The last Nocha Buena he held, I was probably seven. My grandfather was visiting from Cody, Wyoming. My grandfather had never had Cuban food, but by the end of that night he had put away more food than half a dozen people! He was head over heels for the roast pork, reaching right down into the pit with a fork for pork skin. He ate plate after plate of plantains and yucca. For Frank there was no higher compliment than someone loving his food.

When my mother was bedridden during her pregnancy with my brother Martin, she was told, don't  get up for anything except to use the bathroom. Frank brought us dinners from the restaurant, at least a few nights every week, for months. He would show up around 4pm, after he had cleaned up from the lunch shift, but before he headed home. On nights when he made rice pudding, I could always feel the cold chill through the aluminum to-go container. I'd peel back the little lip around the edge of the container, pop off the paper/foil top, and help myself to a quick spoonful before putting the rest into the fridge. I learned to love flan thanks to Frank. 

When I started cooking in college, I asked Frank if he would share his recipes with me. So, for Christmas that year, Frank sat down with Carmen at the typewriter, and he wrote down his family recipes for me. He had never written down a recipe in his life. It was all in his head. These recipes aren't for home cooks. The measurements are made for the scale of large restaurants. Ingredients are measured in pounds, not cups. And that is how I learned. 

I once argued with him that bay leaf added to beans didn't do shit... no flavor, nothing added. I said this while we were sitting around my parent's Christmas dinner table. I got up and pulled down a McCormick spice jar from my mom's cupboard to prove my point. He popped the top and pulled out a desiccated bay leaf. He crunched it in his palm, smelled it and declared that the jar of bay leaf was "older than Castro and should be thrown out!" 

Years later, whenever we would talk, I would mention someone who I had recently taught to cook his black beans and rice, in his fashion. He was always surprised that folks wanted to know how to make Cuban food. When I saw him, a few months ago, his body wracked with pain from the cancer eating through his body, the first thing he asked me was if I had eaten. Then he asked if I wanted him to make me black beans. He couldn't stand, but by god, he was going to make me food if I was hungry. Before I said goodbye, I let him know that my kid, Leto was now making his Cuban black beans and rice, and teaching his recipes to their friends. I hugged him close and left him looking out towards the beach beyond his balcony.

Frank and my dad, the best of friends