Posted on September 10, 2011
Despite not being much of an ice cream person, I find myself eating a lot of gelato when I’m in Florence. It would be a lot snappier to use the cliche ‘When in Rome’ if I was actually in Rome but Florence was where I started getting into the entire Italian way of life.
Of course, eating good gelato is just one aspect of swinging the Italian vibe. You also shouldn’t be too concerned about anything, have a fair amount of swagger and generally carry the attitude of a weasel with insomnia.
That said, it’s difficult not to admire their ability to live life for the moment. Especially when that moment is having an amazing gelato.
As mentioned earlier, I don’t usually eat gelato or ice cream. Back home, we have tons of gelato franchises littering the city and I’ve never more than had a sideways glance at the counter. In Florence, being the obedient tourist that I am, I decide that I have to follow the teachings of Rick Steves and eat 2 scoops of gelato everyday while I’m here.
My first 2 days go by quite uneventfully. There are gelato shops everywhere you turn. The internet tells me to only have gelato from shops displaying them in metal tins but every other gelato shop serves them in metal tins. I try a melon gelato from a random pick and I walk away unimpressed.
Of course during that moment when you’re having that random melon gelato, you still lick your lips and pretend to like it. According to Rick Steves, the gelato in Florence is supposed to be out of this world awesome. You’re not calling Rick Steves a liar are you?
I attribute the indifference to my lack of appreciation for all things ice creamy and I decide to focus my gluttony on Florentine steak, rabbit and pastas instead
And then I come across Grom
There was an extended queue outside and this immediately triggered off my distinctly Singaporean need to join it.
I was intrigued. As I staked my place in the line, I dispatched my wife to scout the gelato. She came back bearing news that the gelatos were all covered with metal plates, covering up the elusive flavors. The mystery deepened.
Finally, we reached the end of the line. I ordered a Blueberry and Melon while my wife had a Baccio and Pistachio.
Two plastic spoonfuls later, and the memory of that shitty random melon gelato fades away into the abyss of bad gelato memories. This is what heaven would taste like if it was compressed into a tiny $3.50 cup. I spend my remaining days in Florence making at least a daily stopover to enjoy a cup.
I am now a gelato convert.