Beth Marie's

I spent a recent balmy evening in Denton, TX. For those of you (and by you, I mean me) who are unfamiliar with the mini-city of Denton, let me explain that Denton is to Austin as a really smart fetus is to the muthafuckin' Professa'. We clear? So anyway, it was warm out, as Texas is inclined to be (at its coldest), and I felt a yen for some "homemade" ice cream and so headed in to Beth Marie's. I will not delve here into my passionate beliefs about the application of the word "homemade" to for-profit establishments, but I will tell you what I thought of the place. First off, I felt upon entering that this small-town ice cream parlor was unsettlingly bar-like: from the men sitting at the counter who scrutinized my assets, all the way to the hot chicks behind the counter who refused me service in favor of helping my male counterparts, who they thought perhaps would be more likely to tip when intoxicated with Rocky Road. The dim lighting may have been an imaginary byproduct of my general bar-infused-memory of the place, but I could have sworn it was fucking dark in there, man. In fact, this strange tavern quality was so disquieting to me that I hardly remember anything about the ice cream itself. Except that when one is anticipating a shot of tequila in a lime-rimmed glass, a scoop of Tin Roof in a waffle cone is not a bad substitute. Main Idea: In this honky-tonk world of high-speed telegraphs and motorized carriages, it's good to know that there still exist some things that make you go "hmmm.."