Killer ice cream

Sugar brings the treat to the light of day

By Jill Strauss

Sugar, Portland Public Market 25 Preble Street, Portland (207) 228-2058 Mon. through Sat. from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., and on Sun. from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Fore Street Restaurant 288 Fore Street, Portland (207) 775-2717 Sun. through Thurs. from 5:30 to 10 p.m., and on Fri. and Sat. from 5:30 to 10:30 p.m. Hugo’s 88 Middle Street, Portland (207) 774-8538 Tues. through Thurs. from 5:15 to 9 p.m., and on Fri. and Sat. from 5:15 to 9:30 p.m.

It is said that music soothes the savage beast, but I know this is untrue. It is ice cream that really does the trick. This became clear to me one hot summer day 38 years ago when I watched my father tame the most contrary creature I ever met — my youngest brother, whom I often referred to as “Killer.”

In spite of his uncivil ways, my folks insisted on taking this enfant terrible with us on family outings. One day, at a school fair, my father decided to buy us all ice cream cones. Killer, barely a year old at the time, had never tasted ice cream before and, naturally, refused my father’s offering.

“Oh, come on, son, just give it a try. Wouldn’t you like something cold and creamy?” My brother grunted and shook his head. Finally, my father approached the stroller with his hand outstretched . . . and the next thing I knew Killer was plastered with white custard. It must have been an accident. My father could not have deliberately shoved the frozen treat into my little brother’s face. We watched in horror, waiting for the wail that would surely ensue. But some of the soft-serve had penetrated my brother’s lips and touched his tongue. The ice cream was dripping off his chin, yet Killer was smiling. He reached out his arms. He wanted more.

Despite the passage of time, my brother’s basic instincts are still with him and have held him in good stead. Now he regularly conducts battles on Wall Street and is considered by his peers to be a force of some consequence. Perhaps Killer’s secret weapon is that he fortifies himself with gourmet ice cream — chemically enriched soft-serve simply won’t do anymore. So you can imagine the panic that overcame me when my most terrifying sibling announced he would be visiting me in Maine this month. “I don’t know if our ice cream is snazzy enough for this boy’s royally sophisticated palate,” I muttered. Of course, Fore Street’s vibrant passion-fruit sorbet or Hugo’s velvety crème fraiche ice cream would probably satisfy my brother’s addiction during the evening, but what if he wanted to go day tripping in Portland. Where could I take him?

As if in response to my question, Matthew Kenney’s Mediterranean Cooking fell off my shelf. How fabulous! I almost cried with joy remembering that Kenney, one of the hippest chefs in New York, had recently opened a pastry shop called Sugar next to his restaurant Commissary in Portland Public Market. And Sugar features homemade gelatos and sorbets that I heard were in the same league with Commissary’s fine vanilla ice cream.

I had to be sure, however, that the products would meet Killer’s standards so I called Ben Dinglasan, head ice cream maker/pastry chef for Commissary and Sugar and said, trying to sound casual, “I need to taste your ice creams, be apprised of the ingredients, and watch you prepare at least one of them.” Dinglasan, noting my tone was not all that casual, graciously agreed to all of my terms. In fact, the morning that I arrived, Dinglasan and his colleague, Jill Marriner, led me to the cramped pastry area behind Commissary where Marriner was preparing a fresh batch of toasted almond gelato.

“Gelato, which uses whole milk instead of heavy cream, is denser than ice cream,” Dinglasan reminded me. “That’s because when we spin gelato it’s not incorporating as much air. The richness, however, comes from the egg yolks.” To prove Dinglasan’s point, Marriner broke 48 egg yolks into a stainless steel bowl. Then, while toasted almonds were infusing in a pot of steaming milk, the cook whisked some sugar into the yolks. When the custard was done, Marriner snapped off pieces of freshly made almond bark. The bark was buttery and crisp and caramel colored and, after the gelato was spun, Marriner added the broken bits into the soft and smooth mix. As soon as I tasted the luxurious confection I knew my discriminating brother would approve.

When I arrived home that afternoon, Killer called me on his cell phone from Paris. He had to postpone his trip to Maine; his business meetings were running longer than expected. I started to feel sorry for him until he told me where he was dining.

“I’m at L’Espadon in the Ritz right now, and I don’t know what to choose from on this menu. One dessert features ice cream, but it sounds so weird, I don’t know if I should spend the calories.”

“What is it?” I asked intrigued by his dilemma and pleased that my ice cream expertise was finally needed.

“Prune soufflé with Armagnac ice cream.”

“Order it,” I said. “It may sound like a bold choice, but you can’t beat a soufflé at L’hotel Ritz and prune marries well with Armagnac liqueur.” My brother, for once, did as he was told and called me back after the dessert arrived.

“Well, how was it?” I asked.

“Killer!” he replied.

Jill Strauss can be reached at jstrauss@adelphia.net