What Is It About Ice Cream?

Sometimes I feel like a jackass in a restaurant or bar for overpaying for beers, wine, and mixed drinks. When you think about how bad you're getting pantsed in these places for something they sell at a fraction of the price at a store, it doesn't add up. But it also doesn't matter. Because they've got you. And people will pay. And what's worse is that at a sporting event or concert venue, knowing they have you trapped inside, these places notch it up a level as if to challenge attendees by saying, "what are you going to do...not drink?" and ask for twice as much as the bar you felt was already robbing you.

But then I take my family out for ice cream. And all of that is wiped away. Not because of the joy of going out for ice cream, but because it's almost worse.

Seriously. What the hell? Each time we go out for ice cream, I extend the age I think I might be able to retire by a month.

According to Wikipedia, "ice cream is a colloidal emulsion made with water, ice, milk fat, milk protein, sugar, and air." I'm guessing that colloidal and emulsion, or at least the process, is what's driving up the price of this concoction that attracts people as quickly as ants. Or maybe it's the high price of paying teenagers (tell me the last time you were in an ice cream shop and saw an employee over the age of 18) the laborious task of mining scoop after scoop of ice cream out of freezer storage.

But the population does not give a shit. Because for some unexplainable reason, ice cream is magic. We're teaching kids at a young age it doesn't matter that you can go to a retail store, buy six times the amount of ice cream you'd pay for one cone at an ice cream shop, and enjoy it at home for multiple days in a row, without standing in line, listening to a six-year-old meltdown, stepping over gobs of melted Rocky Road on the pavement, and paying excessive ATM fees at a suspect-looking cash dispenser, standing unguarded around the corner on the unlit side of the ice cream window, because not only are these bastards going to gouge us on the price of ice cream, they demand cash only. 

And we bend over, pay the ATM fees that somehow double the cost of the excursion, and say "thank you, can I have another?"

I know, I know. Credit card transactions cut into the profits of small businesses and I'm all for small businesses. I find it amusing because we will do all of these things...for an ice cream cone.

And as we grow into adults, we do the same thing. Why buy a case of beer and sit around the apartment, in the comfort of our own home, where no one has to drive, and we can control the music? Because, we like to go out, stand in long lines at bars, listening to the pack of girls in the bachelorette party talk about how much they love each other while one melts down and cries that she'll never find the right guy, stepping over globs of someone else's vomit on the pavement, and paying excessive ATM fees at a suspect-looking cash dispenser in the darkest corner of the bar. And because it's a bar, it's cash only, and we don't care because they're selling booze.

And kids love excess at ice cream stands just like adults do in bars.

On one particular outing, the extended family and I set forth on a quest to order the much-heralded, almost mythical, "Treasure Chest" from an ice cream shop in Dennis. We always had a love/hate relationship with this particular spot. Loved it because it was within walking distance from my parents. Hated it because they refused to offer sprinkles claiming they didn't stick to their brand of homemade ice cream. Anyone dumb enough to believe that is dumb enough to pay the inflated cost of an ice cream cone at a shop. And we lined up regularly.

We always toyed with the idea of buying a gallon of their ice cream to-go, getting some sprinkles at the store, and testing out this theory of no-stick sprinkles in the privacy of our own home. But assuming buying a gallon of their ice cream would require us to take out a second mortgage on our house, we decided to take their word for it. And instead, as payback, I resorted to making a play on their name and referring to the shop as "The Grape Smuggler" in family circles which provided me with the necessary satisfaction to get me over their refusal to offer sprinkles.

The Treasure Chest included eight scoops of ice cream of your choice, two fountain toppings, two candy toppings (no sprinkles), a sliced banana, whipped cream, nuts, and cherries. All for the low low price of $17.50. I imagine, since we were buying in bulk they felt like this was some sort of deal.

And I admit, the thing was monstrous. The special occasion was a cousin's birthday, and for his birthday, he wanted to see if the family could get through the Treasure Chest.

When they served it to us, the staff automatically included six spoons without even asking how many we needed. It was like ordering a Scorpion Bowl at the Hong Kong in Faneuil Hall, where they're legally obligated to confirm that at least three people over the age of 21 will be taking part in drinking the Scorpion Bowl because it's not safe for one person. But it never stops that one person from drinking three times as much as everyone else sharing the beverage. 

