We spent last (long) weekend in Milan (pronounced Milaaaano…) to see friends who moved there last year from London and haven’t been seen since. That may have to do with the fact that I have never been to Milano, and they have a young child, so they’re arguably less mobile than we are (a cat can cat-sat, as my brother showed during that same weekend: the little guy didn’t poo on anyone’s bed, so the operation was deemed a resounding success).
We arrived late Thursday evening, right on time for dinner at a restaurant next to our airbnb, right on the canals (pronounced Naviiiili…). To be honest, I didn’t even know that Milan had canals, let alone that it was an incredibly popular neighbourhood filled with bars and restaurants. In other words, we didn’t have to go that far to eat pasta (about 40 feet). As we were enjoying our focaccia (starters are important), I said to my fiancée:
- After this, are you OK to grab ice cream for desert?
- You mean, no tiramisu?
- Come on, we’re in Italy, country of the ice cream, it’s 75 degrees outside and you love ice cream, so why would we eat pastry?
- You know I agree with that statement. I’m just surprised that you’re the one making it. In other words, of course it’s a yes for ice cream.
- We’re still having pasta before, though, right?
- Yeah. Let’s not get crazy.
- I’ll get 3 scoops of ice cream, by the way. Because we’re in Italy.
- Yeah. Let’s not get crazy…
A little while later, as we were casually conversing over our empty pasta plates, I noted:
- It’s already 10:40, honey… Shouldn’t we be going to that ice cream parlour?
- Huh… yes, especially since they close at 11…
- Wow… What?! How far is it?!
- Down the block.
Right there and then, I jumped into emergency mode.
- OK. I’ll get the check, meet you in the street [well, technically, the canal], meantime you check the best route and off we go!
- Funny…. You’re never that organized when it comes to booking hotels…
- They’re not edible…
Minutes later, we were speed walking our way to the ice cream parlour: according to my fiancée (and she’s usually right with those things), it was the best rated in the entire neighbourhood. We got in at 10:52: there was still a queue waiting to order and they didn’t show any sign of shutting the doors on us. I immediately felt very relieved, and immediately after started checking flavours: there were too many. By the time it came to me, I decided to start with the classics:
- Hi! Can I please have 2 scoops in a cone, with pistacchio [pronounced pistaaakio] and hazelnut?
- Of course, Sir.
Naturally, my fiancée chose sorbets I didn’t know the names of (who ever heard of mango?). As we were walking back with our mouths fuller than our hands, she went:
- Didn’t you say you wanted 3 scoops?
- I did… F**k… I forgot in all that confusion…
- Because there’s another gelateria (ice cream parlour) around the corner, and they’re the second best noted around… Just sayin’…
- Well… What’s the difference between 3 and 4 scoops, really?
And so we stopped for another quick ice cream pit stop and I picked coconut and some other crazy flavour for ice cream #2 (because who ever heard of anyone getting a single of scoop of ice cream, I ask of you?). Admittedly, I started feeling quite full after that: apparently, that coconut scoop was not sorbet.
The morale of the story is not that I am an animal (everybody knows that). Sunday night, on our last night in town, we decided to go back to that ice cream parlour to properly say goodbye to the neighbourhood. And we realized that actual opening hours were not as indicated on Google: they closed at midnight on week days, later on weekends.
No regrets, though.