There is a fast food joint in San Francisco. Its name is Super Duper. It has the juicy burger, it has the crispy garlic French fry, and it has the ice cream cone.
Yes, it is organic. Yes, it comes in swirly, chocolate, and vanilla, and yes it’s worth the $3.25 price tag for a child’s cone.
Oh my.
How many of you have sped-walked after a long day of work hostessing at Paragon Restaurant, hoofing it the one mile to Super Duper on Market Street before it closes at 11, propelled by the naked fear of reaching it only to find its gates closed and the wretched masses standing about gnashing their teeth?
How many of you have sacrificed taking the fastest way home for a frozen dairy treat upon a crispy wheat base? How many have dreamed of the ecstasy that would ensue upon the first lick, only increasing as the tongue grows number and happiness spreads to the extremities?
For this cone, I’ve walked many miles. For this cone, I’ve buried at least 1.5 Hamiltons. For this cone, I’ve allowed between 6 and 10 people to call my reputation into question because I compared its flavor to McDonald’s soft-serve and they did gaze upon me in disgust because it was revealed that I had indulged under the golden arch.
Do I regret it? No. Never. Not for a million years and one thousand suns and 8 terabytes of data.
And one day, when my mother does come to San Francisco, the first thing I’ll buy her is one of these swirled paradises, but only after she buys me dinner.
If you liked this post, you might also like: Purchasing and Eating a Sandwich and Open Letter to the Pile of Mush I Ate Today and The Horrifying True Story of How My Sister Ate My Fingernail.
Snotting black 