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Michelle’s eyes light up when she sees all the pies in the display case. I figured we’d have lunch on Baldwin Street again, then go to Ginger Scoops, and she decided on the pie shop. Personally, I was more intrigued by the Indonesian restaurant (Paulie’s Laksa) and the Korean-Polish restaurant (K-Polish).
The Korean-Polish restaurant has a Korean section of the menu with bibimbap and stuff like that, then a Polish section, and lastly, a fusion section. The fusion menu has things like kimchi jjigae served in a potato pancake, and bulgogi pierogis. I’m not sure how good it would be, but I’m curious.
Michelle, however, is all about the pie.
“What’s this one?” she asks the lady behind the counter.
“Pulled pork pie.”
“And this one?”
“Braised lamb and rosemary.”
“Let me read them for you,” I say to Michelle, not wanting her to annoy the poor lady.
In addition to the four types of savory pie, which are all single-serving size, there are six sweet pies and tarts. There’s also a special written on a little chalkboard on the counter. Special of the day: Chocolate tart with Vietnamese coffee ice cream.
Chocolate and coffee? You can’t go wrong with those. I’m practically salivating.
And then I register what the sign actually says.
Vietnamese coffee ice cream.
I recoil as if I’ve been hit.
“...one slice of lemon-lime tart, and one slice of—”
“Hold on a second,” I interrupt. “Michelle, are you ordering without me?”
“Yep! We’re having pulled pork pie, chicken pot pie, braised lamb and rosemary pie, lemon-lime tart, pecan pie, and strawberry-rhubarb pie.”
Michelle is not shy about ordering food at restaurants. She’s also got an excellent memory. Whenever I read her a menu, she remembers every item.
“Were you trying to get some extra dessert past me?” I put my hands on my hips. “We’re having dessert at Ginger Scoops, not here.”
“But you’re not having dessert at Ginger Scoops because you hate ice cream,” my niece points out. “I ordered the lemon-lime tart, pecan pie, and strawberry-rhubarb pie for you.”
“Yes, because what I need is three slices of pie.”
“You’re lots bigger than me, so you need lots more dessert.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “You were planning on trying all of these desserts?”
She nods vigorously. “But just a little bite.”
“Uh-huh. I think you were planning on eating a lot more than a little bite, and it’s not happening.”
“But Uncle Drew...”
I turn to the lady behind the counter. “Sorry about that. We will have the pulled pork pie, the braised lamb and rosemary pie, and the lemon-lime tart.”
The pulled pork pie is delicious, and the rosemary lamb pie is pretty damn good, too.
“When Daddy comes back from Seattle,” Michelle says, “I’m going to ask him to make pie with me. Do you think it’s difficult?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never baked pie before.”
I have another bite of the pulled pork pie and look at the ice cream shop across the street. I wonder if the same woman will be there again today.
We finish the savory pies, then start on the lemon-lime tart. Even though Michelle’s getting ice cream afterward, I let her have half of it. I’m her uncle. I’m allowed to spoil her a little if I want to.
Mm. That really is some quality tart.
When we’re finished, we head across to Ginger Scoops. Michelle skips excitedly through the door, just like my stupid heart.
The woman is here again today. There’s no one else at the counter, but a few people are sitting on the patio, enjoying their ice cream.
“You’re back,” she says.
“I am.” I try to sound suitably grumpy, even though part of me is glad to be here.
“I’m surprised to see you, given you proclaimed your hatred of ice cream last time.”
She’s wearing the same apron again today, a simple black T-shirt underneath.
She’s just as beautiful as I remember.
“It’s not my choice,” I say. “My niece really likes it here, so”—I shrug—“here we are.”
“Perhaps I can tempt you with our special?” The woman points to the bottom of the blackboard that lists the ice cream flavors. “Chocolate tart with Vietnamese coffee ice cream.”
Wait...what?
“We were just at Happy As Pie,” I say, “and they had exactly the same special.”
“I know. It’s a collaboration. What do you think? I’ll be sure to give you only a small serving of ice cream.”
“No, thank you.”
“You don’t think chocolate tart with coffee ice cream sounds delicious?”
“I like chocolate—”
“OMG, call the press! He actually likes chocolate!”
I hide a smile. “But as I said, I don’t like ice cream.”
