Duped

The store was approached by a foreign couple. Being somewhat unobservant, I couldn’t put my finger on what race they were from. Either way, I caught wind of quite the accent (although I couldn’t tell you which kind) as the lady opened her mouth to order. She asked for a kids’ size in a waffle cone, which I produced with pleasure. She mused loudly and clicked her tongue at the size. Her husband laughed heartily.

 I took the opportunity to ask him what he’d like. He asked for the same flavours (Mocha Almond Fudge and Scotch Toffee) in a small waffle cone. “But I expect it to be bigger than hers!” he insisted in the accent that I still wasn’t sure of, wagging his finger at the freezer I was bending into.

“Yes, sir, I wouldn’t try to dupe you,” I promised. I was just about finished with his cone. When I was just shaping up the sides, however, the ice cream seemed to have a better idea. Instead of forming into a pretty scoop atop the waffle, it decided to plummet to the ground. Conveniently, it fell square on my toes, exposed through my open-toed sandles. I stopped for a moment to get used to the cold, melting liquid seep around my toes and make its way down to the ball of my heel. Just the way I like it.

After I’d topped up his cone (to ensure that it was bigger than his wife’s, as he had requested), he paid and left the shop with a smile on his face.

As I watched the couple find a spot at one of the picnic tables in front, I grabbed a rag and scrubbed the Scotch Toffee from my foot. I couldn’t suppress the feeling that I was the one who had been duped. He must have been an Italian.

The short end of the sundae spoon

They ordered sundaes. A couple, middle-aged, with a look of hunger on their faces. We weren’t busy, so Jenn and I both set to work on their order.

The woman, blonde, attractive, gave me her order: hot fudge with everything on it, hold the cherry. Her husband gave Jenn his request: hot caramel with extra whipped cream.

I searched the fridge for the sundae ingredients while Jenn made mountains of swirled soft serve for her customer. Once everything was out and Jenn was finished, we traded positions. We then constructed our masterpieces side by side on the counter, critiquing the artistic flow of our work.

Jenn finished first. She set her beautifully crafted creation with extra whipped cream on the counter for the man to take back to his seat. I took a close second, providing the woman with her hot fudge. I stuck her spoon into the side at a perfect 45 degree angle and went back to clean up the counter. Jenn rang it up on the register.

It wasn’t until much later that I realized my mistake. The customers were at the ends of their sundaes, just lapping up the lasts of it in the bottom of their containers. That’s when I noticed the contrast in the sizes of their spoons. The man, Jenn’s customer, ate with a sundae spoon the length of a pencil yet to be sharpened. My customer, the woman, had her spoon resting against the side of the sundae cup. It barely made it past the rim.

In solace, I turned back to see the cup of sundae spoons that I had forgetten to use. They had an extra few inches tacked on, in favour of the delicacy that our banana splits and sundaes offer. The other, regular spoons, sat on the counter; much more mainstream.

I suppose that the lesson I must draw from this experience is that sometimes we get the short end of the straw and other times, it’s the short end of the sundae spoon.

The end of the world

It happened last summer, on a day as hot as all the others. Scorching. People flocked from their cars to the safety of our air-conditioned shop in search of their personal favourites. I gladly stood behind the counter with my ice cream scoop, ready to serve and satisfy.

It just so happens that that particular day was wrought with misfortune. Misfortune in the sense that the shop had been swamped the entire week. Misfortune in the sense that we sold more ice cream than any other period. Misfortune in the sense that we were out of the two most important flavours: Moose Tracks and Peanut Butter Mudpuddle.

On average every 5 minutes, a hopeful customer approached the counter and ordered their usual: either Moose Tracks, Peanut Butter Mudpuddle or both of them together. That was when I had to deliver the news of sorrow. “Sorry, we’re out.”

My manager came to my rescue, assuring the customers, “We have another shipment coming in tomorrow.”

But, alas, it wasn’t enough. The ones brave enough to carry on choose ice creams of similar delicacies; either Rocky 17 or Chocolate Fudge Brownie, but most were unable to carry on. With a look of pain (I wouldn’t lie about this), they left the store to return home in their grieving.

