SA
Sheff Ashton
May 2, 2026
Normally, this spot holds its own. Food comes out hot, and there are some genuinely solid employees—professional, patient, and empathetic in a corner that clearly sees more than its fair share of chaos. That said, expect a wait. It’s almost guaranteed.
But the experience isn’t consistent.
My order was simple: caramel frappe, vanilla cone. Ordered smoothly at the kiosk. Then came the cashier.
We make eye contact. She just stares—silent, like we’re in some kind of standoff. I step in, assuming that’s my cue: “Can I pay with EBT?”
Her: “You can pay at the kiosk behind you.”
Me: “I have EBT.”
Nothing. Just air.
Thirty seconds later, another employee rushes up: “Sir, was that two pies?” “No.” “Are you sure it wasn’t two pies?” “Not me.”
Cashier cuts in: “She wasn’t talking to you, so I don’t know why you’re answering.”
That set the tone. Needlessly confrontational, cold, and oddly territorial over basic interaction. I brush it off, place my ticket on the counter—she snaps at me to remove it. Like I’ve broken some sacred rule no one mentioned.
By the end, I’m not just annoyed—I’m made to feel like a problem. Like I’m stupid. Like I don’t belong there.
Look, everyone has bad days. I’ve worked retail. I get it. But there’s a difference between being overwhelmed and making someone feel small on purpose.
This place has good people. It also has the opposite—unnecessary arguments over refills, poor communication (“we don’t have ice cream… want something else?” after the fact), and part-timers who treat basic service like a burden.
If you go, you might get the good side of this place. Just hope you don’t get her.