Reviewing Miami and then some. Gratuitous vulgarity included.

Quarterman’s Ice Cream Parlor

If I had a kid, I would sit him on top of my shoulders and take him to Quarterman’s for some old-fashioned ice cream. I would also scar the kid psychologically by playing a bunch of practical jokes that’ll leave him forever afraid of benign things like clicky pens and mashed potatoes. That way when someone looks at him funny and asks why he starts crying every time someone’s about to write something down, he can think of me and how much I love him.

I walk past this place daily, and I saw its transformation from an empty storefront in a block where homeless people urinate, to a place that sells delicious ice cream in a block where homeless people urinate. I love ice cream, and so does my girlfriend, so when I told her this place was opening up she was as excited as I was. We tried it for the first time during that jazz street festival thing that occurred on January 25th.

Whenever I used to order pistachio, people would make fun of me. I mean, I still order it, but no one makes fun of me anymore, because I’ve retaliated against those people by making fun of them so viciously they no longer associate with me. They claimed it was “old people ice cream”. Look, bitch, all ice cream is old people ice cream. They’ve outlived you. They can eat whatever ice cream they want and lay claim to whatever flavor they desire. I’d like nothing more than to sit with an old WWII vet as he pulls out his dentures and goes to town licking a large waffle cone of four different ice cream flavors and enough toppings to give Anne Hathaway’s massive mouth at least one cavity. Then he can tell me about how many Nazis he killed and the Belgian resistance chick he hooked up with the night before his best friend Tanto (a Navajo codebreaker with a heart of gold—they always have hearts of gold, and drinking problems) was killed by a mortar strike. That would be such an awesome story over awesome ice cream. My point is, pistachio is not only delicious, but it’s the preferred flavor of the greatest generation.

…enough toppings to give Anne Hathaway’s massive mouth at least one cavity.

So we ordered a cup of pistachio with rainbow sprinkles. We only ordered one because while I love the shit out of some ice cream, my blood stream only enjoys it in moderation. I love sweet shit, but I can only have a limited amount of the same sweet thing before my tongue goes into shock. My girlfriend says it was the best pistachio ice cream she has ever had. I’m inclined to agree. It tasted ridiculously fresh, like if the ink on the devil’s contract for “best tasting pistachio ice cream in Miami” still hadn’t dried. There was an old white-haired dude standing around greeting people. He had a certain presence which leads me to believe he is Quarterman himself. That’s a crazy last name. Probably one of the most Jewish last names ever since it invokes currency and the “-man” suffix reserved for superheroes and Jews. Maybe Quarterman’s super power is to give uppity Brickellians diabetes. I’d pay to see that shit.

I really hope this place survives. The area it’s in is pretty well-trafficked during the day with all the hustle and bustle downtown during office hours, but once that sun dips below the horizon it turns into a ghost town. But who knows, with Lime, Mario the Baker, Jimmy Johns, 7-11, Walgreens, Kork, and Avenue D staying open until late maybe people will start to realize that downtown Miami doesn’t need beauty rest.

So go get some fucking ice cream. It rocks. I’mma go get that shit TODAY.


So where the hell is it?
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