Tuesday, May 8, 2012
The Chronicles of Creams
New York has many things, but it doesn't have everything. Namely, there is no Dairy Queen. And what a loss that is, for if ever there were a fairer maiden of tasty treats, I certainly have not had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. Dairy Queen: her creams are true, her hot fudges just, and peanuts supple.
Of course, when I discuss creams, hot fudges and peanuts, I am referring specifically to the Peanut Buster Parfait. I have traveled wide and far, I have dined in some of the finest dessert houses in New York, and although it's possible to meet, I very much doubt it is possible to exceed the sheer luxurious decadence of thy Peanut Buster Parfait.
This past weekend I journeyed deep into the heart of Pennsylvania for an ancient pagan ritual attended by hordes of barbarians (graduation at Penn State). Given that there are literally no Dairy Queen's in all the five boroughs, I took this as an opportunity to indulge in a Parfait. I indulged in two: one on the trip there and one on the trip back.
The soft serve is creamy, the hot fudge decadent and rich, and I swear they must coat the peanuts in some sort of magic elixir. It is truly a phenomenal American classic. I wondered to myself if the Parfait would benefit from whipped cream. It is such a complete dessert that I actually think it may not be necessary. Of course, at some point I will selflessly subject myself to testing this proposition.
I do not remember my dreams often, but one I do remember took place a few years back. There was a Dairy Queen in Manhattan, and I was as happy as could be. I yearn for her royal highness.
Everywhere but New York City