The news hopped in over Sunday lunch. “Tonight we’ll eat cuisses de grenouille.”
Two words, my friends: Ribbit. Ribbit.
I was seated across the table from Annie and Yvon, the early-afternoon sun doing pirouettes on my shoulders and two glasses of rosé dancing the tango in my stomach. Lunch had been a lamb’s lettuce salad with mustard-vinaigrette dressing, some white fish in a light butter sauce, soft goat cheese on crunchy baguette, and des oeufs à la neige, or eggs in the snow – meringe swimming in vanilla custard and caramel.
It was while we sipped our petits cafés that the chef herself calmly informed me, “Tonight we’ll eat frog legs.”
I knew I liked the idea of eating frog legs in France. But did I actually want to eat frog legs? It didn’t much matter at that point, because I was staying for dinner, and dinner was frog legs. I chuckled at how stereotypically French it was, and therefore how decidedly eeeexcellent.
I didn’t notice them at first, soaking in a bowl of milky water off to the side of the counter. Twenty or so, just havin’ a soak. I thought instantly of a scene in the animated French movie The Triplets of Belleville in which a set of triplet-musicians scarf down bowls of frog soup, slimy green legs spilling out of the pot, falling off their spoons, and dangling out of their mouths. It is truly revolting.
The bowl of legs in Annie’s kitchen was not revolting, per se, but I did squeal quietly upon pulling one out of the water by its little webbed foot. Annie looked over and smiled. Ca va, t’as pas trop peur? Not scared, are ya?
The funny thing about frog legs is that they look like miniature chicken legs, about one inch wide and two inches long when you stretch the legs out. When you buy them (as opposed to, say, catching them in your backyard), the legs are folded like pretzels and look like crossed arms. I pictured the frog mid-sentence: “No thanks, I’ll just hold on to them, I’d really rather not –”
Sorry, Kermit. France likes your legs. France wants your legs.
The first thing to know is that frog leg meat has very little taste, so the dish is all about the persillade – a sauce composed of parsley, garlic, and butter, in which the legs are cooked.
I watched Annie scoop three generous lumps of butter into the pan. Note: This is the part of French cooking where you look away and whistle, pretending the butter just adds color, or better yet that it’s a figment of your imagination.
As the imaginary butter was heating, she rolled the little leggies in flour so that they would turn golden brown when cooked. Then she carefully placed each mini pretzel-leg package into the pan, and let them sizzle away for a good fifteen minutes before sprinkling on the dried parsley and finally throwing in a heaping handful of garlic cloves. Needless to say, I didn’t pick up any chicks, nor was I assaulted by vampires later that night.
We ate them with our fingers, clasping the little feet with a thumb and forefinger. I should say we nibbled, really – it was a delicate affair that required a tall stack of napkins. In the end, frog legs taste like parsley, garlic, and butter, with a texture somewhere between chicken and shrimp. I ate two.
The whole time the leggies were kicking – er, cooking, – Yvon was glued to the TV set, watching a bad American movie (dubbed) called “The Stepfather,” about a kid whose new stepdad turns out be an assassin. I didn’t join him (the legs were my peep show for the evening), so maybe I’m not a fair judge. But I’m going to judge based on what I overheard: this movie was not worth its weight in dubbing fees.
And thanks to Mrs. Singer’s sophomore year English class, all I could see were two fancy-pants SAT words in flashing neon lights: IRONIC JUXTAPOSITION! Because I can’t think of many things more culturally contradictory, more ironically juxtaposed, than consuming frog legs in your kitchen and exported American rubbish in your living room.
I commented on it to Annie and she just laughed. Effectivement, ils sont bêtes, les films qu’il regarde. Yep, the [American] movies he watches are beastly (literally)/silly/stupid. American movies are not all beastly, but somehow all the beastly ones get eaten up in France.
What strikes me is that the rules and regulations of French cooking are left cold at the kitchen door; the quality controls don’t seem to apply to movies and TV shows that people watch – the stuff people feed their brains! From my spot at the table, I see fierce national and gastronomic pride in one room, and an unquenchable fascination with American culture in the next.
I'll hang here in the kitchen.
