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February 2008 sucked. The cold. The snow. The rain. And just when you think it can’t get any worse—Happy Leap Year!—they tack on an extra day to this horrible month. What next? A plague of frogs?
Apparently. Well, it’s not a plague exactly, but frogs definitely seem to be having a moment. They’ve hopped onto menus at the most unlikely places—i.e. Soiree, a new DePaul-area cocktail lounge because, you know, they pair so nicely with vodka-Red Bulls. Now scientists report that bullfrogs are good for you—they contain some sort of anti-aging molecule. Expect Janice Dickinson to be eating them Jabba-the-Hutt style soon.
So what’s a frogophobe like me to do? Thanks to Anthony “I ate the still-beating heart of a cobra” Bourdain, food writers are supposed to fearlessly chomp anything misfortunate enough to be lower on the food chain. So I took my own gastronomic Leap Year leap—by eating a frog.
Yes, I know: big deal. The French love ’em. They’re a delicacy. A real treat. For me, frog has always been a more of a threat. “I’m going to take you kids to Phil Smidt's,” my father would warn his fussy children after we ordered yet another boring plate of mostaccioli at one of our regular haunts. “Yeah! Frog Legs! See how you like that!”
Phil Smidt's, of course, was theHammond , Ind.
But I was still determined to prove I’d finally outgrown my childhood gastronomical wimpiness--and I was going to make sure my father knew it. I called him up. “Meet me inChinatown . Noon . We’re eating frogs.”
I arrived at Lao Sze Chuan (Click for info) with a bottle of Gruet sparkling wine. It effervesces in the mouth like Alka-Seltzer in soda, perfect for cleansing out any froggy aftertaste. Dad was already there—and he was hungry.
Good thing Lao Sze Chuan offers plenty of frog. Boiled. Stir-fried. Szechwan-style. All $21.95. Gee, so many choices, I just wanted to faint. The waiter recommended Szechwan-style.
A bubbling cauldron of frog parts soon arrived. OK, so it wasn’t really bubbling. Nor was it a cauldron. But, yes, those were frog parts swimming in a dark broth with a coating of red chili flakes. There were legs. There were vertebrae. There were—I’m not sure. The scariest part: An elbow joint had made its way to the edge of the bowl like it was trying to hop out.
“I thought these were frog legs,” Dad said, sounding worried. Ha! I thought. Got ’em! Now who’s the fussy eater? Still, he gamely scooped up a helping and was face down over his bowl before I knew it.
Now it was my turn. I gulped the champagne and went for it. Yes, like I’d heard, the flavor was like dark chicken meat. But this was chicken with a mean streak. It tenaciously clung to its tough little bones. When I chewed, it felt springy, like it was fighting back.
I chewed and chewed. I finally swallowed. I did it. I ate frog. I pulled off a bit more and chewed some more, this time looking at the bowl of bones and bok choy. I gagged. Discreetly at first, into my napkin. Then a little louder. Then louder still.
No seconds for me. I piled on more white rice and poured more champagne.
Dad took home the leftovers.
Chris LaMorte is the metromix dining producer. clamorte@tribune.com
Apparently. Well, it’s not a plague exactly, but frogs definitely seem to be having a moment. They’ve hopped onto menus at the most unlikely places—i.e. Soiree, a new DePaul-area cocktail lounge because, you know, they pair so nicely with vodka-Red Bulls. Now scientists report that bullfrogs are good for you—they contain some sort of anti-aging molecule. Expect Janice Dickinson to be eating them Jabba-the-Hutt style soon.
So what’s a frogophobe like me to do? Thanks to Anthony “I ate the still-beating heart of a cobra” Bourdain, food writers are supposed to fearlessly chomp anything misfortunate enough to be lower on the food chain. So I took my own gastronomic Leap Year leap—by eating a frog.
Yes, I know: big deal. The French love ’em. They’re a delicacy. A real treat. For me, frog has always been a more of a threat. “I’m going to take you kids to Phil Smidt's,” my father would warn his fussy children after we ordered yet another boring plate of mostaccioli at one of our regular haunts. “Yeah! Frog Legs! See how you like that!”
Phil Smidt's, of course, was the
But I was still determined to prove I’d finally outgrown my childhood gastronomical wimpiness--and I was going to make sure my father knew it. I called him up. “Meet me in
I arrived at Lao Sze Chuan (Click for info) with a bottle of Gruet sparkling wine. It effervesces in the mouth like Alka-Seltzer in soda, perfect for cleansing out any froggy aftertaste. Dad was already there—and he was hungry.
Good thing Lao Sze Chuan offers plenty of frog. Boiled. Stir-fried. Szechwan-style. All $21.95. Gee, so many choices, I just wanted to faint. The waiter recommended Szechwan-style.
A bubbling cauldron of frog parts soon arrived. OK, so it wasn’t really bubbling. Nor was it a cauldron. But, yes, those were frog parts swimming in a dark broth with a coating of red chili flakes. There were legs. There were vertebrae. There were—I’m not sure. The scariest part: An elbow joint had made its way to the edge of the bowl like it was trying to hop out.
“I thought these were frog legs,” Dad said, sounding worried. Ha! I thought. Got ’em! Now who’s the fussy eater? Still, he gamely scooped up a helping and was face down over his bowl before I knew it.
Now it was my turn. I gulped the champagne and went for it. Yes, like I’d heard, the flavor was like dark chicken meat. But this was chicken with a mean streak. It tenaciously clung to its tough little bones. When I chewed, it felt springy, like it was fighting back.
I chewed and chewed. I finally swallowed. I did it. I ate frog. I pulled off a bit more and chewed some more, this time looking at the bowl of bones and bok choy. I gagged. Discreetly at first, into my napkin. Then a little louder. Then louder still.
No seconds for me. I piled on more white rice and poured more champagne.
Dad took home the leftovers.
Chris LaMorte is the metromix dining producer. clamorte@tribune.com
