Anyone who's ever chased a taste from their childhood knows it’s more than flavor—it’s memory disguised as sugar. That’s what happened to me the second I walked into Heladería Coromoto, known in whispers and wide eyes as the ice cream place with a thousand flavors. I had heard of it since I was a kid, like a bedtime story told with cone-shaped punctuation. People talk about it with reverence, like it’s sacred ground for sweet teeth. So of course, I had to go. Not out of curiosity, but almost like obligation. Something inside me needed to see if it really existed the way people say it does.
Before I even tasted a thing, the space wrapped around me like a surreal hug. That flower wall, with its velvety roses and the neon sign—"Heladería 1000 Sabores"—made it feel more like a Parisian café inside a dream than a spot nestled in Mérida, Venezuela. The bench in front, candy-pink and slightly too long, reminded me of old high school corridors: places meant for waiting, watching, existing in pause. There’s a kind of intention behind every detail, and that set the tone for the whole visit—this isn't just dessert, it’s a ritual.
Choosing a flavor was like flipping through old family albums where you don’t recognize everyone, but something about their faces feels familiar. With hundreds of options (literally, Guinness-certified), I felt like I was being dared to taste outside my comfort zone. But I went with something “safe”—a combo of arequipe con coco and aguacate. The creamy clash of sweet and strange made my inner child giggle. It was weird, but I loved it. My taste buds danced somewhere between nostalgia and novelty. That’s the thing here—every scoop could be a conversation with your past or a gamble into some new version of yourself.
Drinks and pastries are available too—like in the second picture I took, where we had hot chocolate and a golfeado so tender it felt like bread made by someone who loves too much. Honestly, that simple tray with its disposable cups and slightly greasy paper made me emotional. Not because of the aesthetics, but because of the company. You don’t go to Coromoto to eat alone. You go to remember who you were, or to make sure someone else will remember you in a certain way. There's psychology in that, in how we share sweet things as proof we’ve been somewhere good, with someone who matters.
Ever since that visit, I’ve caught myself daydreaming in ice cream metaphors. What if life really is about tasting everything, even the bizarre combos like onion or beer flavor? Maybe that’s the lesson Coromoto teaches quietly: go weird sometimes. Be bold. Mix things you never thought would go together. And when in doubt, pick two flavors and a bench under plastic roses. Let the moment melt slowly.
All photographs and content used in this post are my own. Therefore, they have been used under my permission and are my property.
