My father was complicated. But aren’t we all?
One of his biggest pet peeves was to see a dark red gravy spoon wind up in the pristine white ricotta container. (Look out and God forbid . . .)
Beyond ricotta, he loved fish. Sounds simple enough. And I grew up to cook for him all the fish he loved: clams, cod, stuffed flounder.
My father was a fire captain, and in one of his more complicated moves, he refused to send his battalion to their deaths in the Gulf Oil refinery fire of 1975, a blaze that burned for 6 days. From South Philly all the way up to Wilmington you could see the bright orange flames light up the sky.
My father was a drinker.
He and my uncle “ran and renovated” Scioli Turco VFW (a.k.a. The Post), a bar that proudly served members from 7 a.m. until 4 a.m. (on the days they closed!).
On special veteran holidays, my mother and aunt would send over food for the customers. Because cooking shows your love for people.
Two great things about that bar: They had (1) a pay phone as their only line of communication because, they’d say, “It’s harder to tap a public phone!” and (2) a poker machine that would run videos of old, obscure horse races that you could wager on.
There were also other “fixtures” in that place, including a hall upstairs used for parties, and guys like Perpy (“Perky” to only a select few), Michael Ford, and Didee. Uncle Frankie would be there, too—either serving when he was working or being served until his next shift behind the bar.
The little wineglasses I use at Little Owl are named for him: “Uncle Frankie” glasses. The stories, the feelings, the love—so wide, so big, so un-complicated. White like ricotta memories.
If you know me well, you know my South Philly heart belongs to the old-school ways of my father, rough edges smoothed by the balm of my mom and mom-mom’s love.
But sometimes, those old-school stories of nostalgia, heroism, and good vibes give way to some hard truths, like the time he terrified me into eating my spinach.
To this day, I still can’t swallow it. But I put it on my menu, because maybe you like it?
My father was Louis D. Campanaro. I have so much I want to say about him.
But my memories, like him, are complicated. Like dark red gravy mingled with ricotta.
He would say, “You may as well throw the whole container away.”
I say, let them live together— complicated and comingled, in memory.