We actually needed about nine spoons for the Treasure Chest and lots of napkins. By the way, have you ever noticed that ice cream shops have the cheapest napkins? They're paper-thin. They might even be legally classified as tissues. What are they doing with all of the money they're charging for ice cream and saving on credit card fees? Certainly not investing in quality napkins.

We attacked the Treasure Chest like a Scorpion Bowl at the Hong Kong too, taking our time with it. Most of us were trying to pace ourselves, while some of the younger in the group were able to continue putting it away as if they weren't even buzzed yet. Some of the lightweights didn't partake as much, and just sort of casually swirled their spoon around the sundae cup every once in a while, as if they were contributing.

At the Hong Kong, they go around offering chicken teriyaki skewers for $1 apiece to try to keep folks from getting too hammered. They should do this with the Treasure Chest, supplying little dixie cups of water to encourage self-control and critical hydration. Poor kids from all over the Cape are melting down from sugar crashes trying to eat their way through this momentous mountain of ice cream on nothing but nervous adrenaline. Like a night at the Hong Kong, it never ends well.

My most recent ice cream expedition was this past Labor Day weekend. The 15-year-old and I were traveling back from Wellfleet to Dennis, and he had a hankering for some ice cream. Let me be clear. This kid has a hankering for ice cream seven days a week, and he was one of the young folks years ago who outpaced the rest of us on the Treasure Chest. But I had just paid $9.00 for a draft beer with dinner so I felt like "wait until we get home" was clearly out of bounds. I suggested a familiar stop on 6A in Wellfleet. He declined and suggested an option further down in Brewster.

Roger that.

We cruise the strip. The playlist is good. Some Stones. Fleetwood Mac. A little Creedence. His picks. We're getting in the zone.

As I approach the familiar bend on 6A and flip on my left turn signal in anticipation of the ice cream stand just on the other side of the curve, panic sets in. It seems dark.

As we go around the corner, their sign is out, the parking lot is dark, and most of the lights inside have been dimmed. I make out one figure inside who's sweeping the floor.

It's 8:10. They're closed.

"What the fuck?" 

Maybe an extreme reaction, and I don't even really like ice cream. But as an adult, having my overpriced beer with dinner and more than willing to pay for it after a day of ocean fun, I understand the anticipation, and associated heartache, of the current situation, so I was partially expressing that on his behalf. Plus, I'm not naive enough to think that "What the fuck?' isn't a regular part of the vocabulary of 98% of the 15-year-olds out there.

However, this is Cape Cod. And if there's one thing people like on Cape Cod, it's some fuckin' ice cream. So I knew we had at least three more options between our current location and home. 

We were on a mission, "we have to get ice cream tonight!"

It was like being in Quincy at 1:10 am after last call passes at 1:00 and making the decision to drive into Boston to catch last call at 2:00 am in the city. "Sweet! We made it before last call! Where's the ATM with exorbitant fees in this cash-only dive I won't remember tomorrow!"

I move out of my comfort zone of 35 mph and bring it up to 38, not wanting to waste any time in case the next colloidal emulsion specialists on our route close at 8:30.

This time as we round the bend, much to our delight, they are open, and the line is very short. Only three people. But as I pull into the lot, another possible dilemma rears its head.

I ask my son, "Do you know if they're cash only?"

We've been here before, but like I said, I don't particularly care for ice cream. So, on most ice cream trips I wait in the car, preferring to avoid the lines, child meltdowns, and the bizarre scene of kids and adults sitting on benches, leaning against cars, lapping up this mixture of water, ice, milk fat, milk protein, and...air. 

Seriously, the next time you're at an ice cream stand, watch a couple of strangers lick their ice cream cone and see how long it is before you start laughing. People watching at the ice cream shop is pretty good people watching.

So I'm unsure if this particular joint takes cards. And I stopped carrying cash around 2002. Mostly as an excuse to not have to donate money to people I didn't know collecting cash for organizations I'd never heard of at the entrance of the grocery store. Of course, even if I did have cash, I could just say to these strangers, "Sorry, I don't have any cash," but I've been cursed with the inability to lie so if I did, I'd sit in my car ravaged by guilt the whole way home. Quitting cash just seemed easier.

But here I am, without any benjamins, because the previous weekend when we stopped for ice cream somewhere else, my wife took all the cash I had. She never gave it back when she got back in the car and I have no idea if it was cash only. This happens a lot.

