Words by Iona Judd

Ice cream, gelato, soft serve, sorbet? In a cone or in a cup? With a flake or without? Syrup, sprinkles or both? Always both.

These are key questions we ask ourselves as soon as the weather starts to turn into SULA (sweaty upper lip alert) season. And with these questions, also comes a familiar sound: the evocative off-key chime of a Mr Whippy van.

Ice cream (and I’m using the blanket term here because ice cream, gelato and soft serve are in fact molecularly different due to their percentages of fat) is a global phenomenon, though its origins are unclear. I like the theory that it was created by Roman Emperors on a quest to keep cool after watching gladiators in the blistering heat. Supposedly, they’d be served a cup of snow, gathered from the mountain tops and flavoured with fruit purée. Something tells me the surviving gladiators weren’t afforded the same luxury.

But what makes the best ice cream? Is it the depth of flavour? The texture? The use of the finest ingredients? Italian gelato of course comes out on top for all of these, but often I find myself paralyzed choosing a flavour, ending up with rogue combinations – most recently passionfruit and coffee. When not going rogue and challenging the number of flavours socially acceptable to mix in a single pot, I always think pistachio gelato is unbeatable along with morello cherry. However, in the end it doesn’t really matter what you choose, because once you’ve painstakingly deliberated, the ice cream itself is feverishly devoured, with only a brief pause to wrestle with the obligatory brain freeze.

Despite the sophistication and flavour range of Italian gelato though, for me, everything always comes back to the Whippy.

There is absolutely nothing that beats a Whippy. And contrary to the above, I don’t mean one made with bouji high quality milk and cream – no thanks. I mean those made with condensed milk and powdered god-knows-what, with a cloudlike texture that creates an iconic swirl shape sitting proudly atop a crispy cone. Your biggest dilemma is toppings: a flake? Sprinkles? Syrup (strawberry, obviously)? Or, if you are committing sacrilege, nothing. There is something profoundly rewarding knowing that your interaction with the ice cream man is complete in around 20 seconds. It’s easier than ordering your morning coffee.

I can’t pinpoint when I fell so in love with Whippys. Looking back through my camera roll there are a ridiculous number of unflattering photos of me eating them over the years, so it’s certainly a love story that’s stood the test of time.

This love affair, however, was never stronger than during London’s lockdown. Peckham has a strange sort of Mr Whippy mafia and pre-covid it wasn’t unusual to hear chimes ringing through the neighbourhood at unexpected and non-ice cream hours such as 10pm on a Thursday. But there were more regular whippy hours too and each afternoon, my housemate and I would run around the streets during our government allotted daily excursion to secure the goods before Darren drove off into the distance. The whole thing was absurd, but worth it! Eventually, Darren learnt to pull up on our street – be still, my beating heart.

On the days we didn’t manage to lock down our Whippy fix, I’d make my own ice cream instead using an ice cream machine I’d demanded as a gift from my sister. A few firm favourites emerged: mulberry granita, olive oil and salted pine nut and rosemary. On a recent trip to Las Vegas, I discovered a chamoyada – a hybrid of a slushie, a sundae and a soft serve – and have been on a mission to recreate it. I think I’ve finally nailed it. Sweet, spicy and a little bit sour – perfect for SULA weather.

Disclaimer: Exceptionally refreshing and (almost) as good as a Whippy, but not quite. How can you beat the unbeatable?