Frog Pond

At Le Fou Frog, we indulge in our Francophilia. Frog Pond
In this zealous age of the Bush-Ashcroft New World Order, please don’t send us hate mail for the following statement: We are unabashed Francophiles. Our Francophilia was first foisted upon us by Night Ranger Dad, who signed us up for French lessons at a young age. (He not only bought us a Cat in the Hat French dictionary but also, we vividly remember, had us conjugate être before going to sleep.) It continued through high school, where one of our somewhat baffling assignments in French V included reading Waiting for Godot — then re-enacting the play as a bizarro class project, despite the fact that it has just two characters. Don’t ask us to speak French, either. Despite years of study, we still can’t do that very well.

Fortunately, our paltry French skills weren’t required at Le Fou Frog, the pink-façade restaurant Français just east of the City Market. “It’s the one place in Kansas City that doesn’t feel like Kansas City,” a friend had told us, and the intimate, bistrolike setting backed his claim. The rectangular bar area had a long banquette seat dividing the bar from the restaurant; four small, round tables with fresh flowers and votive candles sat in front of it. Sadly, the passageway between the banquette and the actual bar was narrow, and when we went on a Saturday night with a party of seven, we were afraid that we would have to sit all in a row and converse operator-style — until the accommodating staff brought a couple of chairs to squeeze between the tables.

Once the seating situation had been settled, we focused on the drinks. We were intrigued by Le Fou Frog’s crème brûlée, which came in both dessert and drink form. The sweetly creamy libation was a crème liqueur, with a hint of caramely burnt sugar.

RA Gina opted for a Kir Royale (which she had drunk quite a bit during her semester abroad in France). After some confusion, she ended up with a champagne cocktail instead. Made by pouring champagne over a sugar cube splashed with bitters, it was a barely sweet, fizzy concoction that looked pretty in the candlelight as the sugar dissolved into a blackberry-colored mound that caused tiny bubbles to rise to the top of the glass.

Another drink of note was the Macadamia Nut, a Hawaiian liqueur. Its strength shocked both Rita and Samson. “This dog bites!” Rita said. “It’s like sucking the air out of a bicycle tire,” Samson added.

The Saturday-night crowd was placid and sedate. Our bartender said that Sunday nights attracted more of a bar crowd. So we returned on Sunday with RA Brett in tow. The place was dramatically more festive thanks to the presence of Armida, a three-member band singing Latin jazz (at a volume that still allowed conversation). The clientele’s average age started in the late twenties, and it was the sort of place you could go in shorts or more fancied-up.

We ordered a French cosmopolitan — made with Dubonnet Red (an aromatized wine that’s a variation of vermouth), vodka, Cointreau and a splash of cranberry juice — and Brett got a Chimay (blue label), the Belgian beer made by Trappist monks and served in a wineglass. “This is premium beer,” he said. It was a heady, dark brew, rich in flavor. The Francoliciousness was made complete by the presence of Sam, a poodle the color of café au lait. The good-natured dog was hanging out by the table of his owner, Franny, who had brought him in because the restaurant was “the closest thing to France.”

Another sort of dog style was perhaps on the minds of the couple in their late thirties who were sitting near us enjoying a post-dinner drink. They were on their third date, which was excellent, according to Michael. “The first date was wild — pornographic,” he said. “We’re trying to take it down.” Of course, we pressed for details. “We could have made a movie,” was all he would say. Unfortunately, we didn’t ask them for their porn names (i.e., the name of your first pet plus your mother’s maiden name), though his costar asked to go by the pseudonym “Sassy.” What they did divulge was that Sundays were the best nights to go to Le Fou Frog, because of the band and the bustling, friendly crowd. Said Michael, “We’ve been mackin’ in here, and no one cares! It’s very eclectic. It’s romantic, it’s casual, it’s formal. But bring a $100 bill, at least.”

Ah, yes. We blanched when we got the bill both nights, and we decided that if we were to go back, it would be for happy hour (4 to 7 p.m. Fridays), when various wines, beers, aperitifs, well martinis and cocktails are $3 each, and assorted food plates are on special. Owner Barbara Rafael also informed us of another cool-sounding event: the Night of Song, every second Tuesday of the month from about 6:30 to 9:30 p.m. Three professional singers perform, then it becomes open-mic night, for which people can bring their own music and sing. Opera and bel canto only, though; if you were thinking of trying your hand at, say, “It’s So Tough to be a Baby” — you know, that song from the early ’90s that was rapped by Jordy, a French toddler — well, please don’t. Ever.