Gary Bogush lowers a basket of breaded frog legs into the deep fryer. He turns and sorts through the crisp brown finished frog legs and sorts out any broken pieces. “These won’t be served,” he says as he places them on a paper plate for the crew to munch on. By the end of his day, Gary Bogush will have deep fried 5,500 frog legs for the night’s event.
Outside, the men are just starting to arrive; in cars, pickup trucks and motorcycles. They line up outside the gate, peering through the chain link fence at the rows of tables clad in white and green plastic tablecloths in the back yard. Each table has a family name scrawled on it, reserving that location for family and friends. It’s five thirty and the gates will open at six, dinner will be served at seven.
It is the first Thursday summer night in August, and St. Anthony’s Lodge in Downingtown, is hopping. A police officer directs cars into the parking lot and onto the grass. Weary after overseeing the kitchen for the last four days, Donna DiBerardinis has run home to recharge before returning to lead the crew of women in final preparations and the ceremonious serving the men their Frog Leg dinner.
Donna, her sister Rose Ciarlone, and the crew of women started preparing this feast on Monday morning. They’ve taken over the restaurant at St. Anthony’s Lodge, Luigi and Giovannis, for the week to prepare this meal for the 1,100 men expected to attend.
Donna has led the kitchen crews for the past ten years. Her son James, seventeen, washes pots and pans in the kitchen, and her daughter Anna stands at a table with other young women preparing the salad. A short time later, Donna’s husband Gary and oldest son Nick will arrive to mingle, drink beer and partake in the traditional “men only” meal of frog legs, which is also served with roasted chicken, veal spezzato, a salad, cherry peppers, a roll, and beer, plenty of beer. Thirty six kegs were brought in for this year’s event.
But the frog legs are the specialty. Earlier in the week, boxes of frog legs were thawed, salted and stacked in water filled pots. After soaking, they were dipped in flour, egg, and breadcrumbs and lined up on trays to be deep fried.
In the bustling kitchen, master deep fryer Gary Bogush describes the taste. “They don’t have a bite to it. If prepared correctly, they don’t have a fish bite.” He points to the plate with a few broken pieces and tells me to try one. Donna jumps in, “I’d say they taste mild.” Her son James takes a break from washing dishes. I ask James if he will go out for the dinner, and he replies, “I can’t yet. You have to be twenty-one.” He takes a broken frog leg and drips hot sauce on it, then eats it like a chicken wing. Trying my first frog leg, it does taste a bit like chicken. Eating a second piece, the texture reminds me more of chicken but the finish lingers like shellfish.
Donna introduces me to her brother, Anthony Mascherino, who is the treasurer for the Amphibious Order of Frogs. Anthony has come inside to see how Donna and the women are faring with preparations.
“This is really a social gathering for guys,” he states with joy. “When can you throw food for 1000 guys together in four days? We sell 1000 tickets.” He smiles and waves at one of the women as they walk by. “In order to get tickets, you have to get hold of one of the committee members, there is a bit of a legacy thing. For $35, it’s a helluva meal. This is the world’s largest single order of frog legs placed each year,” Anthony says, “but the camaraderie is the most important thing out there.”
“Make sure you write this down though.” He taps my notebook and looks around the room as women finish making the salad and start cleaning the prep room. “The guys depend on all the girls to do this, and the men really do appreciate this.”
“The Amphibious Order of Frogs started in 1934,” Ben Valocchi tells me with a grin. Ben cuts a slick figure, leaning against his designated picnic table in an official frog shirt and baseball cap. At 91, Ben is the oldest member of the Amphibious Order of Frogs.
“Sixteen or eighteen guys in 1934 started all this,” he says as the crowd of men flow through the gates. “Most were first generation Italian Americans and some were immigrants themselves. They would catch frogs along the Brandywine and cook them.”
As we chat, Ben is continually interrupted by well-meaning men who want to pay their respects. He smiles and shakes each hand. “The local grocer had an ice box and offered to store the frogs so they could save them for an August beer party. I was too young to be in that crowd,” he says with a chuckle.
“Over the years, it grew. One guy was a sales manager and he would invite associates from up and down the east coast. As businesses moved into this area, the dinner became more popular.”
I ask Ben how would he describe the taste of frog legs and he grins. “It’s like chicken, but more muscular. It’s unique. This is a communal thing, you don’t see things like this just anywhere. It’s become a family type thing.” Ben is then beset by two smiling men with beers and I bow out to take a walk in the crowd.
Men gather at their tables, chatting with anticipation. Frank Sinatra is crooning on the loudspeakers. The men walk around shaking hands, hugging old friends. Everyone is holding a beer and smiling. Some men are smoking cigars, others have them tucked into their breast pocket waiting for the post-meal smoke. A line has formed at the back of the keg truck, as men take turns filling pitchers of beer for their tables. One man walks by in a full suit, but most men are casual, the younger men wearing t-shirts, shorts and sandals.
James Groome’s mother was one of eleven Mento’s who worked on the Frog Leg dinner in years past. James estimates he has been coming to the dinners for the past 27 years. He now lives in Wilmington, but drove up for the event. When asked to describe the taste of frog legs, he says emphatically, “People say it’s like chicken, but it’s better than chicken!”
Inside, Donna, Rose, Aunt Fran, and the other women sit in a circle chatting and laughing. In twenty minutes, at 7pm, they will start serving the long anticipated dinner. They will serve 1,100 men in approximately forty five minutes.
By 6:45, the yard is packed and Sinatra is drowned out by laughter and expectant chatter. Gary DiBerardinis and his son Nick walk through the gates and find their table. Gary waves me over and pours me a beer from the pitcher.
“I’ve been coming here since I turned twenty-one,” Gary says, pointing out his cousin across the way and lifting his beer, “And now I bring Nick. It’s a rite of passage.”
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