Appetizers

We All Scream

Howie Southworth’s travelogue of ice-cold horchata under the sweltering Valencian sun prompted our contemplation of the stateside version of this ritual chill—scoops of ice cream on a summer’s evening—and the question of when a wacky flavor actually works. The canon of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry, plus the beatified coffee, black raspberry, and mint chocolate chip, are sainted for a reason, but one must experiment. 

Teaberry. Driving a rented U-Haul through the rippled hills of western Pennsylvania some two years back, I stopped off I-80 in the small town of Bellefonte, PA. There, I discovered an ice cream trailer parked in a gravel lot with a strange flavor called “teaberry” listed on the menu. It was a flavor whose name I only knew as a ghost of a taste past, an artifact like slippery elm or sarsaparilla. I ordered a scoop. It emerged a pink deeper than Pepto-Bismol, and it tasted like creamed breath mints. I think about it at least once a month. —Sam

Rainwater. In Los Angeles’s Echo Park, just past a Lactaid gumball machine, you’ll find a prismatic array of ice cream flavors normal and ab- at Fluffy McCloud’s. The proudly freaky, organic scoops (available with a sprinkle of horny goat weed, collagen, lion’s mane, or a handful of other supplements and toppings) aren’t helping L.A.’s woo-woo reputation, but they slap. See: the rainwater sorbet. After the shop spent a month harvesting rainwater, they debuted the flavor in January to celebrate the new year. I enjoyed a clean, crisp cone, redolent with the unmistakable grassy damp of petrichor. A real fresh start. —Alex

Pizza. My last real job before I got hired at a food magazine was working production at a small, sweet, very strange ice cream company. It was 2012, and weird flavors were our stock and trade. Earl Grey-Sriracha. Coconut Thai Curry. Everything Bagel. I had a lot of fun, and even got to fiddle with some flavors of my own. (I don’t think Manischewitz-Grape Nut ever made it into the dip case, sadly.) Our most controversial flavor was Pizza, a collaboration with the pizzeria next door—you could walk a slice over and get a scoop on top—and when I tell you it was disgusting, I mean it. Oregano. Fresh garlic. Tomato paste. All combined with a super premium ice cream base fresh from Amish country. It made me a little suspect of all ice cream for a while there, and inexorably linked the waft of fresh sweet cream to the taste of Pizza Combos. —Amiel

Styrian. Ridgewood, Queens, where I reside, could be considered the Portland, OR of New York City, and there’s no better argument for this than our local ice cream shop. The Ice Cream Window is open two and a half days a week, only during the summer months, and serves scoops from the window of a design studio. What sold me were its specific and allegedly Europe-inspired flavors. They include Mak (lemon poppyseed), Waldmeister (sweet woodruff), and Styrian (pumpkin seed oil and pine nut). The latter has become a personal favorite: a simple vanilla base punctuated with round pumpkin and roasty pine nut notes. It’s subtle but also complex and, most important, freaking delicious. The shop often has tempting limited-edition offerings (like Linden, made from the neighborhood’s local linden trees harvested in June), but I generally opt for Styrian, knowing the Window will close come autumn and I will curse its fleeting artisanal availability. (My dairy-intolerant stomach will be grateful.) —Cale

Saffron labne. I am often and enthusiastically on the record about Superiority Burger’s rotating cast of gelati e sorbetti being the best of all time—a perusal of my text messages reveals pleas to friends to meet me in Alphabet City to eat Thai iced tea gelato, pomelo sorbet, corn tortilla gelato, barley tea gelato, boysenberry sorbet, quince sorbet, rosemary-butterscotch gelato, pluot sorbet, cardamom cake gelato, you get the picture. But the flavor I’ll always rearrange my schedule around is their saffron labne gelato: tart, almost savory, and luridly yellow-orange from the most expensive spice in the world. A couple of years ago, I had splurged on an entire pint and was hoarding it in my freezer for the right occasion. When that day came, hungover the day after throwing a backyard party, it became clear that during the festivities, a guest had come upstairs to my apartment, rummaged around in my freezer, and eaten a couple of big spoonfuls out of the pint. (The smoking gun of the abandoned spoon was still in the sink.) Whoever it was—I never found out—I honestly can’t blame them. —Nozlee