“Have you tried our pistachio? How about the Ovaltine?” says Khalid Hamid, co-owner and operator of Island Pops in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, desperately trying to find something new for me. Only I’m here every week, and I’ve tasted pretty much everything. He lets me try something he’s been working on: a fruit-and-champagne-filled Mother’s Day flavor.
A week later, I’m back. His face lights up, telling me about a tweak he’s made pushing the flavor over the edge. I stand to the side and wait as he reaches elbow-deep into the case to scoop a perfect ball—and then some—of Guinness Caramel for a customer. He packs the cup, handles the tap-to-pay, and waits for the man to be out the door before running up the steps into the kitchen. He lugs a several-gallon-large, white, plastic tub in both of his arms as he descends again. Setting it down on the counter next to the cash, he tears open the lid, grabs a wooden tasting stick, and hands it to me for a final review.
Somehow it’s even better than the last iteration—an edit to the mango-cherry compote really did it. Between the Champagne-infused grapefruit, the orange-pink hue, and the fruit-forward sweetness, Hamid had finally landed on a flavor he felt was worthy of the mothers in the neighborhood.
It’s this kind of engagement—this level of concern, care, and pride—that keeps me coming back for more.
And while Island Pops is my neighborhood scoop shop, it’s just one of many—though not as many as there once were—around New York to prioritize quality over scale.
Just a couple of hours upstate, I stumble into another. I pull off the road onto the driveway of Cherries in Stone Ridge. This is my first visit, but the staff is proud to show off the (surprisingly affordable) menu and tell me about the local partners, like Jane’s Ice Cream, who provide this roadside stand with their frozen goods. There are no “Come on, hurry up!” eyes darting over the counter as I take my time with the menu.
Having a local ice cream parlor, or wandering into someone else’s, is a chance to engage that sense of playfulness so easily lost with age. It’s the nostalgia we’re all craving, and it’s a moment where the weight of your decision costs less than $10. For a brief time, your only worry is strawberry or mint chip?
And in those moments, when you’re five tiny-spoon samples in, and the line is mounting behind you, the person behind the counter is generous. Maybe they offer an opinion or give you a specialty flavor. It’s a chance to connect—with yourself and with the person topping off the cone—not unlike being a regular at a bar.
But when those places are more of a corporate operation, oftentimes the level of hospitality I want isn’t there.
If I can’t make a decision at a Van Leeuwen, I get stressed. At a place like Caffè Panna, the pressure to keep things moving only mounts as the blocks-long line swells. So in a city with private-equity-backed chains, made-for-social-media pop-ups and way more gelaterias than one American state should have, all I want is a scoop from a small business that just wants to serve its neighborhood.
From COVID-related closures to unmanageable rents and supply chain disruptions, there are myriad reasons the businesses I crave have been melting away. But a few players across the five boroughs are still nourishing the joy. Between balancing out high ingredient cost to steady catering gigs keeping the lights on in the winter, no two shops’ success looks identical. Still, every parlor owner I’ve spoken to prioritizes the same thing: the people around them.
Petrushka Bazin Larsen opened Harlem’s Sugar Hill Creamery with husband Nick to satisfy their own craving. While enjoying their ritual of post-dinner ice cream during a stint in Washington, D.C., Bazin Larsen, a native New Yorker, was disheartened thinking about how they couldn’t have this moment when in Harlem. But that’s when her thought spiral turned positive. Remembering there was nowhere local for them to get a scoop, remembering that one of her early goals included opening some sort of eatery, and acknowledging that they couldn’t afford the debt that full-blown restaurants often incur, an ice cream shop was their ideal solution.
Now, they work together near their home and their children, making small-batch, homemade ice cream and serving their neighborhood—which is what Bazin Larsen wanted at the start.
She says that while their main revenue comes from year-round catering, their reliance on the collective keeps them otherwise afloat. Bazin Larsen stays in contact and collaboration with other ice cream makers across NYC—and the United States—even cultivating a group of Black ice cream makers to tackle the industry from a shared perspective. From where Bazin Larsen stands, it’s nearly impossible to survive this business without a strong network of peers.
For Hamid and Shelly Marshall, his wife and co-owner of Island Pops, lifelines include Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce and the Brooklyn Public Library’s business center, allowing them to trade resources with neighboring entrepreneurs. Jolene Delisle of Cherries put both locals and visitors at the forefront when she and husband Lawrence O’Toole bought the roadside ice cream stand. Keeping prices down allows full-time neighbors to stop by regularly, while the branding and promise of quality attracts destination eaters.
In a sweet moment, Hamid tells me that investment in “regulars” is paramount for Island Pops, and for any ice cream business that wants to last. Foot traffic and newcomers are great, but they don’t keep the lights on in the winter. Instead, it’s the faithful, those who come in the dead of colder months to buy a pint for their freezer.
Creating a sense of belonging on both sides of the counter helps these shops retain dollars year-round. And it’s also why a corporate chain, though it may serve the same product, has never been able to serve the same purpose as—and fill my craving for—a cone from mom and pop.
