Quenelle Strawberry Rhubarb Sorbet: Three years ago, you took a detour to Burbank to check out a humble ice cream shop opened by a former pastry chef with a Michelin-starred pedigree. There, your palate was expanded, with singular flavors like ras el hanout. You were stunned that ice cream could be so good: so creamy and well balanced, yet challenging and complex. You gave it a rare 5.0, and even after consuming ice cream from many respectable places since then, that one scoop stands out in your memory. Fast forward three years, and you pass the same ice cream shop by chance on your way back from eating a substantial meal at Jitlada, your belly full with coconut milk and sticky rice. You see that the shop is about to close and make an impulse decision to stop in, despite a lack of appetite; you don't find yourself in LA often and think it must be fate. You run into the shop, your mind racing in anticipation of what strange and beautiful flavors you'll be introduced to today. Maybe an exotic melon, or an unexpected savory ingredient gone sweet? Instead, your heart sinks as you skim the menu, discovering the only flavor you haven't seen before is Flaming Hot Cheetos. You sample it, and though it has specks of that familiar neon-orange color, it isn't spicy, and you know you would never guess the flavor blindfolded. Instead, you leave with a generous scoop of strawberry rhubarb sorbet in what must be a handmade cone. It tastes fresh and sweet – purely of those exact two flavors – and the cone is a delicious vehicle for it, but you can't help but feel like the world has lost something very special. You contemplate what led to this change of events while reminiscing of ice cream in a pre-Trump era. Beside you, your dad savors his scoop of vanilla, the flavor he never fails to order. 4.0/5.0

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