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I love ice cream. About as much as I love the diabetic coma I will inevitably slip into after inheriting diabetes from my maternal grandfather (and diabetes is no laughing matter). So, when I laid eyes on the the erected edifice of a structure that combined the aesthetic strength of something very 'greek-sculpture' (marble), with something I could be strung out on for days (icecream), I had to give it a chance - if only once. Because, haha, my wallet isn't that big. And I more or less assumed that with a name like Marble Slab Creamery, this place was no doubt some kind of ice cream franchise. That said, I feel like my town of residence is rather uncultured in its choice of dessert spot. But that's debatable. For those of us here (in the mid-size city of Waterloo, Ontario, Canada) culture for us is franchise, suburban sprawl, and brand names. At least for the next ten years until we run out of space. I heard the location of this joint WAS actually supposed to be a residence for a university. But anyway, it would either be a Dairy Queen, or Baskin Robbins as alternatives. Two all-American ice creameries. I know. There is a gelato place. But that doesn't meet Western ice cream standards.
So, dear reader, let me set the mood. It's a cool Victoria day weekend night; approximately 13 degrees. Feels like 10. Dusk has fallen. I just finished dragging bags of fertilizer for my immigrant grandmother (because my place of employment was closed), and my serotonin levels are lower than - no, I won't go there. So I find a ride, a good friend, and head on down to the Marble Slab Creamery and think of how Punky Brewster this whole situation ought to be. But I overlooked some small details. On a day when the majority of food spots are closed (Monday, Victoria Day Weekend), and something's new and exciting, for an uncultured mid-size city, things are bound to get out of hand. How so? So (so!) out of hand that there's a line up past the door. The place is packed like a Tokyo subway, and guys with dates are wondering why some guy is snapping shots of them with their dates. Sorry fellas, you misunderstand. You, or your dates, aren't that interesting. It was the prices on the board I'm interested in; and all the candy in jars. And the odd 2 and a half year old looking for her own .75 cent toppings in her nose.
The place was pretty spacious; and I wondered if they even had seats in the first place. Maybe. Maybe not. Seems like it'd be a good investment for when the place is dead. But who am I to talk, I don't own an ice cream parlor, I just eat at them. Regardless, we were all dazzled, I'm sure, by the pastel coloured walls, the overblown ice cream photos on walls, and the 55 dollar cakes in the freezer along the back.
And since I brought up the prices, let's talk about those. There's a probably some universal law out there that states good ice cream has to be expensive. Unfortunately, today, ice cream is so popularized that nothing really seems to beat out the competition. I wouldn't be surprised if it all came from the same supplier. If you try hard enough, or if you're as much a fathead about food as I am, you'll go out of your way to discover similarities and uniqueness in flavour. But when it boils down to it, there really is none. there's nothing there. Except for a name. A name you pay a bundle for. Like 4.95 for a single scoop of exotic sounding ice cream. Like amaretto. You know? That boozy liquor Italians love to bake with. Well it's back. In ice cream form. Chicks dig it. The price, I mean. I'm talking about the price. Not the flavour. Yes, it seems you're nobody until somebody sees you buy at some high-end ice cream place.
The Marble Slab has the works: banana splits, waffle bowls, homemade brownies, toppings, all for the wallet burning prices of 7 dollars, 6 dollars . . . 55 dollars. Some would say you get what you pay for. I would say I pay for ice cream that, sure, is delicious, but ain't too special. I think all the funds went to the spread set up for when then put your order together. Essentially, this is how it works:
you order a scoop, or two, or whatever; you get a free topping, and any additional topping for .75 cents. Then, the corporation worries about how many pennies you're pinching from them and has their poor, probably under payed employees weigh it on a scale. Yeah. I saw it. Afterward, that frozen ball is set on a, you guessed it, marble slab, and spread out. Finally, your chosen topping is placed in the center and both ice cream and topping are creamed together.
. . .
Oooooh. I get it. Criss Angel would love this place! It's so full of smoke and mirrors. By mashing my toppings with my icecream, instead of placing them on top like other parlours, my paying a high prize is somehow legitimized, and I assume I'm getting better tasting ice cream! Of course! And don't forget the marketing spread. We always feel better eating from cups with a swell graphic. It's simple business folks. You eat from something good and beautiful, you are beautiful. There's no sunk cost there.
My order did look beautiful. Amaretto and blueberry, in a waffle bowl, in a plastic bowl. God bless. I feel sorry for my friend, who just mashed strawberries and Oreo sans waffle bowl. Too bad. She ended up paying 7 bucks. Me, only 6 (5.60 to be exact). Wait a minute. Who won?
