The Age of Luxury Ice Is Here

I LOVE ICE. LIKE, really, really love it. Once, I asked for ice in my rosé at a bistro in Paris and got a dirty look. One of the best things about my current apartment is not the washer/dryer or the dishwasher or the southern and western exposures or the proximity to Griffith Park, but the ice machine in the freezer compartment of my refrigerator. 

Other people really, really love ice as well. People who go to Sonic Drive-Ins, for one thing, where you can not only get awesome ice in your drink but also buy a bag of it to take home. (The closest Sonic to me is in Duarte, sadly.) Once, during a visit to the Westside home of the writer Roxane Gay, I was directed to a fancy ice machine on a kitchen countertop — a GE Opal that makes my favorite nugget (also known as “pellet”) ice. Sadly, I didn’t have the budget, or the counter space, to justify getting my own. 

Last year, I got a charge for ice on my restaurant bill. A guy I was “seeing” was in town from Paris and asked me to take him to an “American steakhouse.” I knew what he wanted but could not provide it: Musso & Frank was all booked up, as was Taylor’s. A friend suggested a place in Hollywood — it was new, and it was chic, the friend said, and they had a table for two at a reasonable hour on a Thursday night, so I booked it. I didn’t care about the “new” or the “chic,” but I loved that they had room for us. 

When the check came, I noticed something strange. My amaro, priced at $18 on the menu, was listed on the check as costing $22. When the server came over to retrieve the bill and get my credit card, I asked her about the $4 discrepancy.