It is only 11 am and I am already on my fourth serving of ice cream. Wholly justified as I am in Morelli’s, the legendary ice cream parlour on the Broadstairs seafront. To the croon of Elvis on the jukebox, I’m ensconced in a pink leatherette booth looking at the backlit photos above the brass counter, deciding if I want to order a La Dolce Vita or a strawberry sundae. Every surface of this place is designed to lull you into a state of retro euphoria. The pistachio ice cream is pale green and silky. And there is a jar of meringues to be crumbled into the Sorrento lemon sorbet, which is then layered with lemon curd and whipped cream. I order both and feel like an extra from The Italian Job, minus the headscarf and the mac.
Mario Morelli opened this parlour in 1932 having emigrated from Italy, where his father had sold ice cream from a bicycle. The 1959 redecoration, including original Lloyd Loom wicker chairs, is what surrounds me today. Morelli’s is now run by the fifth generation and, as Mario’s great-grandson Giuseppe tells me, ‘They brought their culture over and from there it has flourished. People come back every summer. Some of them have been coming since their grandparents brought them. The ice cream is exactly the same. It’s not just generational for me: it’s generational for our customers, too.’
Nostalgia is central to everything they do and if there is one food in Britain that carries the full weight of collective memory – childhood, summers, the seaside – it’s ice cream. When I was a child, the height of sophistication was a pyramid of ice cream balls held in a praline-coated biscuit bowl that my mother bought for special occasions. Then there were the Mini Milk lollies we’d steal from my aunt’s freezer. A knickerbocker glory at Fortnum & Mason’s was the ultimate treat, although we always loved a Magnum, Feast or a Zoom bought at a petrol station during
a sweaty, traffic-slowed journey to Cornwall.
Ice cream in Britain is an immigrant story. From the late 19th century, Italian families like the Morellis arrived here and, finding a population hungry for sweetness and novelty, began selling frozen treats from handcarts and barrows. They were known as ‘Hokey Pokey Men’, a corruption of ecco un poco (here is a little), and their arrival transformed British summers. By the 1930s, the great parlours had taken shape: Morelli’s, Notarianni’s in Blackpool and Nardini’s of Largs, with its Art Deco cinema-style façade and views over the Firth of Clyde. They were more than shops: they were a form of theatre.
Not everyone could get to the seaside, though. In 1956, the Piccadilly store Fortnum & Mason opened its Soda Fountain, capitalising on the end of sugar rationing. It famously introduced the towering knickerbocker glory. Then came the van and, with it, the soft scoop. That totemic vehicle of British childhood in the 1960s rolled out the Mr Whippy and Mister Softee swirl. Like the Pied Piper, the jingle lured children from indoors to sprint down the street for their cone of piped ice cream with a 99 Flake.
This is the wonderful paradox of British ice cream culture: the least pretentious food is also the most beloved. It’s perhaps the infinite flexibility of ice cream that allows it to transcend boundaries. Chefs might use liquid nitrogen for the smoothest texture or employ novelty flavour combinations like sorrel, bay leaf and brown butter (at Mountain, in Beak Street, W1). At the local caff, however, it will be a scoop of vanilla from a tub that’s been in the freezer since January.
Context, it turns out, is everything. At Morelli’s, I want something old school, but in a natural wine and ice cream bar in north London, the Galia melon and sweet cicely seem more seductive. The ice cream itself is the same, but what it represents has shifted. This is where the new wave comes in. The Dreamery, N1, is the most explicit articu-lation of this new culture. It pairs artisan scoops – Greek mountain tea, lemon curd and poppyseed, or chocolate and olive oil – with carefully chosen natural wines.
This trend started in Paris at Folderol, which began serving scoops in vintage metal coupes alongside natural wine and generated TikTok-fuelled queues. Not that there is anything revolutionary about combining booze and ice cream. Moro, EC1, has been serving it with raisins soaked in sherry for 30 years, and sparkling wine with sorbet is an old Italian tradition. Elsewhere, the ice cream sandwich has had a revival. It was invented in 1899 in New York, as a slab of frozen cream between graham crackers. Up-to-date versions include the Naughty One from London’s Happy Endings, while Haze in Edinburgh uses seasonal, foraged ingredients like meadowsweet and fig leaf.
Two days after my morning at Morelli’s, I sample the malted milk ice cream in The Dreamery, and discuss with my server why she thinks that Le Canon d’Achille would go with it. It’s not yet lunchtime and the room is filling up with hipsters who’ve been queueing round the block. Perched at a wooden bar, I alternate mouthfuls of ice cream with sips of wine and close my eyes to
maximise the taste sensation. In the end, it’s all about joy – uncomplicated, just-the-right-side-of-decadent joy.
We all scream for ice cream
Scotland’s most famous ice cream parlour. Order the Scottish tablet flavour for something uniquely local. nardinis.co.uk
A retro parlour with queues on even mildly warm days. The elderflower with lemon curd is worth the wait. marysmilkbar.com
The original and, for many, the best. Go for the pistachio or mint choc chip ice cream, or banana split sundae. morellisgelato.com | @morellisbroadstairs
For when you want to be challenged (try the Thai green curry flavour) or relish
its dairy-free ice cream. bohogelato.co.uk
