MY ICE CREAM DREAMS began at seventeen. Fresh out of high school and without a plan, I was in desperate need of “something to do” for the summer. At the time, I was dating a Parisian model named Max. She lived in New York City, but was moving back to France. She invited me to come with her and hang out for the summer. “Why not?,” I thought. I could stay until August and then head off to college. Perfect.
For the first month, Max and I lived with her family in the south of France. Max’s grandmother Estee did most of the cooking. She was an amazing cook. The trouble was, however, that Estee made a hobby out of scrutinizing my every move. She would watch me out of the corner of her eye, arms crossed, a scowl on her face. Despite her behavior (or maybe because of it), I started hanging out more in the kitchen, asking to set the table, stir a pot, chop an onion. Eventually, this little old woman relented and started showing me the secrets behind some of the most amazing foods I had ever tasted. For the rest of the summer, I learned how to make delicious soups, main courses, and desserts.
After a month living in the south, Max and I moved to Paris, where I spent my days seeing movies and plays, visiting museums, exploring, and above all else, visiting Berthillon, one of the great ice cream shops in the city. Sometimes I would wait for hours just to get a single-scoop cone. I could only imagine how much money the shop made.
Max would come with me when she wasn’t working, but she didn’t eat the ice cream because she was lactose-intolerant and would complain about its high price, insisting that her grandmother could make it better. This girl is crazy, I thought. Estee was good, but who could make ice cream better than Berthillon?
One day, I mustered up some courage and marched into Berthillon with one request: Would the ice cream makers teach me their trade? “No,” they swiftly responded.
I moved on to other ice cream shops in Paris—A La Mère de Famille, La Tropicale Glacier, Le Bac à Glaces—and got the same answer. No. No. No. Dejected, I went back to Estee. Why not see whether there was any merit to Max’s words? One bite of Estee’s ice cream cake and I was sold. Max’s eighty-year-old grandmother did, indeed, make better ice cream than any shop I had visited.
I asked Estee to teach me, and to join me in opening a shop somewhere in Nice or Paris. She said she was too old, but pushed me to do it on my own. After a few months of flavor experimentation, trying different types of chocolates, fruits, and other ingredients, I moved my focus to milks—almond, rice, coconut, and others. I would try anything to get the perfect texture and consistency, and my determination was starting to pay off—people were loving what I created.
With Estee’s quality-approval and blessing, I hosted my first party to showcase my frozen treats. The evening was an absolute success: I received rave reviews and even landed a few catering jobs.
I was thrilled my success was growing, but increasingly frustrated that Max couldn’t partake in the ice cream revelry. There had to be some way I could make my desserts healthier and completely dairy-free, I thought. My mission was born.
I began testing and creating soy-based ice creams, which were, by default, healthier, lower in calories, and lactose-free. As I continued to experiment, I found that people loved both the interesting flavors—Kool-Aid, Peanut Butter and Jelly, Curry and Fig—and that they were healthier than regular ice cream. My experiments were a hit with Max, and the rest of her model friends too. But the best part? People couldn’t tell that their dessert was dairy-free.
Despite the success of my new soy-based ice cream, I knew I should at least have a back-up plan (i.e., a college degree) if my ice-cream dreams didn’t pan out. So instead of opening a shop right there in France, I headed home.
After my “summer” in Paris—which lasted two years—I enrolled at Temple University in Philadelphia and started looking for a job to pay for it all. Every restaurant I went, I was told that I could wash dishes. But I didn’t want to be a dishwasher; I wanted to make desserts.
During that time, I began hanging around Piggy’s, a popular barbecue restaurant in the city. One night at Piggy’s, a huge commotion erupted in the kitchen, then spilled out into the dining room. There stood the owner and the cook, calling each other colorful names. And just like that, a position was opened and the owner needed to fill it—fast!
“Can anyone here cook?” he growled, frantically looking around the dining room. I saw an opportunity.
“I can,” I replied eagerly. He waved me forward, as if I had volunteered to sacrifice myself. Others looked on with compassion. What did I sign up for?