It was that day that I realized if the end of the world were ever near; I wouldn’t be the one to volunteer to deliver the  news.

Room for creativity

We were about to prepare for close when a family complete with several kids came to visit. Jennifer and I awaited their orders, anxious to start clean up. We served them together to speed up the process. I handled the first 2 kids and the mother while she worked on 3 other members.

Finally, I asked the last kid what he wanted. “Chiquita Banana and Bubble Gum!” he yelled excitedly. He looked to be about 6 or 7 years old, wearing glasses that fell down his nose and a red t-shirt that seemed to depict some sort of obscure action hero. Thinking nothing of it, I grabbed a cone and started scooping his kid’s size with Chiquita Banana on the bottom and Bubble Gum on the top.

When I returned to their group after scooping his cone, I saw to my surprise that he already held in his grasp a polished ice cream cone. It was suspiciously exactly the same as the one I was holding, save the fact that the Chiquita Banana was on the top and the Bubble Gum on the bottom. I shot him a questioning glance, but he thought nothing of it and seemed to be waiting for me to hand him the second cone.

“Did you actually just order two ice creams?” his mother asked incredulously. “Did you forget you ordered the first?”

“No,” he chimed, “I figured I’d just have two.”

Although I admire his pluck, he loses significant points for choosing the same two flavours. Why have 2 cones with 2 kinds when you could have 2 cones with 4 kinds?  With 64 kinds to choose from, there is substantial room for creativity.

His score of awesomeness is also lowered due to the fact that Chiquita Banana is not one of my favourites and I couldn’t muster up the strength to eat it. Alas, once his mother scolded him for his silliness, the cone met the empty future of the garbage.

Some kids just aren’t creative enough.

Things that an ice cream girl should know, but does not

1. The names of the artificial  sweeteners in the no sugar added ice creams (it's ice cream; accept it)
2. How many scoops are in each size (however many I can put on without making it fall over)
3. The specific flavours of Spumoni (all I know is Italian, disgusting and something bitter)
4. Why the chocolate soft serve machine is always broken (witchcraft, probably)
5. How much hot fudge is safe to put on a sundae before it melts it into a sloppy mess
6. How many squirts of flavour to add to a slushie 
7. How to explain patiently what the difference is between hard and soft serve ice cream (seriously, everyone should know.)
8. What the ingredients are in Dairy Queen's ice cream (if I wanted to know, I would have applied there)

Please stop asking.

Exhibit B: Off the menu items

A perfect cone dip with a puff of whipped cream and a cherry. Available by bribing the ice cream girl only.

That’s when you know

The afternoon was rounding out to be a pleasant one. It was a mildly sunny Saturday, and business had been good. The store was relatively empty when a couple approached. They looked to be about middle age. They entered from the side door and meandered around to the front. They were holding hands, but gently broke apart to examine the ice cream separately. Several minutes later, the woman approached the counter with a determination that told me she was ready to order.

“What can I get you?” I asked her, the standard question. Her counter-part was still roping around the store, considering our bounty of merchandise.

She smiled pleasantly and picked up a few napkins, anticipating the sticky quality of the ice cream I was about to serve her.

“I’ll have the Denali Caribou Caramel, please, small, in a bowl,” she said finally. 

I nodded my acknowledgement and grabbed the scoop.

Once the ice cream was scooped, I plopped it up on the counter and ventured to the other side of the store where the husband was still musing over the flavours.

“Know what you’d like yet, sir?” I asked.

He scanned the row one more time before answering, “Yea, I think I’ll have the Denali Caribou Caramel please, small, in a bowl.”

I raised my eyebrows in delight, looking again to the other side of the store where the same had already been scooped. The wife was already eating, taking small bites with her spoon.

“Your wife chose the same one,” I told him.

I reached back down into the freezer to scoop another, but continued talking. “That’s when you know you were meant to be. That’s when you know.”