Ice cream girls can't be trusted

The same lady that I've seen the past 3 nights in a row came in tonight. She's slouched down like the last few times I've seen her. As usual, as soon as she places her order, my previous perception that she is in a bad mood vanishes.  Her entire posture changes, and her face is lit up with glee.

"A kids' Maple Walnut in a dish," she says. I nod, but I already knew her order. It's been the same thing every night this week.

"Coming right up," I tell her (before cringing at my cliché choice of words).

It's busy, so I grab a cup and jog over to the Maple Walnut sitting at the other end of the store. I'm just digging the scoop into the waiting ice cream when she runs up beside me.

She cranes her neck over the freezer. The look of bliss that she'd just been displaying has turned into fear. "Are you sure that's the right one?" she asks me.

I twist my body from inside the freezer so that I can look at her from the side. "Yes, ma'am I'm sure," I tell her patiently.

"Really?" she says. I can tell she doesn't trust me.

I nod. Looking again at the ice cream, I see that it is the same colour, the same tub and in the same position as the previous times that she has ordered it. "I promise," I assure her, but I can tell she still isn't convinced.

Finally, I shrug my shoulders and scoop what I know to be Maple Walnut. I hand the cup to her and she seems appeased.

There must be something about ice cream girls that warrant suspicion. You never know when we're going to slip you the wrong flavour. I bet it's my uniform visor shading my face that gives me a way.

Watch out: I can't be trusted.

French finesse in the ice cream shop

A woman with a terrible bee-hive hairdo and sunglasses that she wears inside the store approaches the counter. I ask her if she'd like to taste anything.

"Yes, actually," she says, "I'd love to try your cream brûlée."

I hesitate before I nod my acknowledgement of her request. For confirmation, I stick my head around to the other side of the counter to see the ice cream clearly labelled, "Crème Brûlée". Unfortunately, she is the 4th person today to butcher the title that is meant to be said with a French Finesse.

She still stands on the other side, waiting for me to hand over the taster. With despair, I pass the ice cream into her hand.

I must accept that not all of us are born with a sensitivity to butchered languages, but sometimes, I must confess:

It gets difficult.

Ice cream for dogs

As soon as the man entered through the exit door with his head down , scratching his nose, I could tell that he was a modest one. He wore an indiscriminate baseball cap and a simple black t-shirt. His hair was a grey-ish white.

"Could I get four vanilla soft-serves in cups, please?" he asked.

I nodded, excited; they're my favourite item on the menu to sculpt. I lined the bowls up on the counter, all side by side. "Is that all for you, sir?" I asked.

"Yes, that'll be all," he answered, "my dogs love these things."

I smile and nod, "So, nothing for you?"

"Nahh," he says, "I like to just come in here for the dogs."

He looks at the bowls of ice cream all lined up on the counter, and hands me a 20 dollar bill. He's smiling.

Some people come in to get ice cream for their kids...others for their dogs. I guess it depends on what's important.

Renditions of "Peanut Butter Chocolate Mudpuddle" as ad-libbed by customers:

1) Mudpuddle
2) Chocolate Puddle
3) Chocolate Pond
4) Peanut Butter Mud Swamp
5) Chocolate Peanut Butter Thing (let's give it a little effort)
6) Chocolate Peanut Butter Ripple
7) Fudge Peanut Puddle (the alliteration is admirable)'
8) Peanut Mudpie

I guess it's just a hard flavour to remember.

Off the menu items: Exhibit C

Happy Birthday ice cream in blue raspberry slushie. Available for 3rd, 4th, 5th and 13th birthday celebrations.

The gift of paper products

I was giving the soft serve machine a nice shine when a frazzled mother came in with her children. They were jumping around the shop in excitement while I ran around to fix them their cones. After 5 kids’ sizes of Spiderman, Grape Creamsycle, Rocky Road, Mint Chip and Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough had been served, the weary woman dropped her purse to the counter, waiting to pay. Her short, dark hair had frizzed around her head, framing her face that seemed to be sweating from the exhaustion of chasing after her 4 hooligans. I rang her in, and was about to turn back to cleaning the soft serve machine when she called me back. “Do you think we could get some extra napkins?” she asked.

I nodded, realizing that the napkins that usually rested on the counter had all been used up. I jogged into the back and came out with a full package. I hastily pulled a handful from the paper bag, complete with at least 30 napkins, and placed them on the counter. Imagine my anguish when the woman proceeded to slide the full stack of napkins off the counter. She was gone before I knew it, off to find her children. I stood there, silently, in remorse for the trees that had just been sacrificed in a moment of inattention. 30 napkins amoungst 5 ice creams.

Paper products are a gift, people. Treat them as such.

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.