The “knickerbocker glory”, a more than perfect “sundae”

I grew up on the English coast, near South Shields to be exact. That is to say in the northeast, a region that looks like the British Riviera perhaps one or two days a year and which is only a vast gray and salty expanse the rest of the time. . But whatever the weather, ice cream is always on the menu.

Eating ice cream was such an essential activity that my very first school trip – I was three years old – was to the ice cream factory. I remember that I was offered an ice cream as big as my head (admittedly modest in size at the time). I had opposed a categorical refusal to the red sauce which was offered to me as an accompaniment and which was locally known as “monkey’s blood”. A companion had kindly assured me that it was only raspberry coulis, but I had preferred not to take any risks.

If tasting ice cream on the beach was a practice as delicious as it was recurrent, it was still a nomadic activity. I often treated myself to an Italian gelato on the way home and sometimes, my favorite delicacy, a specialty called oyster (“oyster”), consisting of a shell-shaped wafer, half coated with chocolate and half coconut, with a thin layer of marshmallow enveloping the ice cream inside. We received our ice creams through sliding windows and carried them to their next destination, hair blowing in the wind on our sticky faces.

The pinnacle of glamor

It was rare that we sat down in a café to enjoy an ice cream. Maybe that’s why when my grandparents took me and my sister there, the occasion felt so special that I felt compelled to order a knickerbocker glory. I remember when someone brought me this icy marvel: a string of


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