Southern Sno in Brentwood
Greetings! Dr. Freeze here, lately returned on the red-eye bird from the 17th Annual International Conference on the Advancement of the Snow-Cone Arts in Davos, Switzerland -- just in time for the official start of snow-Cone season.
Yes, Memorial Day has come and gone (I pause to remember Dr. Freeze Sr., killed heroically while trying to air-drop a shipment of shaved ice on Omaha Beach -- unfortunately, it was 1964, the ice melted before anyone could find it, and my father ran out of fuel during the return flight and crashed his plane into the marshmallow-topping-white cliffs of Dover) and the rapscallions have been released from school, which means it's time to quench our existential thirst with a delicious snow-cone.
Won't you join me on a guided tour of the snow-cone stands of St. Louis?
Our first stop is Southern Sno
, located (fittingly enough, mon père) in Memorial Park in lovely Brentwood.
Ah, Brentwood: I remember, in those heady days of his bachelorhood, after Maman left him for that herpetologist -- vengeance shall be mine, "Dr." Steeg -- when my father and I would commiserate over a pint of lager at Double D's until, perhaps, my father felt the stirrings of his deeper soul and manned the karaoke machine for a heartbreaking rendition of "Drop Kick Me, Jesus, Through the Goal Posts of Life."
But I digress. Southern Sno is a fine establishment, with shaded seating and even, past a grove of trees, a lovely little creek in which to cool off before enjoying a snow cone. Yes, yes, there are posted warnings against swimming in this creek because of the potential for sewage overflow, but I have bathed in the waters of the Ganges at Varanasi, so Brentwood does not scare me.
The only sour taste is in the throat of my soul.
Southern Sno belongs to the finely crushed ice school of snow-cone preparation. Though not my personal preference -- I prefer my ice, as I do many things in life, finely shaved -- ever since I had to intervene in a scrum between George Soros and Lech Walesa at the 14th Annual International Conference on the Advancement of the Snow-Cone Arts in Davos, Switzerland, I have taken an ecumenical approach to the great debate.
For my flavor, I chose sour apple. Oh! how Southern Sno disappointed me here. When I order a sour apple snow cone, my face should pucker like a grandmother preparing to bestow a birthday smooch. Instead, I tasted a fruity sweetness as fleeting as my dear friend George Lazenby's regrettable spell as James Bond.
Fortunately, it was at that very moment that I heard the the voice of (shivering, as I suddenly was, might I have felt his spectral presence, too?) my late father: "Remember, son, no matter how disappointing the flavor of your snow cone, you will always have brain freeze."Southern Sno
8600 Strassner Drive, Brentwood
Open 11 a.m.-dusk Mon.-Fri., noon-5 p.m. Sat. (closed Sun.)