I'm not sure there is another city on earth that has traditional ice cream parlours that are too intimidating for tourists and new arrivals. Glasgow's ice cream parlours are beautiful and ornate little gems with layers of lush Victorian ornamentation matched only by the baroque sundaes on offer. They were started by the Italian immigrants in the 1900s who combined their knowledge of ice cream making with a little American influence. The specialty that emerged was a thin magenta coloured raspberry sauce that was served over vanilla ice cream. And that sauce is still around. You see it on the few hot, sunny days we're granted here, in melted pools of pink and white at regular intervals on the pavement outside the shops. The evidence of the universal tendency for kids to drop their ice cream cones.
But I'm just working up the nerve to go into these places. Because as soon as I walk through the door, the locals clock me for the cycling-Guardian-reading-vegetable-eating-artist that I am. They know I'm not from around these parts and they can sense that I don't want to share a table*. I don't even have to open my mouth for my accent to announce itself. Still, they let me sit down and they ignore me for only a bit longer than the regular customers. And the regulars are as nice as the stereotype of Glaswegians would have you believe, but still, it's all a bit unsettling.
First there are the women. Sure they seem to be talking about shopping, or their upcoming vacation, but really they're monitoring everything that happens in the shop. That's because the parlours are at the centre of small neighbourhoods so a lot of information can be gleaned from their activities. They're watching you and they heard you order a cappucino instead of a white coffee and they also picked up on your boyfriend's English accent. They're dismayed that the nice family that came in after you has to now wait for a table while you linger for an impossible length of time.
And the men. They don't care about you. They're ignoring you and eating many kinds of deep-fried protein and fat for a late breakfast. They exhibit all the signs of Scotland's notorious culture: unhealthy complexions and brutal facial scars. They're hard men. And after their breakfast they'll have a bowl of ice cream in a scalloped coral bowl and that will not make them any less hard.
But look at that knickerbocker glory up there. Wouldn't you put up with feeling like a bit of a social misfit for a bite of that?
*This is a common sentiment amongst North Americans. We're from big countries with a lot of space. We don't like sharing except occasionally at Chinese restaurants when the tables are very big and round and your knees will definitely not touch those of a stranger.
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