We All Scream

PEOPLE AROUND HERE are pretty sensitive about their ice cream. A good friend of mine always orders vanilla A lot of people can't understand this compulsion of hers "You have no originality," they say, "How boring."

But those who ridicule this friend of mine are equally persistent in their own convictions. If Sally can't have her scoop of Cahaly's mintoreo with M&Ms on top, or if Baskin Robbins is out of Sam's Jamoca Almond Fudge, their ice cream runs are immediately aborted Harvard students see ice cream as they see just about everything something to take a stand on. A harmless discussion of ice cream penchants can quickly become an irresolvable quagmire.

As is usual in the high circles of academia, there is seldom agreement within the local ice cream intelligentsia. That was until a couple of weeks ago, when there was a glammer of hope for solidarity within the Square's ice cream community. The imminent opening of a new branch of the famed Steve's Ice Cream on Church St. seemed to assure that the ice cream-loving factions could reach a compromise. Any soul who had trekked to the original store in nearby Somerville could attest: Steve's was quite simply the best. At last, many lovers of the creamy treat thought, the pleasures of an extralarge" up of homemade "cin-ana"-mixed-with-Health-and-Reese'stopped-with-triple-thick-hot-fudge-and-granola were close to home. How wonderful! How delicious! How this will revolutionize our culinary existence!

But a full two weeks after the neon orange and blue Steve's cone first lit up on Church St., there are chilling indications that something got lost during the trip down Mass Ave. No longer treated to the perverse pleasure of a 20-minute walk and a 30-minute wait, connoisseurs now are discoving a sterile, betrayed environment. Although the Square may have gained a few new flavors, ice cream lovers have lost much more: the Steve's myxtique.

THE SAD STORY is a familiar one in modern America. A small business with an excellent product becomes wildly popular. To keep up with outrageous demand, the owners eventually expand, mass produce, and create a "label." Things are never quite the same again. Witness the saga of Ray Kroc's old hamburger stand or Mr. L.L. Bean's barn up in Freeport. Steve's resisted the clutches of materialistic expansionism for several years, sticking it out in original digs in Somerville.

In the good old days, you rounded up a bunch of your buddies after a long night in Lamont and--like a band of medieval knights seeking out the holy grail--you found your way up Mass Ave., turned right at the Long Funeral Home and...got lost. Fortunately, you found a ragged stranger, approached him. "Would you tell me," you asked with a gleam in your eye, "how to get to Steve's?" The stranger always knew.

Steve's of Somerville wasn't just an ice cream shop. It was a Fine Institution. "History was made, served and spooned there," a 1981 Time cover story noted. Steve Herrel and his merry band of ice cream makers made your journey worth while, bestowing upon you succulent flavors and tasty mix-ins.

But the Somerville crew found all of this quaintness and charm--and that inimitable sense of adventure--a bit too heavy a load to haul to Harvard Square. And we are left with a mere weakling stepchild of a former king. Steve's unusual flavors just won't quite taste the same in the reconverted hardware store. Maybe we'd be better off if we learned to like vanilla.