Tsoureki; pistacchio praline with or without cream & pomegranate (oh, my, God); the heavenly kaimaki…
I’m not a person who goes around calling things ‘perfect’. Perfection, in my mind, has a cold sterility, a clinical, almost robotic edge. What does a perfect woman, a perfect song, a perfect book, a perfect vacation, a perfect death feel like? Can their perfection become a prison, a siren song, a “there’s no way to go from here than down”?
I had to make this introduction before I wrote that Pavlakis consistently makes the best ice cream I’ve ever had. Is it the best ice cream in Piraeus, in Athens, in Greece, in the world?
As far as I’m concerned, yes, this completely ordinary-looking (plus cheap & super-generous) neighborhood confectionery shop is perfect. If a more perfect ice cream can exist, I’m having serious difficulty even imagining what tasting it would feel like. I mean, it’s got to the point where I’m even grateful to the Universe that I was lucky enough to run into something in my life I’ve no qualms about calling perfect, even ice cream. How can you even top a quasi-religious experience that brings forward gratitude for your own good fortune?
Every single person I’ve sent to Pavlakis has been left stunned, so I know it’s not just me. It’s not easy to get to—far from it. But doesn’t that make Pavlakis even more special?