Federico Camacho and Herman Kogan died about a week apart. They were both in their 70s, and both had lived in Old Town in the days when it had a deserved reputation as an arty neighborhood. Kogan was a newspaperman in the finest tradition of Chicago journalism, a writer of classic Chicago history, an award-winning broadcaster, and a Marine combat correspondent in World War II. Camacho came to the U.S. from Mexico illegally (at first) and became a success by running the Cafe Azteca on North Avenue. To see the obituaries in the daily newspapers, you would think that Kogan’s achievements towered over Camacho’s. But in what they brought to life–an enthusiasm for it, a passionate curiosity about the complexities of human nature, and an egalitarian spirit evinced by their willingness to sit and talk with any punk who had the balls to ask them–they were two of a kind.
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During dinner, Ray mentioned Fred’s early involvement with the Old Town School of Folk Music: Someone at the school (my guess is Gertrude Soltker, a cofounder who adored all things Mexican) had suggested one night that all the students and faculty hit the Azteca after class, and the event turned into an impromptu jam session, with Fred’s total approval and support. What had begun as an adult education group was transformed into a social event as well. While the jam session later moved to the Saddle Club a block west (the school was at Sedgwick and North in those days), music continues to this day at the Azteca; the jam sessions were a key factor in the school’s initial success–maybe the restaurant’s, too.
One of his favorites was how he came to own the southwest corner of Wells Street and North Avenue. A Mexican lady owned the lot that the Azteca occupies and a live chicken store on the corner, where the Pizza Hut is today. She wanted to return to Mexico to retire, and was willing to give Fred the property if he would send her a $75-a-month pension until she died.
Herman was the peer of any of them–the author (with Lloyd Wendt) of a true Chicago classic, Lords of the Levee, which ranks with Boss and City on the Make in its wise and unflinching examination of Chicago society and politics. His other Chicago histories are excellent, his literary criticism in print and on his WFMT radio show was fair-minded if tough (Chicago writers were always whining that he wasn’t the local booster, but there wasn’t a lot of chamber of commerce to Kogan), and he was the best editor, and fortunately the first, to whom I ever sold a free-lance article.
He was very tough, very fair, and if you pulled a real howler he would stick it to you. One of my most vivid memories is of entering the office to find Herman throwing the entire week’s copy into the air a sheet at a time, screaming at his astonished publisher, “This is a cheap, bullshit newspaper! A cheap, bullshit newspaper!” He had had his space cut back to almost nothing that week, it turned out, and was hinting at his displeasure.
What isn’t rumor is Kogan’s legacy–a significant body of Chicago history, criticism of high quality, reporting of value, and the nurturing of young writing talent.
