"It’s churned with tiger nut milk and magic," he whispered. "No cows, no soy, just pure velvet."

Maya smiled, pulled a vintage Fleetwood Mac record from her tote bag, and walked back out into the rain, cradling her frozen treasure like a newborn king.

Behind the counter stood an old man in a flannel apron, his beard dusted with cocoa powder. He didn't wait for her answer. He reached into a hidden freezer chest—the kind that lets out a dramatic puff of nitrogen—and pulled out a plain, unlabeled pint.

She pushed open the heavy oak door. Instead of the sterile, white-tiled interior of a standard creamery, she found herself in what looked like a Victorian library. Instead of books, the floor-to-ceiling shelves were lined with ornate glass jars filled with cashews, almonds, and coconuts. "Looking for the dairy-free holy grail?" a voice rasped.