Please, Mister Softee, Don't Become TikTokified
What we lose when we plan eating out. Plus, some appetizing recommendations.
“Sometimes you need a Mister Softee on a medical level,” says Jake Cornell in this TikTok on his discovery that the ubiquitous New York ice cream truck has an app.
He’s being satirical but the first time I had ice cream from a Mister Softee truck, it felt like a medical necessity. I was 24 and visiting New York for a few days in the summer to find an apartment before starting school at the end of August. To my frosted Canadian bones, the heat and humidity was unbearable. I ambitiously over-scheduled my few days with apartment viewings from as far north as Harlem to as far south as Park Slope. Being new to the city, I was overwhelmed navigating the subway system for the first time and unaware that many of the non-air-conditioned trains double as saunas in the summer. I had found what would become my apartment in Clinton Hill, but the broker told me I had less than 24 hours to get him the rental application, including a cashier’s cheque worth six month’s rent. I ran to the nearest bank only to discover TD Bank US is not affiliated with TD Bank Canada. I remember walking out of the bank and finally breaking down in tears, worried that I never be able to find a place on my own.
As I was walking to the subway after deciding I was done for the day, I stumbled on the Brooklyn Museum. I happened to be there on their free admission night so I decided to take a detour. But first, I noticed a Mister Softee truck parked outside. Thirsty and hungry I decided to get a vanilla ice cream on a whim (I was at the peak of my clean-eating phase at this time so the decision was very out of character). I ate it as I walked into the museum and tasting the smooth, sweet ice cream while transitioning from the humid, loud street to the cool, quiet space felt like pure bliss.
In that moment, Mister Softee saved me. It wouldn’t be the last time. In the year that followed, I often spotted one whenever I was feeling upset. Often there would be one waiting for me, like a supportive parent lined up to pick up their kid after school, after a therapy session (even though my therapy sessions weren’t always in the same place). I’d saunter over to the truck and order my usual vanilla scoop, wet-eyed and puffy-faced. That’s the thing about the ice cream truck—half the joy is the spontaneity.
And when spontaneity doesn’t work in your favour, we appreciate a hard-won battle the most. Determined to re-create the satisfaction of my first Mister Softee eight years ago, when I moved back to NYC last summer, I set out to revisit the truck I thought was permanently posted outside the Brooklyn Museum. What I failed to remember was that the West Indian Day parade shuts down the street on which Mister Softee is usually parked. Hoping he would be serving the parade crowd, I continued to his usual spot but he was no where to be found. I found myself stuck in a crowd that was moving east, so I continued on with the parade, refusing to give up on my ice cream craving this soon. The further I walked, the more determined I became to find him. When I realized how far I’d come, I decided to give up. But just when I was about to turn around at Utica Avenue, I spotted him on a corner behind an overflowing garbage can.
Like a kid chasing the ice cream truck jingle, I practically ran up to the truck. “One vanilla cone please!” I exclaimed breathlessly, as I proudly presented my credit card. “We only take cash,” he responded, indifferently. “Are you serious? I walked so far…” I said more to myself than to him. Defeated, I bowed my head and began to walk away. A few steps later, I heard him call back to me. I turned around to see the grey-haired man waving me over. He disappeared from the window and reappeared a moment later with a glistening white cone in his hand. “Here,” he said, shoving the free cone towards me. I was so grateful, I wanted to cry.
This is the magic of New York I worry we lose with a Mister Softee app. We rarely decide where we’ll have dinner spontaneously while walking on the street anymore—you have to reserve, via an app, months in advance. And when you want to order delivery, you scroll until you see the photo of what you want, a few taps of a finger and it’s delivered to your door. There are no high stakes in eating out anymore—we’ve virtually experienced the food before we even taste it, creating an illusory sense of control over our eating choices and subsequent satisfaction from said choices.
We know what Mister Softee tastes like, so in that sense, we still carry expectations of how it’ll taste and how it’ll make us feel. But not knowing when, and if, we’ll get to have that satisfaction is the novelty. The thrill of hearing the ice cream truck, and hoping it doesn’t disappear in the time it takes you to run and get money from your parents, is a special childhood experience that we shouldn’t have to give up on as adults. I refuse to accept that the only culinary experience that plays hard-to-get in my adult life is a reservation to the latest trending restaurant. I want the thrill of the Mister Softee chase.