“How about spiced apple pie with ginger ice cream? Or strawberry-rhubarb pie with vanilla ice cream? Do those sound good? Or maybe—”
“What part of ‘I don’t like ice cream’ do you not understand?”
“Fine.” Her lips thin. “Just a plain black coffee?”
“That’s right.”
She turns to Michelle and gives her a wide smile that she didn’t give me. “What would you like to try today? Do you want me to read off the flavors for you?”
“I want to try the Vietnamese coffee,” Michelle says.
The woman looks doubtful that my young niece will like coffee-flavored ice cream but gives her a sample anyway. Me, on the other hand? I’m afraid Michelle will enjoy it and order a scoop. How much caffeine does the ice cream have? Will she be bouncing off the wall from a combined sugar and caffeine high?
To my relief, Michelle scrunches up her nose. “Ew. Why do adults like this stuff?”
She tries a few more flavors and settles on chocolate-raspberry and ginger. We take a seat at a table inside, me with my coffee and her with her ice cream.
“Do you know what next weekend is?” she asks.
“No, what is it?”
“My birthday!”
Right. I don’t know how I forgot about that. “Are you having a party?”
“Of course I’m having a party! Are you coming?”
“I wasn’t invited. Is it a party just for your friends?”
“You can come, too,” she says.
“How generous of you.” I wonder what her birthday party will entail. Presumably the food will be good, because Michelle will not stand for anything else. Will they play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey? Will they whack at a piñata? Will ten girls in party dresses and pigtails run around screaming for two hours and throw Shopkins at each other while they demolish a charcuterie board?
We lapse into silence. I look out the window as I sip my coffee, and when I turn my gaze back to Michelle, she’s staring at the woman behind the counter.
I don’t blame her. The woman in question is very pretty, but...
“It’s not polite to stare at people,” I whisper.
Michelle doesn’t listen. “She looks like me, don’t you think? Will I be as pretty as her when I grow up?”
“Of course you will. But please stop staring.”
“I’ve never seen someone who looks so much like me before. Are we related?”
“I hope not.”
I’m certainly having thoughts about this woman that would be inappropriate if we were related. For example, I’m currently picturing her with nothing under that apron.
But at the same time, my heart squeezes, because I know—sort of—what it’s like to be Michelle. When I was her age, there were very few books at the library about kids who looked like me. I had family and friends who looked like me, but books and movies were a different matter.
Michelle, however, doesn’t know anyone who looks quite like her. She’s biracial, and her features are a mix of her parents’; she doesn’t strongly favor either one.
She goes up to the counter. “What’s your name?”
“Chloe,” says the lady.
Chloe. I file this away for future use.
“I’m Michelle. We look like sisters, don’t we? I always wanted a sister, but even though I ask for one every birthday, I haven’t gotten one yet.”
“We do! I looked so much like you when I was your age.”
“Do you have a sister?”
Chloe shakes her head before leading my niece back to the table.
After Michelle finishes her ice cream and I finish my coffee, I take her hand and give Chloe a curt nod.
“What would you like to do now?” I ask my niece.
“I want to draw!”
As it turns out, Michelle wants to draw ice cream cones. Back at my apartment, she fills four pieces of paper with pictures of ice cream in a variety of colors. She asks me how to spell “chocolate” and “green tea” and “ginger” so she can label each one.
By the time Adrienne shows up at five thirty, Michelle has moved on to drawing a fruit and vegetable garden. However, she seems to think everything grows on trees. Not only are there apple and pear trees, but also carrot and tomato trees.
Perhaps a trip to the farm would be educational.
“Mommy!” Michelle runs over and gives Adrienne a hug.
“Did you have a good day, honey? Did you behave for Uncle Drew?”
She nods, and Adrienne raises an eyebrow at me.
“I invited Uncle Drew to my birthday party,” Michelle says. “Is that okay?”
Adrienne turns to me. “I was going to ask you to help, actually, if you’re free next Saturday. Nathan isn’t around, and I’d like to have a second adult there.”
“Sure,” I say, even though supervising a children’s birthday party sounds like the opposite of fun.
“In fact...” Adrienne leads me to the balcony door and drops her voice. “Michelle really likes that ice cream shop. She talked about it all week. Do you think you could pick up some ice cream from there for the party?”
