It starts in a plaza.

Faustino’s is named for our grandfather — the man who insisted, every single summer evening, that the day wasn’t finished until there had been a paseo and a helado, in that order.

His town square did most of the work. Tiles still warm from the afternoon, swifts going mad overhead, half the town out walking at walking-slowly speed. You ate your ice cream in laps of the plaza, and nobody — not once, not ever — suggested hurrying.

“The day isn’t finished until there’s been a paseo and a helado. In that order.”

We grew up between two countries, and we noticed something: Britain has the lawns, the fetes, the weddings, the long summer evenings — but it eats its ice cream standing in a car park. That felt fixable. So we learned the family recipes properly, found the most charming vehicle ever bolted together, and painted our plaza onto the side of it.

Everything about the van is a small act of memory. The tiles are our abuela’s kitchen. The sun mark is the hour of day the plaza filled up. The red apron tie is the faja from fiesta season. And the ice cream is — well, come and see.

La Ape

She’s a Piaggio Ape — “bee” in Italian, cousin of the Vespa (“wasp”), adopted Spaniard by marriage. Three wheels, one cylinder, zero hurry. We think of her less as a vehicle and more as a very small plaza that happens to be road-legal.

What we believe