Battling the flu one January evening, I could no longer tolerate my sore throat and took action. On several occasions, I passed a tiny convenience store about three blocks from my apartment so I set out that snowy night to brave the elements in hopes of getting some ice cream to sooth the razor blades in my throat. When I entered the store, a short bald Russian man paid me no attention as he sat behind the counter watching a tiny black and white TV. With my head throbbing, I quickly moved to the large cooler at the back of the store, but I found no ice cream. An aisle over, I stumbled upon a small freezer filled with ice cream, but a strip of masking tape stood guard over the freezer door. In my fevered state, my brain couldn’t compute why the freezer was haphazardly taped shut, so I headed to the counter to ask the Russian. He stammered in broken English something about the bureaucrats at city hall and that he did not have an ice cream license. I stood there confused and dumbfounded. Was there such a thing as an ice cream license? Did you have to stand in line at a DMV-like facility to get said license? Did I take too much ibuprofen? The Russian nervously eyed around the store until he eventually broke the silence. “
You’re not working undercover for the city?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“OK. I sell you ice cream.”
"Alright," I said as I quietly questioned whether I really wanted unlicensed ice cream.
As the two of us shuffled to the back of the store, the old Russian mumbled to himself before cautiously lifting the tape off the freezer doors allowing unrestricted access to the frozen concoction. Without much deliberation, I grabbed a pint of Butter Pecan, paid him, and trekked home. A few months later I happened upon the corner store and noticed a “FOR LEASE” sign in the now empty storefront. I bet the Chicago Department of Ice Cream Licensing shut him down.
