One thing I couldn't pass up while in Spain, ever, was a nice, cool serving of gelato. In fact, it was probably what I talked about most during my time there. "I will punch you if you keep asking for gelato," exclaimed a friend. Perhaps she was having a bad day. I digress; the exception to this golden rule of mine nearly reared its unsightly head when I saw the line for this place. My friends and I all turned on our heels--no gelato is worth THAT, we said.
Alas, we were spurred on by a chaperone accompanying us on our weekend trip to Granada. My friends shrugged and disappeared into what was less like an ice cream shop and more of a mass of flesh and limbs accompanied with the scents of sweat and sugar. There is one thing worse than turning down gelato, and that is watching your friends eat gelato after you've refused it. Thus, I dove into a sea of customers, their eyes glinting like those of hungry sharks who have spotted prey.
I squirmed my (surprisingly still skinny) self between tourists and Spanish natives, feeling like the one thing I disliked most. I am a New Yorker, and in this parlor, I felt like one of the many wide-eyed and self-unaware tourists I'd encountered over my lifetime. With a number of people in this shop and a personal recommendation, though, I figured that this gelato MUST be worth my mild identity crisis. Surely.
When I was able to order, I selected a medium Stracciatella. If there's one conversation I know how to have in Spanish, it's one where I order gelato. When I watched my server scoop my order into a long, skinny cone, I had to wonder if he had misunderstood my Spanish. A medium; equivalent to one pathetic little scoop of gelato in a cone far too long for it? Still, though, I remained hopeful that the flavor would blow me away and explain the overwhelming amount of people in this shop, only comparable to the R train on a snowy day.
It didn't.
I often compare a wonderful gelato to a wonderful person. She keeps you asking questions. How was she brought into this universe? What ingredients have given my tongue the joy of such a diverse range of flavors? Will I ever find anyone as perfect as this glob of creaminess?
This small scoop of Stracciatella, perched on its cone, looking like a premature baby, capable of being swallowed whole, had me asking questions. The wrong questions.
Why is everyone cramming themselves into a tiny ice cream shop for this? If one scoop is a medium, then what on Earth is a small? Why am I not satisfied? Why do I not think that this gelato is worth everything I went through? Am I insane? These questions, to this day, come to haunt me at night. When I am lying in bed, I gaze at my Tumblr-esque Christmas lights that adorn my windows while this ice cream parlor, chilled and filled with skin and body odor, rises up out of the darkest corners of my consciousness. This place and its apparent local fame plague me like the great unknowns of our universe: Is space infinite? Is the Loch Ness Monster real? Do we have a purpose? Why is Los Italianos so popular?
My friends did not feel any particular way about this ice cream shop. Our second night in Granada one of them asked if we'd like to go back. None of us thought it would be worth it, but I was the sole member of our gaggle of teens that had been left with a bad taste in her mouth. We joked about the size selections briefly, guessing that perhaps a small cone was no ice cream at all. Perhaps it was a warm breath into one of the ridiculously lengthy cones, a whisper of what gelato could be, and what Los Italianos's gelato is not.
We opted for Heladería Tiggiani, having been entranced by the shop's impeccable flavor presentation the day before. The Ferrero Rocher flavor sitting on my tongue is far more memorable than Los Italianos's lackluster Stracciatella could ever hope to be, although I may never forget the way that my wallet and very being felt violated that night.
Perhaps some questions are not meant to be answered. Is space infinite? I'm not sure, and I'm not smart enough to wrap my feeble mind around Google's answer. Is the Loch Ness Monster real? I have my own theory on my beloved Nessie, but now is not the time nor place. Do we have a purpose? Maybe, but mine is not to exist within the creamy off-white walls of a cramped ice cream parlor in Granada.
I sought community on Yelp, hoping to find others who felt the same way I did. My therapist says that it is through shared experiences that we can begin to heal. Alas, the lowest-rated review page soon gave way to three- and four-star ratings. Only one or two individuals share my same icy-hearted fate.
Los Italianos: 2-star gelato and atmosphere, 5-star instigation of self-introspection. read more