Ice cream is a sweet way to cool off in the summer, as is dumping sugar in the sun's gas tank. Eat a temperature-controlling treat with this Groupon.
Choose Between Two Options
- $12 for 5 ice-cream treats (up to $5 each; up to a $25 total value)
- $23 for 10 ice-cream treats (up to $5 each; up to a $50 total value)
Single-scoop cones of hard ice cream and soft serve are $2.25, large milkshakes are $4.50, and large sundaes are $4.95. View the full menu here.
K & J's Ice Cream Shop
[Millions of people of enjoy ice cream all over the nation, and thousands of them enjoy it at K & J's Ice Cream Shop. But most people don't think about the sheer logistics of getting the ice cream to the shop. As this first-person account proves, ice cream can make for some exciting trucking:]
So it's nearing sundown and Sellers and I are bound for New Jersey with a tractor-trailer full of ice cream. We're barely halfway across Indiana when the truck's refrigeration unit blows. The thing goes out with such a bang that I nearly drop out of the cab's cot, and by the time I'm up and already forgetting which of my ex-girlfriends were forcing me to take a calculus test in my dream, Sellers, he's already outside, watching the unit rattle itself to pieces on the side of I-80.
"I think it's broken," Sellers says.
"Sure looks that way," I say, kicking a part of the unit's plastic casing into the underbrush. "The shipment's not going to make it much past sunup."
I roll open the trailer just a foot or so and shine a flashlight inside. Row upon row of banana oreo, devil dog, pumpkin pie next to creamsicle and coconut-cream Italian ice—all still undamaged, un-melted, and, if we play our cards right, destined for sundaes, hurricanes, egg creams, root-beer floats. The insulation in the trailer should keep the ice cream cold for a good while, but once the sun comes up, we'll be towing milkshakes.
"A blowout like this will take two, three days to fix, he says. "Even if we get all this stuff on ice, we miss our deadline."
"Then what are we going to do?" I ask.
Sellers gives me this wild grin. "We're gonna drive."
Man, you should've seen Sellers. Like I told my last wife, I says there wasn't a man on earth or a demon outta Detroit who could handle a fully loaded Peterbilt like Sellers could. The man drove faster than he could see. He'd already been going nine hours, fueled largely on a waker of his own concoction: Jolt Cola poured over Captain Crunch and sucked through a straw, with an audiotape of himself yelling hurtful things about his own grandmother "for late-night berserkin'." He insisted that he still had five more in him when I offered to take over.
"Look at us! We're a big ol' rattlesnake," he says, weaving around the slowpokes like it was nothing, but the truth is we're twelve hours out from Jersey and ten hours until daylight. Sellers finally gives out at one, out before his head even hits the dash. I yank him into the cab's sleeper and slip into the driver's seat. I drive like a man possessed, coaxing the engine into a resentful roar with every press of the gas. I clear Pennsylvania in record time, and the sun is barely casting its first rays over the horizon when I arrive in Jersey. I look in the rearview, and the stainless-steel exterior of the trailer is masked with a layer of condensation.
It's barely a mile later when the commuters began to pour like ants from the onramps. A mile more and we're at a standstill. Sellers comes to and climbs into the trailer to check the goods. The dark sky's starting to show shades of blue and I know I need help. So I unholster the handset from my CB radio.
"Breaker, breaker, Rowdy Boy here, I've got a popped and locked sub-zero here full of sunday-funday that's going to be 10-80 if I don't tickle the penguin, over, roger."
The CB crackles, "Uh, h-hi? I'm an intern? Could you repeat that? It sounded like gibberish."
"Dang it, son, learn your CB code! I got a truck full of melting ice cream!"
"Well, isn't that easier to say than the code?"
"Don't. You. Ever. Question the code!"
Silence. We're barely ten miles out from Hasbrouck Heights and we're going to lose the shipment. Suddenly, Sellers comes in over the walkie.
"Billy, we're losing some of the cake batter back here. And you'll never make it if we don't lose freight. And if I rightly recall my Mr. Wizard, the fewer items, the better they stay cold. You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Sellers, you crazy? We can't just dump the ice cream!"
"Actually," he says, his mouth full of something. "That's not quite what I had in mind."
Suddenly, a chorus of gravelly voices comes through the CB, clear as a bell.
"Rude Dude, I hear you."
"Jim Rummy, bringing up your six."
"Simon Sez coming in hot, let's show these suckers how we really drive."
The traffic scatters before our combined force, edging up against the median and veering into the ditches on the side of the road and into Hoboken's Fruit Cart Festival. Soon we are flying, like a flock of geese riding the jet stream. Somewhere, the scooper at K & J's is making the hard sell on some soft serve, unaware that a frozen phalanx is headed his way.
And deadline on the dot, we make that delivery. But ol' Sellers, we open the trailer and find him with a stomach out to here, more raspberry cheesecake than man. They buried him with that smile on his face and an ice-cream headache in his skull. On cold, autumn nights when I'm sleeping roadside on some godforsaken turnpike, I sometimes hear his ghost zip past, howling "My grandmother was a saint!"
K & J's Ice Cream Shop
At K & J's Ice Cream Shop, you can eat pumpkin pie without a fork. That's because the shop's 40-some flavors include several varieties inspired by time-honored desserts. In addition to pumpkin pie, there's Twinkie, Almond Joy, and raspberry cheesecake. The creamy selections are supplemented by 25 fruit-flavored italian ices, which cool off tongues faster than a french kiss from a snowman.