I love America," he gushes to an American reporter in a gold-and-cream reception room in the 17th-century Baroque palace that is his Roman pied à terre.
Bacon ice cream has received a mixed reception; as a combination of sweet and savoury flavours, it was designed to be controversial.
Adding to the hostile reception will be an ice-cream company, annoyed that one of its advertisements has been banned.
It's a movie of the many cities in one — a city of seemingly limitless luxury and almost supernatural refinement, as in a glisteningly white, cavernous, and ornate Versailles-like reception hall built like gilded whorls of whipped cream.
Behind reception is a motionless but lifelike girl robot wearing a cream jacket and a smirk.
An attractive woman in a cream lace-backed dress and heels is having fun at a wedding reception, kissing the bride, chatting to guests, sipping a Jack Daniel's and Coke.
Do note, though, that while the price of an ice cream cake starts at $60, the prospect of keeping it frozen through the reception might be enough to give even the calmest couple cold feet.
In the reception area of the Renaissance hangs a framed menu from 1937 (creamed turnips, gooseberry cobbler, a filet-mignon dinner for a dollar-fifty), discovered in the attic by the building manager, Art Medeiros.