Unfortunately, the restaurant changed hands soon thereafter and I was let go. But as luck would have it, I was offered a job as personal chef to one of Piggy’s regular customers—he loved the ice creams and waffles I had added to the menu and wanted them in his own home. Now, this was the guy who would eat at a corner table by himself, who people always exhibited caution with when speaking to or walking by. It all made me a bit nervous, but the money was too good to refuse.
Mr. De Leon was a 6 foot, 5 inch (196 cm), 387-pound (176-kg) chain smoker who went through two packs of cigarettes a day and loved to eat. All he wanted was meat—90 percent of his diet was meat. He owned a nightclub and wanted his meals ready when he got home from work (pretty much any hour of the day).
My schedule was easy; Mr. De Leon would usually come home around the time I was getting ready for my first class of the day. Primarily, I would grill—steak, ribs, rabbit, venison, pork chops, and ham. He didn’t want anything fancy. Every now and then, he’d request corn or mashed potatoes or some other side dish, but usually it was just meat and bread. And of course, dessert (ice cream being his favorite).
One day, Mr. De Leon began complaining of chest pains. I threatened to quit if he didn’t go to the doctor. After several tests, he was diagnosed with high cholesterol and given a complete list of ailments that could develop (if they weren’t developing already) as a result of his excessive weight and unhealthy lifestyle.
The doctor suggested a diet overhaul, which included cutting out some meat and eating more vegetables. I reassured Mr. De Leon that I would make any changes he needed and keep the food tasting just as great.
Then I suggested he become vegan. He didn’t know what that was. I carefully explained the terms “vegetarian” and “vegan” to him.
Mr. De Leon laughed, saying that if he cut meat and dairy from his diet, he would die anyway. He had a million excuses.
I decided to end the discussion. I knew that Mr. De Leon was a competitive man by nature and would never back down from a challenge. “I’ll do it too,” I said. “Let’s see which one of us can last longer as a vegan. I bet you $50,000 (£31,282) that I can stay vegan longer than you.”
This was a win-win for me. I would either get Mr. De Leon to change his lifestyle and eating habits—and live years longer—or I would be a lot richer (and nobody could say I didn’t try my hardest to help the man!). Plus, I was kind of excited to try being vegan after researching all the benefits of an animal-free diet. The data made sense. Being vegan was a good decision for anyone.
My plan worked. Mr. De Leon scoffed, said he had never lost a bet and wasn’t going to start now. I assured him that I would be there and would make the food even better than before. I was totally invested in his change because I was doing it too—and I wanted to eat great food. I also revealed to him that he had been eating dairy-free desserts since I had started working for him. (He confessed that he really couldn’t tell the difference). I had been making the recipes I created in France. I really thought their flavors were richer and truer than traditional ice creams, so why would I ever serve dairy again?
It has been eight years since Mr. De Leon and I started our epicurean journey into the unknown—and we’re both still going strong. We found so many great food choices in our vegan diet that we’ve never felt the need to stray. I am no longer Mr. De Leon’s personal chef, but I will always be grateful for the interesting path I took because of him. Mr. De Leon did lose a good amount of weight and remains a vegan today, though he hasn’t given up his old habits entirely—he still has quite a French fry addiction. His overall health has improved vastly, however, and both the chest pains and alarmingly high cholesterol are gone.
Turning the biggest vegan skeptic (and myself) into vegan proponents has been extremely rewarding. I didn’t have more than $37 (£23) in my bank account when I placed that bet, but I had all the confidence in the world that I could create some terrific dairy-free desserts.
My belief and passion are continued today through Wheeler’s Frozen Dessert Company, which I started in 2000, after finishing college. I began the company by selling ice cream out of a 1972 ice cream truck. I went to as many festivals and outdoor events as New England weather would permit. From there, my reputation—and number of catering jobs—began to grow. In 2007, I opened the first all-vegan ice cream parlor in Boston. Turns out there are throngs of people as passionate as I am about vegan ice cream!
This book showcases many of the recipes I offer in my shop, as well as recipes I’ve been inspired to create through my life adventures. I hope you enjoy making and tasting them as much as I’ve enjoyed creating them.
