July 21, 2008
By: Ken Alan
kalan@aroundphilly.com
It was the time when waiting in line would always be worth it; we’d cue up with so many other families, filing in to that stark, fluorescent space where tanned young things with milk-fed white teeth and corn silk hair stood behind the counter, serving from so many creamy, dreamy, colorful tubs of buttery rich ice cream.
We would emerge with our cups and cones, tongues lolling, and park ourselves on a picnic bench as the sun began a final trek downward. For my mom and me, it was one single scoop (always mint chip) while each of my sisters would do a double of coffee ice cream garnished with brown chocolate specs that made me think about shiny brown ants.
And our old man, well, he was a triple-scoop in a dish kind-of-guy, usually just plain old vanilla bean.
I recall the background noise: other families slurping away and chattering while the crackle of the Phillies game over static-y AM radio would usually be our eminent soundtrack.
Whatever happened to the ice cream parlor, anyway?
Though some are still around, I guess the majority went the way of, well –they’re kind of like the independently owned pharmacies of yore, most having been long edged out of the market by big players like CVS and Rite Aid. I mean, there’s one of those on every corner, no?
Still, seek and you shall find some delicious old-time parlors and malt shops amid the newfangled wave of Cold Stone Creamery, Rita’s Water Ice and Baskin Robbins.
Just ask any local where to score that creamy fix and he’ll surely guide you to his sugar daddy.
Let’s begin with one of the very best in the western suburbs,
Handel’s Homemade Ice Cream in Berwyn. This award-winner has a far-reaching fan base. Heck, I know a couple who live a half block from Philly’s famed Capogiro (yummy gelato) yet they religiously make their gas-guzzling summertime pilgrimage west to this land of over 80 small-batch offerings.
Sure, Handel’s has chocolate, coffee and butter pecan, but it’s best to try something icily esoteric like blueberry cheesecake chunk, deep dish apple pie, or graham central station. All flavors are made in-house daily.
If aforementioned Capogiro is Philly’s top gelateria, then its suburban counterpart is surely
Sprazzo which occupies West Chester’s most primo real estate locale at the corner of Gay and High streets. Funky and always bustling, this two-floor space has a reputation as being the region’s premier handcrafted Italian gelato and sorbetto sensation. Come colder months and Sprazzo is a hip coffee bar.
While Sprazzo offers a very European experience, nearby
West Chester Scoop is as American as rocky road yet as offbeat as oatmeal ice cream – yes, oatmeal ice cream. (Give it a try and trust me.) They also have sinfully good donuts, too. (22 N. Darlington Street)
Another family favorite of ours is a place called
Milky Way Farm, just a couple minutes off the PA Turnpike in lovely Chester Springs (just north of Exton). Indeed, the place is a real working farm as the cadre of burr-covered cats, matted goats and methane-pungent Holstein cows can attest. It’s from those black-and-white bovine beauties where the Farm’s homemade ice creams begin.
We really dig Priscilla’s pistachio, Bessie’s black raspberry and Blossom’s butter pecan. Note: It’s cash-only at MWF.
I’ve had the chance to travel to so many other unique ice-cream parlors over the years: Moccia’s Ice Cream Junction (a.k.a. Main Street Station) in Schwenksville, which is the quintessential small-town parlor;
Petrucci’s, a working farm which makes its own – located off Henderson Road in King of Prussia;
Nifty Fifties (in Ridley Park and one in Bensalem) which is akin to Arnold’s malt shop from
Happy Days, and good old Frosty Falls in Bridgeport, just over the bridge from Norristown.
All are very fine and each offers a nostalgic experience, yet for my family and me, there’s a favorite, one that has earned a five-scoop rating in our book: Brown’s Cow on Main Street in Phoenixville, a quaint storefront tucked in a town home where all owner Warren Brown serves is Bassett’s, possibly the very best ice cream in the universe. There, my daughter can have her rum raisin, “Gadzooks!” for my son, and my wife and I always order the mocha chip.
At our last visit, we arrived five minutes after closing time and Brown, peeking conspiratorially out the door, kindly let us in, because that’s the way it is at his Cow.
I recently took my parents out shopping at the mall and we stopped for some ice cream. When we arrived at the chain operation, with young men and woman slapping scoops onto a frozen cold stone, pushing and churning the too-buttery cream forcefully with a Popeye-like forearm, my dad stared in wonder. He was handed his gloppy serving as the young man tallied up four ice creams.
“That’ll be twenty dollars, please.”
My dad gawped, reached into his pocket, pulled out a Jackson and thought, I knew, of summer nights, fluorescent parlor lights and of young beauties doling out the perfect scoop.
