By Greg
After a wait outside a nondescript building in the West Village, my friend Rob and I were checked into Frog Club by a man wearing a beret and a Coburn great coat. We were then greeted by a host with a million-dollar smile who marched us through velvet curtains into an intimate, windowless dining room. She sat us in a partitioned back chamber with only three tables that seemed orchestrated to watch the slinky and hushed goings-on of the bar. It was only 5:30 pm, but a woman in a sparkling silver evening gown whispered into the ear of her date, who looked fresh off the day trading floor. At our tiny little table, we basked in the immediate weirdness of the space and strong commitment to theme: Giant plush frogs held court at a table for two, a canopy of chained-together dinner plates fit for a 14th century BDSM dungeon sprawled across the ceiling, and the staff sported Brooklyn haircuts, lilypad green bandanas, and starched white jackets. A framed cell animation from A Troll in Central Park hung near the restrooms depicting the film’s protagonist, Stanley, showing off his magical thumb. This was a place you must see to believe—and you’ll have to because of the no-photos policy (among other Wonderland-like rules), enforced by the bereted guy securing stickers over phone cameras.
When our server arrived, he informed us that the evening drink special was “Frog Nog,” a play on a sour cocktail featuring mezcal and hibiscus. It was hard to say no to a drink with such a dumb name. It was delivered in a chilled ovoid glass, a ravishing hue of deep fuschia. The frothed egg white and tropical profile gave the drink a melted popsicle appeal, making it easy to guzzle.
The interactions with the staff added to the lovely absurdity. For a restaurant trying to create an air of mystery, our server certainly didn’t hold back. He spat a charming (and perhaps too vulnerable) monologue on the tribulations of launching a styling/modeling career after landing in the big city. It was peppered with details of his “bizarre” living situation and how hard it was preparing the racks for Fashion Week. The radiant host popped up to inquire about “her baby,” the Frog Nog. She reported that the staff liked to “have a little fun behind the bar” by dreaming up cocktails, and tonight was the nog’s big debut. Chef Liz made the rounds to every table, and when she stopped by ours, we discussed A Troll in Central Park and how she spent a lot of time in therapy dissecting her obsession with the movie. Frog Club was Sleep No More without the masks and a strange menu. It was cosplaying as Act II of Hello Dolly! but actually serving Cabaret. The self-touted “New Yorkiest room in New York” felt like a stage for performing “restaurant.”
After a smattering of verdant apps, I ordered the hamburger served on a comically large English muffin and paired with a branded ramekin of whipped butter and chunky wedge “sidewinder” fries that looked (and tasted) like they had been pulled from the fryolator at the state fair. Incredible. “Frog sauce” was also provided and advised. I slathered it on without questioning the ingredients and went to town. I appreciated the buttery richness of the entree and sharp cut of the Frog Sauce, my only disappointment that there wasn’t a drop of green ketchup in sight.
When our server asked if we’d like another round of drinks, “Y.M.C.A.” pulsed through the room. Maybe I'm just gay, but this playlist was making me want to do some choreo with our Star-To-Be waiter. Conditions seemed right for nog number two. I cheersed Rob and the paintings of garish frogs on the walls in 1920s zoot suits committing various sins.
When the dessert menus were dropped, our server stated confidently, "You're going to want the banana chiffon pie." I felt tiny shock waves down my spine. This past year I’ve been a big old whore for banana desserts, and this would be my first ever banana chiffon pie. Rob kindly relayed that he wasn’t a big banana person, but he saw the fervor in my eyes and the order was placed.
I was underwhelmed when the pie appeared; it was on the smaller side and had a floppy, sloppy maraschino cherry plopped in a dollop of whipped cream. Honestly, it looked like shit. I picked up a spoonful, and in one bite, my sweet taste buds fully bloomed. The pie was airy, kissed with gorgeous notes of silky banana on a bed of cookie crust. This banana bonanza had rizz, razzle-dazzle, and…ribbit. Did I think this was one of the best desserts I’ve ever had? Yes. Did Rob think it was just okay? Yes.
Something about the consistency of the pie made me feel like my cat eating his wet food. I like watching him happily chow down on tuna pâté, his tail gently flicking back and forth in excitement. If I had a tail, I’d be doing that too. I devoured the rest of the slice, taking tiny kitten licks in an attempt to make the dessert last. Rob watched in horror.
On the way out, I inadvertently waved goodbye to the carnival prize-sized stuffed frogs on a date at the front table. The host gave us a hug. The coat check guy saw me eyeing the souvenir penny press machine, and before I knew it, he slid a coin into my palm. The penny press was my favorite part of going to the zoo as a kid, and the pleasure of cranking the wheel and receiving a prize flooded me with childlike delight. I looked down at the elongated chip of copper emblazoned with the face of a smiling cartoon amphibian in a bowtie. It was a fitting token of the ride Rob and I had just been on. I swear I could've seen the frog wink at me.
Name drops: Frog Club
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Mia “M.L.” Moore1. See more of her work here.
Mia “M. L.” Moore is an award-winning illustrator, cartoonist, and art student based in New York with an interest in all things historical. She is currently developing her comic, Feeble Follies, and is studying at the School of Visual Arts, pursuing a BFA in Illustration.