But the big deal was the ice cream—tons of it. Massive parfait glasses filled to the brim and melting down the sides. If you came for your birthday, the sundaes were accompanied by a cacophony—ringing bells, screaming whistles and singing staff, all celebrating... you. But, at 6 or 7 or 8, in Farrells' late-seventies heyday, you didn't really care about the birthday as much as sucking down that giant sundae. Was it any good? I honestly can't remember. It wouldn't have mattered anyway—the opportunity to eat anything sweet, coupled with a brightly-colored gimmick that might feature more candy at the end of the rainbow, was sufficient.

Farrells is long since gone (though it still exists on the West Coast), but as an adult, I'm still addicted to ice cream. As soon as the slightest glimpse Chicago's humid summer begins to show itself I'm off to get the biggest hot fudge monstrosity there is. And while Farrells is great for nostalgia, these days it's less about bells and whistles and more about finding an ice cream concoction that's nothing short of orgasmic.

Thankfully, the City of Big Shoulders, in its continual move toward culinary excellence, hasn't forgotten what's important: Summers are hot and people need ice cream. Yes, need. Whether for comfort, cooling (sure, ice water works too, but you can drink that later) or craving, ice cream is a summer staple food and this area offers some of the best.

The absolute first place to start is Margie's Candies (1960 North Western, (773)384-1035). Decorated with china dolls, stuffed animals, brown vinyl booths and ancient tableside jukeboxes holding tunes slightly more modern than they have a right to be (Captain and Tennille?), Margie's is a lot like your packrat great aunt's house—kinda creepy, but in that comfy, relative way. Though they boast a menu of regular diner fare, three of the four pages are devoted to their ice cream concoctions, and for good reason. Since 1921 Margie's has embodied one of America's strongest traits—basic gluttony. Want to devour a half-gallon of ice cream at one sitting? Margie's "World's Largest Sundae" sets you right up. If, advisably, you want something smaller, you can get four scoops of fresh flavors done as a "Parisian fantasy" in the Eiffel Tower. Your best bet, though, is to go for one of the great specialties—eight banana splits or the joyous Atomic Sundae, a comfortable two or three scoops (flavors of your choice) served in a white plastic clamshell, garnished with bright yellow vanilla wafers. The faint of heart might opt for a phosphate, malt, Boston soda or a shake because this is the kind of place where the sundae is dinner. A feast for the senses not to be missed.

Margie's is grand, but it's almost certain that, unless you know the secret, you've never tasted anything like Petersen's (1100 West Chicago, Oak Park, (708)386-6131). Petersen's makes its own ice cream, which is also available in handpacked quarts or half-gallons. More importantly, they make their own hot fudge, bottled and available to take home, the closest thing to ambrosia as anything you'll ever taste. On any given summer evening their quaint corner spot on Chicago Avenue (which they've inhabited since 1919), bustles with folks sitting outside licking cones from the to-go section of the restaurant. If you want to sit in air-conditioned comfort, you can have a sundae (as well as sandwiches and other American fare) in the dining room. Again, however, it's a matter of space in the stomach. One of their regular large sundaes can serve as a meal in and of itself, so if you're not sure, ask for the petite. Your best bet is the unsurpassed Hot Fudge Turtle, a combination of vanilla ice cream, hot caramel and fudge, and pecans—not peanuts or those bits o' nuts other places try to foist on you, but big, whole pecans. It's indescribable and impossible not to finish. Their regular hot fudge is nearly as good, or, if you're not in the mood for a sundae, have the root beer float—likely the best you've ever tasted.

Lincoln Park's Swiss Gourmet (2187 North Clybourn, (773)755-4616) bills itself as "Chicagoland's micro-dairy for ice cream," producing its ice creams, yogurts and sherbets in Valparaiso, Indiana. Though they offer a menu full of wonderfully offbeat fountain creations—like the "Circus Sundae," featuring bubble gum ice cream, strawberry topping and a sugar cone hat—it isn't up to Margie's or Petersen's standards. Their regular ice cream, from lemon sherbet that's sweet and tart on the tongue to savory chocolate, is excellent in cups or cones. And milkshakes are out of sight. The same is true of Oberweis (1528 West Fullerton, (773)665-8364), the only local Chicago dairy. Sundaes are okay, but basic flavors—especially the chocolate—are lushly satisfying, as are the rich milkshakes. For a treat, try an old-fashioned malt in a flavor like cherry (it turns out pink), a sweet, light joy.

Fans of the flavorful pints by Ben & Jerry's (Lawson House YMCA, 30 West Chicago, (312)624-3424; 338 West Armitage, (773)281-5152) should absolutely check out their store, for no other reason than you may be able to find your favorite discontinued flavor (White Russian, Apple Pie, etc). Then again, you might not. To see if your flavor is actually dead, check www.benandjerrys.com to see the "flavor mausoleum," and always note that, according to Ben & Jerry's, flavors may still be alive, can be in "flavor limbo" or can come back at anytime.

Road Trip alert: Chicago has a lot of fabulous ice cream, but what they don't have is custard, which seems to be more of a downstate thing. The only good way to describe custard is as a heavier, creamier ice cream—definitely sinful and absolutely addicting. If you happen to be road tripping this summer and make it through St. Louis get off I-64 or I-44 and go south on Grand Boulevard until you encounter Ted Drewes Frozen Custard (6736 Chippewa, 4224 South Grand, St. Louis). It's just a little stand where you walk up and order at a window, but their signature "concretes" are amazing. Kind of like the DQ Blizzard, the concrete is custard mixed with whatever you want (fresh fruit ingredients seem to work best). The result is a thick, creamy pseudo-sundae that won't come out when you turn the cup over. Delish.