Frogs' legs leap to the menu as the oyster bids farewell and is off for its holiday. Frogs' legs come to New York every month in the year, but May is opening season for the small grass frogs of northern lakes over which gourmets smack lips. Frog leg epicures vote for the light-weights that average fifteen to twenty legs to a pound. One such frog provides exactly two mouthfuls, and should be eaten with the fingers for the greatest pleasure.
Pile the platters high with the crisp brown joints. Bring them sizzling to the table, sputtering with heat. This month every restaurant of culinary pretentions stars the zig-zig drumsticks. It was the late Ben Riley, owner of the million-dollar Arrowhead Inn, shrine of frogs' legs, who introduced this delicacy to the American menu in 1897. In Mr. Riley's forty-six years as a public host, over half-a-billion frogs' legs were served from his platters.
Mr. Riley once gave us a first-hand skillet demonstration on frying the “leapers.” We started with thirty of the small legs, enough for two portions. These were washed in running water, then dried by exposure to air. Salt and pepper were dusted on—quite a lot of pepper; frogs' legs can take high seasoning. Next, the legs were rolled in finely-powdered cracker crumbs. One-quarter pound of the best butter was spooned to a thin pan, set over a high flame, and the butter heated until it boiled and darkened. Then fifteen of the legs were laid in and left for one-and-a-half minutes, or until just golden brown. Mr. Riley used a pancake turner to flip the sputtering joints, then cooked them on the other side until slightly curled—the flesh soft, not crisp. That was his way. Some like them crisp. In that case, pour off the butter when the legs curl and “shake them out.” That takes about one minute, and the legs emerge crackling crisp and heavenly. Don't skimp on the fat. One-fourth pound of butter to each fifteen legs is exactly right. But you can use margarine, or you can wait until the war's done.
Snowflakes to serve with coffee, tea, or wine are selling at B. Altman's, Fifth Avenue and 34th Street, flaky bits of nonsense, scented with cinnamon, crispy and tender. They leave the soft dust of sugar on lips and finger tips. Each flake measures four inches across, selling by the dozen for 63 cents.
Watch the snowflake baker mix up the batter—eggs, flour, milk, shortening, spices, and sugar. She dips a spoonful to the little French frying iron, a whirl of fancy curlicues. Iron and batter now are submerged into bubbling hot fat. One instant, and the snowflake takes shape. It rises from the iron to float like a flower. A moment more and it's out to drain, then to cool. Just before boxing, the snowflakes are sugar dusted; then quick, off to town.
“We haven't any bees' knees … or doves' tongues … or butterflies' wings,” says the manager of TelBurn Service of 161 East 53rd, “but looky!” We looky, to see the shop shelves encrusted with some 300 food items, now in rara avis class, waiting the gourmet's greedy garnerings.
This food business started last fall as a personalized mail order service—and that's what it is now. But somehow, the stockroom has been turned into a retail store for those New Yorkers who like to browse over foodstuffs and study the labels.
It's a business that grew out of the scarcities caused by war. Its creator, an old campaigner in the food field, felt he was capable of coping with the shortage situation, and announced a service to search out tag-end stocks of foods no longer made or no longer imported. There is no rhyme, no system to what he has collected. There are only two cover-all phrases that can describe the loot—all items are non-rationed—no points to forfeit, and no “disappoints,” for the items belong in the quality class.
If you have time, pop in to eye or buy. Otherwise, just write for a listing of foods available—or tell the proprietor what it is you want, and let the shop search it down. Seven times in ten they come up with the goods. Mail is rolling in now from all states in the Union.
The shop is proud of its stock of fine olive oils, both from California and imported. A tremendous trifle to the French of the city is the Crème de Cassis, 12 per cent alcohol. Most of the black currants grown in France are used for this cordial, or call it a sirop, or a liqueur. It is made by infusing the berries in brandy or other spirits for several months, and then sweetening and thickening the juice. The alcoholic strength may run as high as 28 per cent, but if more, the flavor is spoiled.
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