Gelato: It’s low fat, “Seinfeld” style

Had a hit of gelato today. That’s nothing special, though, because we eat gelato every day. In fact, it’s fair to say that a day without gelato is a day wasted, and that’s coming from a guy who before I every visited Italy would hear people talk about gelato and think, “Oh, please. What a bunch of pretentious crap.” So I understand why anyone would think the same of me. But truth is truth no matter how hard we try to deny it. And the truth is, Italian gelato, despite its exotic name, is quite simply the best ice cream in the world.

That’s not to say that I haven’t had good ice cream at home. I used to eat cones of the stuff at the Milk Bottle in Spokane’s Garland district – until I discovered that the 24 percent butterfat content was causing my waist to expand like a cheap accordion. Here in Firenze, that’s less of a problem because we walk everywhere – from our apartment across the centro to the new building that houses Gonzaga University’s Florence Program (where my wife Mary Pat teaches law), from the school to the market, from the market back to the apartment, back out to the bookstore or to the wine shop or a museum or a movie (last night we saw Michael Winterbottom’s “Code 46” in English) or just out for a nightly passeaggiata (or stroll) with the rest of the city.

And besides, they say that gelato is low fat compared to American ice cream (right, and I bought the David the other day, too). Whatever, at least once a day during all that activity, we eat gelato. There are a number of Internet sites that champion one Florentine gelateria over the next. There are at least five different spots that we frequent, from Carabe (which is just a five-minute walk from the school and near the Galleria dell’Accademmia) to Festivale del Gelato (which is just off Via dei Calzaiuoli, the main drag between the Duomo and the Piazza della Signoria ). You have to add in Perche No? (not far from Festivale del Gelato), which on one trip earned the name Perche Non Aperto? because it was never open. And of course there’s Vivoli (a block west of Piazza Santa Croce), the world-famous, always-crowded spot that features abrupt servers handing out small cups (no cones) of, yes, delicious gelato for a ransom that would bankrupt God.

But (and my wife, who is a confirmed Vivoli freak, considers this a heresy) my favorite place is Gelateria dei Neri (located on Via dei Neri, which runs parallel to the Arno River beginning at the southern end of the Uffizi ). It isn’t the biggest or the best known, but the nights I have been there (late and hungry), the guy behind the counter has been friendly, willing to speak to me in Italian and not ungenerous with his scoop. In a country that sometimes doesn’t seem to know the meaning of customer service, such small touches are particularly appreciated.

And besides, when it comes down to it even the worst gelato is still the best ice cream you’ve ever tasted. But you’ll have to excuse me. When I talk about Italian ice cream, especially my favorite flavor (stracciatella), it’s hard not to sound pretentious. Of course, I’m not trying very hard.