A Sundae Love

Indulging in Ben & Jerry’s.

By Cecilia Zuniga

Illustration by Jorja Garcia

I rushed into my final closing shift at the Ben & Jerry’s on 104th and Broadway on a sticky August afternoon, and Alberto told me that he had a surprise for me. “Go check the fridge,” he said coyly. In a Vermonster Sundae bucket, he’d collected a plum, a peach, an orange, a Korean pear, a banana, sliced watermelon, a whole carton of strawberries, and a bottle of my favorite kombucha on the side. “I know you like fruit,” Alberto said nonchalantly, but it was the type of gift that makes your chest hurt a little. I melted and gave him a long hug. 

My coworkers are what I miss most about working at Ben & Jerry’s: Lil, Leon, Caroline, Sebastian, Cesar, Irving, Kevin, Michelle, Rodolfo, and Alberto. They’re the kind of people who are quick to share and give you extra. Irving knows exactly how all the regulars take their coffee and Alberto knows the best falafel on the block. If you’re lucky, they’ll let you in on it. I worked there for a year and half, and I still go back to visit often. 

I don’t care much for romance, but I love love. To me, Valentine’s Day is the warmth of waking up to my mom’s handwritten cards placed gently on my dresser; the joy of a feliz-Día-de-San-Valentín-te-amo-dios-te-bendiga-mami voicemail from Abuela; the tenderness of reminding my friends how much I love them and relishing their bashful reactions. The sweetness of Valentine’s Day lies in giving without expecting anything in return. And in this time of sweetness, my thoughts have turned to Ben & Jerry’s.​

…

Throughout my freshman year at Barnard, Ben & Jerry’s felt like a little piece of home—a breath of fresh air from the restraint and formality of Columbia. Michelle used to work the Saturday shift with me, and her laugh always reminded me of my own Tía Michelle. Unapologetic and uncontained, it was a laugh that made people whip their heads around and glare. By virtue of being Puerto Rican, she says she can’t help it. Michelle’s stories, enlivened by salacious Spanglish asides and under-the-breath curses, were always my favorite. 

Cesar had a similar generosity with his stories. On bitterly cold nights, I would bring my homework to the store because I knew it’d be a slow shift. From time to time, Cesar would ask me what I was reading about. “The War on Drugs,” I told him once. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Don’t even get me started about that,” he scoffed, proceeding to delve into the history of military interventions into Latin America, starting with his home in Nicaragua. I shut my book and we talked about the CIA and the Contras until closing time.

Perhaps because I was the youngest, my coworkers often looked out for me. “Do you know how to fight?” Rodolfo once asked me, looking at me up and down. “Are you sizing me up?” I burst out with laughter. “No, I’m being serious!” he went on. “You should really know how to throw a punch. Gotta stay safe out there.” I kept giggling, but Rodolfo had a point. We spent the shift working on my right jab in the backroom. 

We shared everything at Ben & Jerry’s, and rarely held back. Irving used to bake us banana bread, and when I told him how much I loved it, he offered me his recipe. Sebastian would encourage me to hijack the aux, replacing Pandora Pop Hits with Willie Colón and Héctor Lavoe. We preferred salsa. If I ate before my Monday shift, Carolyn would get personally offended, as she always offered to get me the lunch special next door at Malaysia Grill. “Next week then!” she’d announce heartily. Their words and advice have stuck with me over the years, a testament to the pure love that emerges for the people you see three times a week. The M60 is the best bus in New York. Don’t smoke cigarettes. Eat less ice cream, more fruit. Keep reading. Stay in school, kid. It’s a durable, familial love, uninhibited by the fear of getting too personal. Refreshingly simple and selflessly abundant. 

I often miss Lil, Leon, Caroline, Sebastian, Cesar, Irving, Kevin, Michelle, Rodolfo, and Alberto, so I try not to stay away for too long. I know that the brisk fifteen-minute walk will always be worth it. So if you find yourself on 104th and Broadway, stop by Ben & Jerry’s and ask for a cone of Chunky Monkey. You’ll get two hefty scoops plopped safely into a cup, a cone on top, a spoon, a fistful of napkins, and a “Sorry, it’s a little runny today.” A single scoop will set you back $7, but they’ll make sure you get your money’s worth.