Agnes B. Marshall, née Smith, of Walthamstow, practised at Paris
under Viennese chefs, had visions of snow-capped mountains,
stiffly beaten peaks, set in glassy dishes. Not for her the Penny Lick.
She knew life wasn’t a rehearsal and set about chipping away
at Gatti’s glaciers: Norwegian ice kept frozen under London clay.
(Liquid nitrogen later emerged from the mists of her imagination.)
A finger in so many pies! She licked off the cream and ate the cone.
At her height, she fell, the Queen of Ices thrown by a horse,
never to recover. Without her, the business tripped, too:
bought up by Mrs Beeton’s publisher (if you can’t, then join ’em).
But why be sorry? She only knew success, all the hours of churning
eased by her machine, patented to smooth her confection of crystals,
and best eaten quickly before it melted and dropped.