Well, isn’t this just great. I’m going to have to pay an extra visit to the ice cream shop that looks like a unicorn palace and see Chloe again.
My pulse beats quicker at the thought.
Calm the fuck down, I tell my body.
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “What flavors should I get?”
“Why don’t you try all the flavors and pick the ones you like best?”
I look at my sister in horror.
“Just kidding.” She laughs. “Whatever Michelle likes. Something that would complement the chocolate ganache cake I’m picking up on Saturday morning.”
* * *
Once Adrienne and Michelle leave, I grab a beer and a half-finished bar of dark chocolate, then head to the balcony with Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich.
I’m more than halfway through the book. The part I’m on now is about how to identify your inner ice cream sandwich. Lisa describes her own inner ice cream sandwich as oatmeal-raisin cookies with a scoop of mocha ice cream in between.
There are so many problems with this, I don’t even know where to start. I put the book down and massage my temples.
First of all: raisins in cookies are an abomination. Oatmeal cookies are good, but they should have chocolate chips, not raisins. Who the hell thinks raisins belong in oatmeal cookies?
Second of all: raisins and mocha don’t go together at all. They clash. Isn’t that obvious?
I sigh, then pick up the book and continue reading.
It doesn’t matter if people think your inner ice cream sandwich is stupid, either because they are affronted by the very concept of having an inner ice cream sandwich, or because they don’t like your ice cream and cookie choices. This is your ice cream sandwich. It should perfectly capture you, and you should treasure it. Don’t let anyone melt your inner ice cream sandwich. Don’t let people like Marvin Wong anywhere near your ice cream sandwich.
Uh-huh.
Lisa provides a list of cookies and ice cream flavors the reader could consider for their own ice cream sandwich, but she emphasizes that this is not a complete list, and it’s up to you, the reader, to find your own inner truth.
Uh-huh.
Your flavors should be things that you like, and that represent you. Maybe your ice cream is chocolate chip cookie dough. Little chunks of sweet and raw passion. The obvious cookie pairing would be chocolate chip cookies, but dare to be different! How about double chocolate cookies? I think that adds an air of sophistication. Or perhaps peanut butter cookies because you have a nutty sense of humor?
I have no idea what she’s going on about. It sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me.
Now I, personally, am not a fan of black sesame. But if you’re mysterious and a little exotic, maybe this will work for you.
Exotic? Seriously?
Ugh.
I’m probably the only reason Lisa has even tried black sesame ice cream. I recall taking her to an Asian dessert place in the north end of the city, and she had a sundae with black sesame and mango ice cream.
I have a clear memory of that day. We sat at the back of the café, and it felt like the rest of the world just disappeared.
I don’t expect to ever have a date like that again.
While we’re speaking of exotic flavors, another option is green tea ice cream, which I tried once at an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant. Frankly, I don’t think green tea and ice cream belong together, but perhaps this represents how you’re an unusual combination!
If you need inspiration, visit a local ice cream parlor. Be bold, be brave, and order a triple scoop of things you’ve never tried before!
Uh-huh.
It rubs me the wrong way that the only two flavors of ice cream she doesn’t like are black sesame and green tea. I feel personally attacked, even though I no longer eat ice cream. Also, I doubt most all-you-can-eat sushi restaurants serve very good green tea ice cream. Maybe she’d feel differently if she tried the green tea ice cream at Ginger Scoops.
I have a sip of beer and start reading again.
Now, you’re probably wondering about Marvin Wong’s inner ice cream sandwich...
Nope, not happening. I’m done with this crap for today.
I shut the book and rub my temples, trying to restore the brain cells I lost in the past half hour.
I don’t have any plans for the evening. I texted Glenn earlier to see if he was around, but his son caught some awful bug from daycare, and now Glenn’s sick, too. It’ll just be me and my home entertainment system.
Well, that’s not so bad. I don’t actually mind spending Saturday nights alone.
My chest feels a little heavy at the thought, but this is my life, and I like it.
Really, I do.
It suits me, being alone most of the time.
And someday this week, I’ll go to Ginger Scoops and get a few pints of ice cream, and...crap. I also need to get Michelle a birthday present. That totally slipped my mind.
What on earth should I get a six-year-old foodie?