But I'm being way too harsh. The place wasn't bad. Not at all. However, like any new franchise, it's just enjoying its hype for as long as it can. Franchises are strange things. They tend to get business right away and plateau. A restaurant, non-franchises, tends to start out slow, either working its way up, becoming a popular gem, or failing miserably. But that's enough restaurant theory.
If you can, try the Marble Slab out, wherever you are. I'm sure you'll find it in your neck of the woods. It's good. If you have to wait 35 minutes for an order though, you might want to try the 31 Flavours down the street.
The Marble Slab Creamery158 University Avenue West
Waterloo, ON N2L 3E9
(519) 884-1900
Tony Lo spent a good portion of his life as a hospital administrator in Scarborough; a successful portion, actually. His days consisted of sitting in a boardroom with otherwise presidential friends, politely declining tea,hearing things like, "have another biscuit, Tony." And saying things like, "Oh no, I couldn't possibly." Unfortunately, it ended abruptly after a new president for whatever company stepped in, tossed him out and brought in new friends. That's the first lesson of beauracracy: make friends who are presidents and they'll most likely give you a job; but if they get out, you better believe you won't be too far behind them. Other presidents have other friends.
I serendipitously met Tony Lo while walking a co-worker home. Turns out, he was walking to a construction job uptown. Turns out, my co-worker's brother saw him in the street and called his name, wherein he gracefully strode up the driveway to say his hellos. TURNS OUT, his full name was Anthony Lo(w). I never asked how to spell his last name. Tony Lo was enough to catch my attention; his name sounded like that of a triad from a John Woo flick. However, from Hong Kong, he was not. Nor was he Asian. In fact, he was from Yorkshire, with one of those in between cockney/refined English accents. Ironic that in the later part of his life he'd become part of the working class. However, it was his own choice. In fact, after the usual banter, insulting my coworker's brother for being an intolerable, hopeless, bottom rung of society kid/construction worker, I asked what motivated him to change careers so drastically. In other words, why give up such a good resume for a career that Tony himself admitted, was at the bottom rung of society.
He used that phrase a lot in our conversation, more than he remembered my own name.
Anyway, he wasn't a sociologist. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to be associated with the bottom rung of society. But Tony Lo wanted something more. Some kind of drastic change. Since he wasn't Asian enough to become some kind of Hong Kong pop sensation, and too old to be strung out on cocaine and heroin for days (though that's debatable), he decided on the next best thing (also debatable), and that was doing something he was interested in. I suppose after all those fathead years of eating scones in boardrooms and taking pictures where someone says, "say cheese," and you reply, "camembert or brie- hahahaha," you'd more or less want to see if there's any Man left in you. Tony Lo had the money, he climbed mount Kiliminjaro, now he wanted to see if he could really survive in a place where there's no place to go but up. He had money to cushion his fall.
So, enrolling in trades college, he started all over again, meeting my coworker's brother in class and convincing the poor kid to stick with his schooling because when it's all done, it's all done. It'll be behind him and he'll have some kind of diploma, and you can't erect buildings without one. Good luck on my coworker's brother's part. Quite frankly, he should have been more polite to Tony, otherwise who knows where he might have been working. Or, maybe it wouldn't have mattered. Maybe I just spend too much time around old people, sans Tony Lo.
Despite all that, and regardless of what I might think of Tony's decision, there was something admirable about his cockney character. He had the identity of the anti-hero. The man who gives up something good and measurable just because he likes to mess with a worldview. Kind of like a university Graduate who drops out to become a loley cook. Romantic, no? Practical? No.
I had tried to relate to Tony as best I could, telling him I chose a similar suit. Unfortunately, I didn't have the life experience or money to back up any screw ups. However, Tony seemed sympathetic, calling me an everyman, and telling me that there's nowhere to go but up. That's why the whole experience for Tony, and myself, may be so wonderful. I could become a master chef; I could stay the course and use whatever skills I have in food to become a wonderful food critic. "What's important, Liam," Tony told me, "is that you remember."
"Remember, Nigel," Tony continued telling me, "that there's nowhere to go but up."
Words to live by, assuming you're at the bottom rung, wear beat up, ripped, bleached pants, torn hooded sweaters, kirchiefs around your neck and carry a chef's smock in a grocery bag. Regardless of that, with some good Tony Lo perspective, and a little chutzpah, even if you are at the bottom rung of society, you can always look forward to a better tomorrow.
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