Greg’s Ice Cream
750 Bloor Street West
416-962-4734
Single scoop: $2.95

The Big Chill
367 Manning Avenue
416-960-2455
Single scoop, $2.95

Greg’s Ice Cream, we need to talk. You’re a great kid and we’ve had some terrific times together. Any other Torontonian would be so lucky to have you. But, I think I need to see other ice cream parlours.

And it’s not you. You have so much going for you. You have all these great, unusual flavours. Most of your experiments, like cinnamon, ginger, pumpkin, honey vanilla, or stout, are winners. The sincerity of your real ingredients is always palpable. Some, like grapenuts or durian, are Frankensteinian monstrosities, sending casual ice cream eaters fleeing to the safe embrace of more traditional flavours. Your flagship concoction, the roasted marshmallow, with its smoky, baked egg white tones is never sickly sweet (like a real marshmallow). It keeps tourists lined up and I don’t doubt that you’re going to find that special customer soon.

Alright, I’ll admit. It’s the door hitting me in the ass. I don’t know why but whoever installed the front door had it swing inward. And the shop only has about 4×10 feet of standing space. So every time I line up to spend some time with you I get hit in the ass by every person who comes in. Is it such an A-Team feat of engineering to get the door to swing the other way? And while I’m waiting to see you I’m drinking in the exhaust fumes and drunken hobo squalls of Bloor and Spadina. Not cool, homey. I can’t ask you to change (though if I did I’d ask you to always stock cinnamon). But when I came in and the only chocolate on your menu was chocolate cinnamon raisin it broke my heart.

Remember how we met? When I was twenty-five I kept a drawer full of candy by the bed. After a check-up revealed I’d gained ten pounds, my first wait gain since I was thirteen, I had a sit-com level freak out. A friend told me to stop eating bread and for weeks I annoyed everyone around me with my faux anxiety about my body image. Once I calmed down, I met you. And for the rest of my air conditioning-less twenties you were there for me. With your subtle cinnamon, hot fudge, and irresistible crushed Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. It was a rebound relationship from candy but somehow we made it work. You were the quinine to Toronto’s malaria. But the truth is I’ve met someone new.

It sounds like a cop-out but The Big Chill is even closer to my home. It eschews eccentricity in favour of traditionalism. The flavours are mostly classics with a few fresh additions like dulce de leche or Dutch apple pie. A large expanse of sidewalk is dedicated to benches, kiddie chairs, and even toy cars (that I’m unfortunately too large to sit in). I don’t have to walk a block away with my melting treat just to find the safe haven of a nice neighbourhood. They may not make their own product like you but they deal with the best suppliers like Maypole Dairy, Stoney Creek Dairy, and Ben & Jerry’s. The peanut butter & chocolate is so perfect it’s got a hold on me. It’s never too cold so the peanut butter maintains its pliable nature. They always stock sorbets and they make sundaes ($5.95), banana splits ($6.95), frozen yogurt ($3.95), and smoothies ($4.95). Every scoop gets a miniature Oreo on top and for a dollar extra there are waffle cones (though you know I’m a cup man). The eleventeen-year-olds behind the counter are just as endearingly untrained as yours are. Both shops are open till midnight in the summer. Which is great for late-night ice cream booty calls. In fact the last time we saw each other was a Friday, just a few minutes before midnight. I sampled the lemon meringue and mango. My pal Steve ordered the meringue (which was brilliantly delicate). I said, “Stevesie, you’re right. The lemon meringue is better. But you’re my buddy so I’m gonna get the mango just so we can share.” And the dude behind the counter smiled and said, “Gentlemen it’s on the house.” And we all shared a triple high-five. Let’s always remember each other like that.