Best,
Anna
Published 📝
TASTE - The Tasting Menu Gets A Trim
If I’ve talked to you in person recently, you’ve probably heard me talk about this story I’ve been working on for the past few months. It was my favorite kind of assignment—one in which brainstorming with editors (the thoughtful Matt Rodbard and Aliza Abarbanel) leads to a different story than my initial pitch. It all started this summer in the French Riviera, where I experienced the tasting menu at the former world’s best restaurant, Mirazur. I felt horribly guilty for not going being able to finish every beautiful plate that I was served, which led me to question whether excess is still the pinnacle of luxury in fine dining anymore. This led me to interview several chefs of acclaimed restaurants across the U.S. to see where the tasting menu is heading. What I discovered is that the tasting menu is no longer a unidirectional monologue from the chef, but a two-way conversation, in which the diner is empowered with the freedom of choice.
Reading 📖
My First Popsicle: An Anthology of Food and Feelings Edited by Zoysia Mamet
I rarely read short stories but this collection has me thinking I should do so more often. It’s a collection of heartfelt short stories that explore the memories we associate with different meals. From legit writers like Jia Tolentino to comics like Michelle Bureau to actors like Ted Danson, the contributors run the gamut.
I love that most of the short stories end with a recipe of the dish described in the piece. I definitely want to make the banana dumplings Anita Lo writes about in her piece.
“Banana dumplings—yellow on the outside, white on the inside. Chinese, yet not Chinese. Complex and formed from a multitude of cultural influences. You look at it and it is just another dumpling among the endless dumplings out there—unseen until you take a bite and look inside.”
Articles:
✍️ A 20-year-old piece on food writing that holds up.
🍌 It is not new news that the cavendish banana is at risk of extinction but I'm still glad to see my favorite fruit get the NYT feature it deserves.
🤳 Restaurant critics can still break the algorithm.
👩🍳 Ina Garten and the age of abundance.
🍽 A restaurant etiquette refresh.
🛒 The existential dread of grocery shopping (in Canada).
🥞 Can young chefs save the NYC diner?
🥐 The plain croissant is still the best croissant.
Watching 📺
I haven’t been watching much culinary-centric content lately, except for catching up on The Bear. But when I do get a craving for some comfort food TV I put on Britain’s Best Home Cook (BBC, Hulu). I loved The Great British Bake Off, so having Mary Berry on this series, not to mention the quaint charm of the British contestants, on this spin-off satiates my craving for a smooth brain cooking show.
Snacking 🍌
It is officially fall, my favorite season. But up until this week, it was still hot enough in New York for me to crave ice cream. (In Seoul, where I am now, it’s still very much summer, and I plan on satiating my ice cream craving with plenty of bingsu). If my summer had a theme, it was definitely ice cream. One of my favorite recent trips was to Portland, to get a behind-the-scenes look at the operations of what is arguably the West Coast’s most beloved ice cream shop: Salt & Straw (I’m so excited they just opened in NYC last weekend, check out their inventive New York flavors like pastrami on rye, my fave is the pistachio cannoli). In Portland, I went on my first ice cream factory tour, that was nothing short of Willy Wonka, where I tasted the best ice cream I’ve ever had: freshly churned caramel salted sweet cream ice cream straight out of the machine right before it’s frozen into pints.
In Rome a couple weeks ago, where it was so hot I almost passed out one day from heat stroke, I had some of the best Italian gelato I’ve ever tasted—a double-scoop of iced latte pistachio cream and fior di latte—while sitting next to the Pantheon. And then, of course, there was good ol’ Mister Softee. I went to the truck outside the Brooklyn Museum and created my own little hack to make the cone into more of a satiating snack—I used my favourite protein bar, power crunch, for texture. It’s a vanilla flavored waffle bar so it is reminiscent of a waffle cone, but with creamy vanilla icing laced throughout (not endorsed I swear, I get em at Trader Joe’s).
The best ice cream I ate this week was at, of all places, a vegetarian restaurant: abcV. I had the pleasure of dining at the Jean-Georges restaurant to celebrate The Rosenberg Meta, a clean energy-fuelled virtual landscape created by students of Institut auf dem Rosenberg, which exhibited this week at the SwissNex Climate Ring. I adore pistachio cream so I loved the pistachio ice cream that accompanied the pistachio frangipane tart. I’m not one for savory desserts but I surprisingly liked the sweet corn gelato too.
I guess it’s one of the least stereotypical Asian things about me—I like my desserts sweet. So when I received a surprise package from Magnolia Bakery this week, I was over the moon. I assumed it would be banana pudding but when I opened it, it was an entire birthday cake (with icing in my fave color, green!). Who could it be from? I wondered. My birthday was in August so I assumed it was a mistake, and meant for my neighbor who has a similar name. But after double-checking the name on the box was in fact mine, I recalled that I didn’t have a birthday cake this year. I had mentioned this in passing to a colleague at Micato and they were so thoughtful, they sent me a cake!