For those of you too young to remember the milkman, the Fuller Brush man, the Charlie's Potato Chip man (I'm fortunately not old enough to remember the ice man), THIS is an ice cream truck. They were always men in those days because women stayed at home waiting for their kids and husbands.

In my day and in my old neck of the woods, the ice cream man was Good Humor. He came around every day in the summertime.

We still have ice cream vans in New Orleans. They are independently owned and have little tunes they play while driving down the street so you'll run and get your money. Here, they sell Blue Bell from Texas, among other brands.

I love the sound of the ice cream truck even though snoballs - shaved ice covered with syrup - are really New Orleans' traditional hot weather treat.

New Orleans is warm for many months of the year, so there's hardly a time when an ice cream cone or popsicle is unwelcome.

New Orleanians go out of their way

It was a splendid day Friday and I decided to walk to a mailbox. There are not many mailboxes Uptown anymore, so that ordinary task involves walking all the way to St. Charles Avenue - a lovely, long, sunny walk.

On the way back, I began to feel the urge for an ice cream. It was a spring day that deserved a ritual response. I could not think of any ice cream shops on the way home and only snowball places a bit out of the way. I stopped at Pinkberry Frozen Yogurt store, which claims to be a more healthful alternative to crushed ice covered with dyed sugar syrup, but two dozen high school girls in plaid skirts had beat me there and were slowing the line while debating the myriad choices of fresh fruit and nut toppings.

I continued along Magazine Street and stuck my head into Guy's Po-boy shop, just on the chance ice cream might be on the menu. One glance told me the choices were po-boys, french fries and soft drinks. The two staff people were sweeping the floor and apologized that Guy's was already closed. "No problem, I said. I am just desperate for ice cream." They both nodded, apologetically.

I stepped back outside and stood aimlessly on the sidewalk, still straining to think of a place. One of the staffers popped open the door and pointed back toward Pinkberry's. I'd already been there and it was mobbed, I explained. He was sorry again.

Sorry, he had no ice cream for me, sorry Pinkberry's was crowded and sorry, he could not offer a workable suggestion.

In Chicago, had I asked the same question, the answer would have been, "We're closed!!" That would have been the end of it.

People here try to help. They offer suggestions. They might even tell you a story. Or make a phone call for you. Or let you use their house right off the parade route when they're out of town at Mardi Gras. Now, that's Southern hospitality.

The following day, I was in the car and stopped for Mexican Hot Chocolate at Creole Creamery made with cayenne pepper -  yum. It was worth the wait.

If Sophie's gelato's not in heaven, I won't go!

Sophie was a TV actress for 14 years, wife of a New Orleans politician and president of a multimillion-dollar government contracting firm before deciding to make ice cream commercially. Her mother said now that she's become a soda jerk, she's finally happy.

Sophie's Ice Cream Parlor is in an old diner with a counter and stools, right out of the 1950s.

Sophie said she has more aliases than Sybil, but was born into the oldest Creole family in America as Geneva Leona Mercandel. When she left New Orleans for L.A. at 16, she became Janee Michelle. Now, she's just Sophie.

Besides creating more flavors than you can count, she also supplies gelato to five restaurants. For the grand reopening of Commander's Palace, Sophie made 18 gallons of ice cream by hand. Her shop not only serves sorbet and gelato, but also offers homemade pecan pie, cheesecake, apple pie, biscotti and sandwiches. Sophie's hosts children's themed parties - who wouldn't want their 5th birthday party at Sophie's?


More people find religion in her shop than at church, she said. They take one bite, their eyes open wide and say, "Oh my God!"

1912 Magazine St., NOLA