The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.
No matter the weather, ice cream always sold well. You would think that it is a seasonal treat, much the same way that cider and pumpkin pie come and go with the fall. No, people were always in the mood for ice cream. It didn’t matter if it was sweltering hot or frostbite cold. The people slowed by the ice cream display, savoring the flavor with their eyes, pretending their saliva was whatever flavor was embedded in their minds.
We had a variety of flavors, most of the standard. Vanilla, strawberry, chocolate, mint chocolate chip, coffee, rocky road, and moose tracks. We also had butter pecan but I preferred their more obscure cousin, rum raisin. I’m not a huge fan of raisins, but the ice cream itself, whether it is rum or otherwise, is damn good.
I will say my favorite flavor was the sweet and salty caramel pretzel. Vanilla ice cream with caramel swirl and chocolate-covered pretzels. The flavors combined with the creamy crunch created a unique experience. I even managed to conform some of the regulars to switch from their usual favorites. It was never the most popular flavor but it had its hardcore followers (myself included).
Despite their popularity, ice cream was also arguably one of the more controversial items on our list. The point of contention was in regards to the scoop sizes and prices. When I first started working there, a single scoop started around $1.95 for a clear, plastic cup or a cake cone. For an extra 20 cents, you could also get the waffle cone. By the time I left, it had cost $3.95.
“That much?” customers often said.
“Yes ma’am.”
“For one scoop?”
“Yup.”
It usually stopped there. Parents would look at me in disbelief as if I had just robbed them of their 401K. Still, it was for their kids, who needed a fresh form of stimulation before they would ultimately return to playing on their iPads. They ate it gratefully (well sometimes), slurping up the scoop until it would melt into a dripping cascade down their hands, then down their arms, drops caking the floor like clay. The floor I would have to clean. I never had this messy problem when I ate ice cream because I was a biter, not a licker.
Still, some people would push on the price.
“You can’t be serious,” they would say. “For one scoop?”
If I was helping the customer, all I would say is,
“Yup.”
Dick had a more direct approach.
“You go to Haagen Dazs, or Cold Stones, or any of those other places, I guarantee you pay at least $5.”
$6 actually. I’m not usually one for buying dessert when I go out to eat but on the few occasions that I have, ice cream prices start out around $6 for any size worth a damn. Depending on where you go, the scoop sizes will vary, too. In my experience, Ben and Jerry’s seem a bit skimp while Cold Stone is pretty generous (although this probably isn’t consistent even from location to location).
Hell, we weren’t even consistent in our one location. Christian’s scoop was enormous, with drips of milky cream crawling down the sides of the cup and dyeing the napkin we would give the customers. Kai didn’t have a standard. Whoever she served was rolling the dice, getting a treasure trove, or nothing at all. Jimmy, however, always filled his ice cream the same way: one nice scoop that filled the bowl and maybe and an extra little bit to top it off.
This worked okay for a while but soon people started complaining as they are prone to do.
Some found this too small so I started filling it in just over the cup. One day, however, a small elderly lady got her ice cream and said,
“Oh my. I will never be able to finish this.”
So for a while, my scoop was a little less than the cup.
One day, Dick saw me scooping ice cream into the cup, just under the standard cup, and said,
“That’s too small. Fill up the damn cup.”
And I did, just the way I originally did. If our workplace was a chessboard, Rick was the Queen. Like in the Wire, he had all the moves. Still, it was sort of a relief to have some authority give me a standard to go by.
Or at least I thought. One day, Lou was working at the sandwich store with us. If Dick is the Queen, then Lou is certainly the Kingpin. Her usual days were spent more on the chocolate business. Filling the orders, creating marketing content and art assets, contacting chocolate distributors, communicating with wholesale clients, etc. She had the vision and the driving will to push that legal drug known as sweet cocoa.
At least, that is where her responsibilities lie now. She used to be right up on the front lines with the rest of us soldiers when the business was still brand new. She did it all. Deep in the chocolate pits, dipping the treats, carving, and slicing the blocks of ganache.
By the time Dick and Lou had the sandwich shop, however, she had been far removed from those duties. She was running the business and the sandwich was mostly Dick domain. He didn’t like her in the kitchen because they were prone to fighting.
She did work with us at the front on rare occasions, especially during the holidays. On one such occasion, she helped a customer with some ice cream. They asked for two scoops, one chocolate, the other coffee. She was about to hand the scoop to the customer.
“Lou, that’s actually about the size of a single scoop.”
“Oh,” she said. Her eyes had a slight pop. News to her.
“Yeah. A single scoop just about fills the cup.”
“Oh. I have been doing it this way.”
“I mean, that is just what Dick told me to do.”
She tucked her lips into her mouth as if to hold a breath.
Then she said, “Ok. I was not aware. Now, I know.”
Some patience holding back a clear moment of irritation. I don’t think it was at me. Rather, it was because Dick hadn’t told her.
Still, several weeks later, she did it, again. That time, I didn’t correct her. I don’t know if she had simply forgotten or decided to ignore Dick’s standard. Regardless, It felt weird to tell the boss that she was doing something wrong. Whether it was a power struggle (overt or discreet) was between them. If it was just a matter of memory then who am I to judge? I forget shit all the time. I just reminded myself that my job was to make chocolate and scoop ice cream.
This was the ice-cream cycle. Customer complains. I say sorry. Customer complains. Dick tells them to fuck off. If I see someone scoop too much or too little, I will either say something or keep quiet depending on how courageous I am or how trivial the issue is that day.
It almost doesn’t help that a few months later, I was helping a customer with a rocky road on a waffle cone when Dick came out from the kitchen. He came up close to my scoop, scrutinized it, and said, “Why are your scoops so big?”
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14. The Sandwich Shop Regulars
Danger Wonka 