And of course, my son didn't know whether or not they took cash. Why would he? He's never paid for an ice cream in his life. He's just been having us dip into college and retirement savings to fund this expensive habit that rivals the cost of AAU baseball and skiing.

If you want to teach kids the value of money, take them out for ice cream and make them pay. "Wow! You want how much for a double scoop of Cookie Dough?"

That's right you little whippersnapper, and don't forget the tip either. If you can't afford to tip your scooper, you probably shouldn't be spending so much time hanging around this ice cream stand day after day. The last thing you want to be known as is the kid who shows up to the window and says, "Give me the cheapest vanilla you have..." Maybe you shouldn't be blowing all your paper route money at this joint.

But it occurred to me, this establishment is not just ice cream. They also do full-service lunch and dinner, and being on the Cape, they specialize in the classics: chowder, fried clams, fried oysters, fried scallops, and other local favorites. This is not inexpensive fare, so I was confident they wouldn't be "cash only" for such high-priced menu items. Usually, only Italian spots have the balls to do that. 

There was a glimmer of hope as we approached the window when I spotted a credit card reader positioned on the counter. Confirmed. They take credit cards.

As we got closer, I saw the fine print; "Minimum $10 purchase required for credit cards."

Son of a...! But actually, I almost laugh. I mean, come on, this is ice cream. Clearing $10 should be easy. I was half expecting to be charged a $10 cover just to get close to the ordering window.

"Hi folks, there's a $10 cover this evening. If you're not eating ice cream, the cover is $15." It was like 1995 all over again.

The ice cream gods were not forcing us to pay cash, but they were potentially forcing us to order more ice cream than we really wanted to meet a minimum.

So I told the boy, "What are you thinking of getting? Because, if your order is more than $10, I probably won't get anything, because I don't want anything. But if you can't get there, then I'll probably get a Black Raspberry frozen yogurt.

So we (actually, he) starts to strategize, "Ok, I'm going to get the medium Cookies and Cream which is $5.99. Then I'm going to get it in a waffle cone, which is an extra $2, so that brings us to $8. And I'll get a candy topping, probably m&ms, which is another $1.99, so, that should get us to $10."

It was actually going to get us to $9.98. But there was going to be tax, right? I'm not sure what the local tax codes are on ice cream, however, I imagine it's got to be up there with things like cigarettes, chewing tobacco, and alcohol. The government loves to tax things that are addictive, enjoyable, and bad for you, and I have to think at this point, ice cream is one of those things.

Legislators are wheeling and dealing in backrooms all over Beacon Hill and Washing D.C. trying to levy taxes on such high-demand items as ice cream to bail out the economy. The Beatles wrote songs about such injustices, poor Charlie couldn't get off the MTA for hikes like this, and in Illinois, visitors and residents are forced to pay a "candy tax." Surely, the one time I wished to be taxed as an American would be to get from $9.98 to over $10 for a single ice cream cone order for my 15-year-old son. I'll say it again, at this point in time, I am actually hoping to pay more than $10 for a single ice cream cone.

The moment of truth has come, he approaches the window...

"Could I please have a medium Cookies and Cream, with m&ms, in a waffle cone?"

"I'm sorry, we're actually out of waffle cones. Is that it?"

"Um, and one small Black Raspberry frozen yogurt."

And there we are. Part of me wanted to ask, "Do you even have waffle cones back there? Or is that just some ploy to make people think they'll be able to get over $10 on one ice cream order?"

But I didn't. And we crossed our $10 threshold with gusto, rounding out at $16.32 for two ice creams, including the couple of bucks added in for the tip.

Because as I said before, you have to tip the ice cream scooper right? I mean, everyone tips a bartender, and I'd go out on a limb to say that these scoopers put in more effort and work getting an ice cream together than most bartenders do opening a beer or pouring a draft.

Stressed parents managing children who are out past their bedtime to get ice cream can be just as confrontational as an inebriated trio of 20-somethings who want to order three separate scorpion bowls.

"What do you mean sprinkles don't stick to your homemade ice cream??!!"

But the long lines, the high prices, the inconvenience of cash only, and the uneasy possibility of allergy cross-contamination from the maple-walnut scoop landing in the vanilla - none of that is enough to keep the crowds away. Young, old, even alone. People love to go out for ice cream.