A Whole Lotta Little Man
I love where we live. Not just Denver, but Westside. I love that it takes me two minutes on my bike to get to the confluence of Cherry Creek and Platte River. I love that we sit perched above the city.
I love that Gastro love has descended into our little alcoves of cross streets known as the Highlands. I will probably take some grief for this, but the West Highlands (the area of 32nd and Lowell) is passé- done- capoot. The retail shops are grossly overpriced and the food is nothing to fight for parking over. I will have to say I do still patron Mondo Vino and St. Killians, and the fresh fish market, but outside of that, we never go over there. I’m talking about the ‘other’ Highlands- Potter Highlands. It is soon becoming gentrified and should probably be renamed Sprocketville (the Design Build group that has developed a decent chunk of the area), BUT, there are still a lot of things that I love about it.
On the morning of July 4, T and I decided to bike to the gym and lay by the pool. On our way down the hill, we came across a three block parade and Fourth of July extravaganza. One of those things you see in small towns, but not really in urban environments. Three legged races, sack races, cotton candy, sticky toddlers- you know the scene. Everyone just looked so darn happy. And then I noticed why. The ice cream stand had opened. Around the corner from Lola- our favorite tequila hole, there was a long time coming little siloh building that promised ice cream. As we zipped by on our bikes, we had to be conscious of the unconscious frozen concoction fans that were crossing the street without warning- no look left, no look right- just look straight ahead- straight ahead to the little building that was in the shape of an old milk jug, with little striped awnings and a cute little patio and promises of joy in the combination of cream and sugar. The signage on the jug said, Little Man Ice Cream. Alrighty then, we’ll stop by on our way back up the hill.
Fast forward four hours or so, and we were on our way back up the hill. Park the bikes, get in line. In the cooler on the right side was the sorbets and gelatos. In the cooler on the left side was ice cream. It was so hot that afternoon I couldn’t imagine eating anything with milk in it so I opted for sorbet- so did T. I originally wanted Rasberry, but they had just run out, so I made a brave selection of Red Hot Blueberry Cinnamon- T ordered Lemon. I didn’t ask for a sample, I just ordered. I was pleasantly surprised. The first lick enraptured me with little bits of candied Red Hots and chunks of fresh blueberries. I always imagine sorbet to be the ‘safe’ choice- but not the THBC, it was WOWZA in my mouth! T’s lemon selection was nothing short of puckerville, but disturbingly delicious.
A few nights later, after dinner, I could feel T getting antsy. “Do you want to go get ice cream”, “yeah yeah”. So we hopped on our bikes and rode down the hill at 9 o’clock. When we arrived there was a line out to the sidewalk- by the time we got our ice cream there was a line down the sidewalk. But no one seemed to care. I went traditional- strawberry with Mexican chocolate, T went with the chile chocolate gelato. Two scoops nearly occupied a pint of ice cream, but I didn’t care, in I went with gust and fervor. Oh my GOD! This was the best strawberry ice cream I had ever put in my mouth. It was soft and creamy, fresh and bright- like little pillows of strawberry love. The rest was a blur. I tried to savor every little bit of the strawberry as it married with the chocolate and then vanished. I knew right then that this place was going to be a problem.
We have been back a few times since then. Ordering pints of grapefruit sorbet to only cover with Prosecco and St. Germain, Vanilla bean to go atop cherry and peach pies- Peach pies with fresh Georgia Peaches. Alone or in marriage, this place has carved out its own little residence in my already gluttonous gut. And as the motto at Carl’s Perfect Pig says, “The waist is a terrible thing to mind”. Amen to that. Lickin’ away at the Little Man.
