A quick tracking-down of the site of Lovecraft’s famous ice-cream eating contests, which I had pictured as being in urban New York. But seemingly not…

“21, Federal Street [Warren, Rhode Island]. “Bosworth Mansion” or “Maxfields” c.1840: 2 story gable roof Greek Revival house possibly designed by architect Russell Warren for Judge Alfred Bosworth; known for years as “Maxfields” a popular local ice-cream parlor.”

“After digesting Warren’s quiet lanes and doorways we went across the tracks to Aunt Julia’s, where we tanked up on twelve different kinds of ice cream — all they’re serving at this time of year.” — Selected Letters: 1932-1934.

This was owned by Julia A. Maxfield’s whose father was apparently Louis Warren Taft, and was of an old Rhode Island family. It seems from the mention of “Aunt Julia” that she was related to a member of the Lovecraft Circle. It seems, though, that the “Bosworth Mansion” was not the actual site of the parlour. The parlour was apparently in a nearby building, presumably in the grounds and maybe looking more like a wooden Summer House?…

From: Ruth Marris Macaulay, John Chaney. Warren. Arcadia, 1997.

Or possibly it was a veranda-like extension at the back of the house, which Wandrei’s (then nearly 20 years-old) memories seem to imply. Although I think I would rather trust the memories of the local historians and local people that the parlour was actually some distance from the main house.

Possibly Julia A. Maxfield didn’t actually work there either, but employed her relatives to do so, since there is mention of a Charles Redfern Maxfield Snr. being the manager of an ice-cream parlour in Warren in the 1920s.

Thanks to Chris Perridas for snagging this from an auction-house blurb on the parlour…

From the 1944 Arkham House book Marginalia by H.P. Lovecraft, there is a section titled “The Dweller in Darkness” by Donald Wandrei. In that piece he explains the history and story behind the first 1927 trip to Maxfields:—

We took a bus for Warren, Rhode Island, where they promised a great treat. At Warren we walked to an establishment called Maxfield’s in a rambling old Colonial house. Its specialty was ice-cream, and it developed that our pilgrimage was solely for the purpose of consuming ice-cream.

There were thirty-two varieties on the menu. “Are they all available?” asked Lovecraft.

“No,” said the waiter, “only twenty-eight today, Sir.”

“Ah, the decay of modern commercial institutions,” said Lovecraft dolefully. “Thirty-two varieties are advertised but only twenty-eight are prepared for the famished pilgrims.”

We each ordered a double portion of a different flavor, and by dividing each other’s choice, we enjoyed three flavors with each serving. The trams came on and on — chocolate, vanilla, peach, black raspberry, pistachio, black walnut, coffee, huckleberry, strawberry, orange, plum, mint, burnt almond, and exotic types whose names I do not recall. The ice-cream was superior; there was no doubt of its being of the finest quality. But on the twenty-first variety I was beyond capacity. I watched with awe while the remaining flavors arrived in the same huge portions, and Lovecraft and Morton ate on with undiminshed zest, interspersing the astonishing meal with a wealth of literary allusions on the origins of ice-cream, its preparation in Italy, its appeal to famous men, the distinctions between meringues, ice-creams, and ices. I managed to sip each flavor for the record of twenty-eight, but I was a weak runner-up to the champions. I would estimate that Lovecraft and Morton consumed between two and three quarts of ice-cream apiece on that gastronomic triumph.

The occasion was so memorable that we wrote a short note of appreciation of the twenty-eight varieties and our enjoyment, signed it, and left it at the table. A year later when we visited Warren, we were surprised to find our tribute decorating a wall. Lovecraft was both amused and delighted but all he said was, “What a disapointment that the other four varieties were not available.”