No one's asking, but I have rules for ice cream parlors
Heavily influenced by simply amoral ice cream experiences
I have a few very strict operating principles for life:
Never buy anything from a door-to-door salesperson.
Never pay the $1,000 for the oil change place to replace your car air filters. DIY it.
Ice cream shops and cookie stores should always be small, cozy, and ideally warm.
Always speak in definitives.
On a trip with family some years ago, finding ice cream was first priority on our afternoon agenda. Correction: A priority on most of my trips with anyone involve finding ice cream. We’d just driven into a charming coastal Oregon town and could tell from our walk down Main Street that, boy, did this town ever have ice cream! It was a beautiful day in a beautiful place and our ice-cream craving spirits were high.
This was in the carefree days of “use your best judgement to make decisions.” Google Reviews and ChatGPT couldn’t tell us where to go or what to do. It was thus—with our best judgment—we made a now-bold decision and selected an ice cream establishment that from the outside looked charming. Key word, LOOKED.
These business owners were no dummies. They were depending on gullible tourists judging an ice cream shop by its exterior and it totally worked. Unless you’re a certain person I know but can’t describe in even vague terms because he or she might recognize himself or herself in any detail when this Substack becomes as famous as it’s going to become, once you step inside most ice cream shops it’s awkward to extricate yourself. You can’t pretend in such a niche shop that they didn’t have what you wanted. Especially since they usually have dozens of flavors, and cater to the “Free” Crowd: dairy-free, nut-free, gluten-free, and/or sugar-free.
Full disclosure: I have walked away from ONE ice cream shop in my lifetime. Their artisan menu was small and not a single option included chocolate in any form.
This Oregon place was run by an older couple who I don’t think have ever enjoyed ice cream—or anything for that matter—in their life. Decorating the walls of the shop were 8.5 x 11 signs produced by a home printer. These signs shared cheerful messages such as: “CASH ONLY!!” and “NO SAMPLES!” and “NO MIXING FLAVORS!!” If you wanted, for example, a scoop of chocolate and a scoop of Reese’s peanut butter cup in your 2-scoop cone, you needed to want something else. Or buy two single-scoop cones.
One of each sign was not enough for each wall, neither was three or eight. These signs were plastered EVERYWHERE and were very effective at enforcing compliance. Just imagine what these folks could accomplish if they put their prolific marketing energies into something positive! Instead, they dampening our spirits and made us hesitant to ask any questions or be cheerful like you ought to be in an ice cream shop.
Also adding to the jolly ambience of the place was tinny, mechanical piano music reminiscent of the Disneyland “It’s a Small World” ride. In another store or this store under different ownership, this music would’ve unequivocally been merry; I can just see our happy family group polka-ing around the store while gaily licking our mixed-and-matched ice cream cones!! But since the store was not under different management, it came across as almost sinister. For those who disagreed, or those who like sinister music, they sold CDs of their music at the register.
About the ice cream itself, I don’t remember particularly enjoying it. Not because it was bad ice cream. It was just tough to enjoy something I felt like I’d acquired against the wishes of the owners and was consuming as a demoralized patron.
It would be nice if the Oregon place was the only Sad Ice Cream Establishment in the western United States. It’s not.
On a random winter evening last year, I headed out to satiate a craving for Vietnamese take-out. This particular fast-casual Asian fusion restaurant is 82 feet away from an ice cream parlor, something I did not know until I pulled into the parking lot. Suddenly, I really wanted ice cream—before dinner. Grinning about this spontaneous and irresponsible decision, I walked across the parking lot separating these two franchises of happiness.
Cheerful anticipation quickly turned confusion when I entered the ice cream parlor and was greeted by silence. Not because there was no one inside. Oh ho ho, not the case. The place was packed. There was a line of customers. Two teenage employees behind the counter were doing something I supposed we could call “work.” Mostly they were moving about slowly while gabbing with each other. Not in that darling, “Aw, look at how much fun they’re having working together!” sort of way. More in the way where they seemed annoyed to have customers in the store.
As mentioned, a lot of customers had apparently gotten the memo to get ice cream before dinner. They’d ALSO apparently received an additional memo: “Eat your ice cream in silence and stare awkwardly at arriving patrons.” It was their stony silence that disconcerted me most and made me almost laugh out loud in stupefaction. Awkward scenes like this exist (or should exist) only in movies. These multi-generational members of my community lined the edges of the parlor, eating their ice cream in obedient silence. The line of customers was also waiting mostly in silence.
We’ve all seen it—the devastation of a kid who loses their precariously perched scoop of ice cream to poor cone management. That’s how I felt. The charm of ice-cream-before-dinner was dashed to pieces like a shattered waffle cone and I left with no ice cream. I console myself even still by reminding myself at least I got writing material out of it.
Thank our collective lucky stars that there are many ice shops where the employees are kind and you can mix and match scoops and patrons are happy and the music isn’t creepy.
Coming to mind is another local establishment, this one a happy place, where I met my friend and her kids for ice cream for literal lunch.
Or the place on the main street of the town I lived in prior to my two-year global travel session, and which makes THE WORLD’S BEST s’mores ice cream. Mail a self-addressed, stamped envelope with $1.00 enclosed and I’ll send the name and location.
Or the place in my Montana hometown where Carmel, a family friend going back to my dad’s elementary school days, served—yes, past tense, but not because she’s passed on—ice cream to hundreds of people every summer out of a 225-square foot ice cream establishment called the Pickle Barrel. This hometown favorite is still serving up their traditional and beloved submarine sandwiches, but they saddened many hearts when they closed down the ice cream half of their business.
The only upside I can think of is for this closure is that maybe there’s room in the market for another small and cozy ice, run by yours truly.
Isn’t life cool, and aren’t people interesting, even the ones who run cheerless ice cream shops?? See you in the next one…
Oh my gosh, this was too good! The creepy Small World-like music, the "cheerful" signs pasted everywhere, the '"poor cone management," the "dashed to pieces like a shattered waffle cone," - these stories were so entertaining! I'm sorry though that you had to have so many sad ice cream experiences - I never knew sad and ice cream could exist in the same sentence, but here we are. Keep up the amazing writing!
Fortunately, I never been in a cheerless ice cream shop. I didn't know that was possible. There should at least some sort of municipal fine imposed on the owners for running such an establishment.
Ice cream in New Orleans is glorious, but then almost all food items in New Orleans are glorious.