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Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
Earlier this year, I was looking for part-time work. A cake and ice-cream shop nearby was hiring so I e-mailed my résumé and, eventually, went in for a trial shift. This involved me practising how to scoop ice cream for 20 minutes and talking to my now-manager for 40 about our favourite pizza spots nearby. I immediately knew that this place was special.
In the summer, I worked three shifts a week at Moonmilk, and every time I went in, I experienced a form of connection so humanizing and faith-restoring that it could justify working there for free.
While I had originally set out to supplement my full-time job’s paycheque, the bonds I formed at my part-time gig and witnessed growing among strangers whom I served have far surpassed in value any money I earned. I know how silly it sounds. I can’t resist the inherent wholesomeness of making friends with my neighbours.
One day in July, a man who works for the union of the local movie theatre came in to place an order. He wanted a cake to celebrate a victory he’d had halting the theatre’s eviction by its landlord. The owner was touched by the story and refused payment for the cake. Later the union leader – so moved by the gesture – delivered free movie tickets for Moonmilk staff. The note that came with the tickets highlighted how touched he was by the outpouring of support from neighbours he didn’t even know.
The older women customers are among my favourites. Their concern about me is disarming; they often wonder if I’m okay and tell me I look tired. One who comes in often is always alone and smiles as if she’s having the greatest day of her week. She’s kind and generous, and orders methodically, slowly listing the flavours she’s considering. She declares to whoever is working that day that this place has the best ice cream in the city. Once, a young couple ahead of her in line quietly insisted on paying for her ice cream. By the time she realized, they had already left, and our regular was overjoyed by the anonymous act of kindness. I felt tears forming in my eyes as I listened to her surprise and delight.
Another customer I look forward to serving is a man who always asks for chocolate orange – even though he knows the shop no longer carries his favourite flavour. Every shift he greets me, and respectfully inquires about the status of his favourite flavour and if we plan on serving it again. Every week, I shake my head no to him and his partner, trying to silently communicate with my eyes that, because of its unpopularity and the fact that it’s a seasonal flavour, it likely wouldn’t be made again until Christmas. The shop has vowed to let him know when it returns but it’s his persistence for this ice cream that has brought me joy on shifts when I’ve lost my willingness to engage with strangers.
As with any job, there are unpleasant moments. I’m developing carpal tunnel syndrome from the repeated scooping actions. I panic when we run out of tasting spoons after a group of uncertain adults can’t decide what they want. I simmer quietly at their inability to know themselves, to understand how low the stakes are, or to consider the lineup of patient customers forming behind them. But for every one of these guests, there are more who refuse to sample any new flavours. Ice cream isn’t meant to be that deep, it should be fun.
I still work at Moonmilk. On every shift I marvel at the connections between customers in line, trying to guess how each group may know the other. It’s surprising how many friends run into each other at the ice-cream shop. People meet here and stay seated on our benches long after their last bites. I’ve witnessed what I believe to be strangers on nervous first dates alongside couples who come in together weekly, making jokes about their diet starting tomorrow.
In the fall, my full-time job’s schedule becomes more demanding and I know I’ll have to scale back my shifts. I’ll miss the busyness of the summer season and will run into my favourite customers less often. The winter months are long and the owner has spoken about days where only three people come in.
But my experience working at this popular spot has helped me to better understand my growing community. The interactions and connections I made will sustain me until at least next summer. Hopefully, the orange chocolate ice cream has returned by then.
Katy O’Connor lives in Toronto.