“You had breakfast? We got ice cream here, what kind you like?”
Maxine notices a sizable freezer under the bar. “Thanks, little early in the day.”
“No, no, it’s real ice cream,” Igor explains. “Russian ice cream. Not this Euromarket food-police shit.”
“High butterfat content,” March translates. “Soviet-era nostalgia, basically.”
“Fucking Nestlé,” Igor rooting through the freezer. “Fucking unsaturated vegetable oils. Hippie shit. Corrupting entire generation. I have arrangements, fly this in once a month on refrigerator plane to Kennedy. OK, so we got Ice-Fili here, Ramzai, also Inmarko, from Novosibirsk, very awesome morozhenoye, Metelitsa, Talosto… today, for you, on special, hazelnut, chocolate chips, vishnya, which is sour cherry…”
“Can I maybe just take some for later?”