As a result, these chefs are having fun with ube, making dishes like chicken and ube waffles (at Maharlika), ube pancakes (D.C.’s Purple Patch), and ube-brown-sugar pie (L.A.’s Irenia), and lots of ice cream like ube malted crunch (at L.A.’s Wanderlust Creamery). In other words, ube ice cream is nothing new, but there’s a big reason for its recent rise in popularity in the U.S.: Second-generation Filipino chefs are driving a movement of popular new restaurants in spots like Los Angeles, New York, and Washington, D.C. Restaurants in places like Queens’ Filipino enclave, including Tito Rad’s Grill & Restaurant and House of Inasal, also serve ube ice cream alongside or as part of halo-halo. The California-based ice-cream-maker Magnolia (established in 1969) has packed it into pints for years. The tuber has a long history in the cuisine and is a favorite ingredient in sweets, including as a topping in halo-halo, one of the country’s most famous desserts, and as a traditional ice-cream flavor. The appeal of ube is no secret to Filipinos, or fans of the country’s cuisine. The striking color comes from an ingredient that’s a staple in Filipino sweets, but still relatively new to American desserts: ube, the yam known for its outlandishly purple hue - an attribute that is helping propel ube’s popularity on social media and has it poised to become the next big flavor. Instead, it’s an unmistakable shade of purple, not fake purple, more like something out of a psychedelic tableau. It isn’t even the kind of Day-Glo orange or pink you might see at some shops. It looks nothing like what you’d get after chasing down a Mister Softee truck or during a pit stop at Dairy Queen. The ice cream that’s swirling out of the soft-serve machine at the wildly popular Lower East Side shop Soft Swerve isn’t a pale vanilla or muted chocolate.
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