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Fried Parsley
Carefully pick the stems from the parsley, wash dry it on a cloth, put it into a frying basket, and then into hot fat, and fry for a few minutes, taking care that the fat is not too hot, or the parsley will lose its color and be spoiled. The fat that croquettes have been fried in is best for it.
A garnish rather than a dish, and the whole of it turns on two things: bone-dry leaves and fat that is warm rather than fierce.
- Dry the parsley properlyAny water clinging to the leaves will spit violently in hot fat and steam the parsley limp instead of crisping it. Spin it in a salad spinner, then blot between towels until no dampness shows on the cloth.
- Fat temperatureOscar's warning is the point of the recipe, though he gives no figure. Moderate fat, in the region of 300-325F, is a safe working range; the hotter the fat, the faster the leaves brown and the green dulls, so err on the low side.
- "Fry for a few minutes" is too longCurly parsley at the right temperature stops bubbling and turns brittle-crisp in 15 to 30 seconds. Modern practice is to lift it the moment the sizzling subsides.
- Frying basketA wire basket or spider is genuinely useful here, since the leaves must all come out at once. A fine mesh skimmer works; a slotted spoon lets too much escape.
- Curly, not flat-leafThe dense, ruffled curly parsley of the period holds its shape and crisps into a decorative tuft. Flat-leaf will fry but collapses into something closer to a fried herb chip.
- Reusing croquette fatThe advice is sound as flavour but assumes a kitchen straining and reusing frying fat daily. If you keep frying oil, strain it and use it while it is still clean-smelling; any oil that has darkened or smells stale will carry that into the parsley.
- Finishing and yieldFinishing -- Drain on paper, salt lightly while hot, and serve within a few minutes -- it softens as it sits. A single bunch goes a long way, since each plate needs only a small tuft.
Fried parsley was standard garnish work in the professional kitchens of the late nineteenth century, when almost anything deep-fried arrived at the table with a green tuft beside it; Escoffier gives persil frit only the briefest treatment, as a basic garniture rather than a recipe worth much explanation, which is roughly the spirit in which Oscar Tschirky records it here. Its place in a hotel kitchen was economical as well as decorative: the parsley cost nothing much, the fat was already hot from the croquettes, and the effect on a plate of fried sole or veal was out of proportion to the effort. The instruction to use the croquette fat is a small window into how a Waldorf kitchen actually ran, where a single kettle of fat could do successive duty through a service.