You’re walking down Geary Boulevard in the Richmond District and the fog is doing that heavy, damp thing it always does in San Francisco. It’s cold. You’d think nobody wants frozen sugar right now. But then you see the neon. Joe’s Ice Cream Supreme Shop has been sitting there since 1959, and honestly, it feels like the neighborhood would just collapse without it.
People get confused. They see "Supreme" in the name and think it’s some new hypebeast collaboration or a corporate chain trying to sound fancy. It’s not. It’s just Joe’s. It’s a place where the floor might be a little scuffed and the counter stools have that specific swivel that feels like 1965.
I’ve seen kids who grew up on their "Ugly Mug" sundaes bring their own kids back twenty years later. That’s not marketing. That’s just survival in a city that usually eats its own history for breakfast.
What makes the Joe’s Ice Cream Supreme Shop recipe different?
Most modern ice cream is "premium" because they pump it full of air—what the industry calls overrun—or they blast it with so much sugar you can’t taste the dairy. Joe’s is different. It’s thick. It’s the kind of ice cream that fights back a little when you dig your spoon in.
Alice and Sean Beattie, the couple who took over the legacy from the original Joe (Joe Murata), didn't mess with the chemistry. That was the right call. They kept the butterfat high. They kept the batch sizes small.
If you look at the award history, they’ve been cleaning up at the California State Fair for decades. We aren't just talking about a local "best of" list in a free weekly newspaper. We're talking about blind taste tests against the biggest producers in the state. They won Gold Medals because the vanilla actually tastes like bean pods, not chemicals.
The Weird Magic of the Joe’s Burger
You don’t go to a world-class sushi place for the fries, right? Usually. But Joe’s Ice Cream Supreme Shop breaks that rule. Their "Joe’s Burger" is a cult classic for a weird reason: it’s incredibly simple. It’s a quarter-pounder on a toasted sourdough roll.
Why sourdough? Because it’s San Francisco.
The crunch of the roll against the grease of the patty is a specific texture profile you don't get at a fast-food joint. It’s the ultimate "pre-game" for a double scoop of Rocky Road. Most people don’t realize the shop actually started more as a snack bar that happened to have elite ice cream. Now, it’s the other way around, but the grill still puts in work.
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Breaking down the menu (and what to ignore)
Listen, you can get a plain cone anywhere. If you’re at Joe’s, you’re there for the stuff that takes effort.
- The Wasabi Ginger: This isn't a gimmick. It’s sharp. It’ll clear your sinuses and then the cream coats your tongue to stop the burn. It’s polarizing. Some people hate it. I think it’s a masterpiece of balance.
- The Grasshopper: Most places just throw some mint extract and chocolate chips together. At Joe’s Ice Cream Supreme Shop, the mint feels fresh. It’s cool without tasting like toothpaste.
- The Sundaes: They use real whipped cream. Not the stuff from a pressurized can that dissolves into a puddle in thirty seconds. This is heavy, peaked, and rich.
The mistake people make is ordering the "safe" flavors. Sure, the strawberry is great—they use real fruit, you can see the seeds—but if you aren't trying the seasonal Asian-inspired flavors like Black Sesame, you’re missing the soul of the Richmond District.
The 2010 Relocation Scare
There was a moment about 15 years ago when everyone thought Joe’s was a goner. They had to move from their original spot at 5351 Geary to 5420 Geary. In San Francisco real estate, a move of half a block can be a death sentence for a legacy business.
The rent hikes in this city are legendary. They’ve killed off more institutions than the 1906 earthquake did. But the community basically revolted. They didn’t want a trendy boutique or another bank. They wanted their 1950s-style booths.
When the shop reopened, it looked... exactly the same. They managed to port over the atmosphere. That’s hard to do. Usually, when a place moves, it loses its "seasoning." It feels sterile. Joe’s managed to keep the grit and the warmth.
Why the "Supreme" label matters
In the 1950s, adding "Supreme" to a business name was the equivalent of adding "Ultra" or "Pro Max" today. It was a branding signal. For Joe Murata, it was about the density of the product.
Modern food scientists at places like the University of Guelph (who literally have an Ice Cream Course) talk about "body" and "texture" as the primary drivers of consumer satisfaction. Joe’s Ice Cream Supreme Shop hits a specific density that triggers a different satiety response than the light, fluffy stuff you find in the grocery store freezer aisle. You eat less of it, but you feel more "done."
The Cultural Crossroads
If you sit in a booth at Joe’s for an hour, you see the real San Francisco. Not the tech-bro, Patagonia-vest version of the city. You see elderly couples who have been coming there since the Kennedy administration. You see USF students cramming for exams. You see the massive diversity of the Richmond—Russian families, Chinese families, Irish families—all standing in the same line.
It’s one of the few places left where the "Old San Francisco" still breathes.
Most people don't know that Joe Murata was a Japanese-American business owner who built this brand during a time when that wasn't exactly easy. That legacy of resilience is baked into the walls. When the Beatties took over, they didn't just buy a recipe book; they became the stewards of a neighborhood hub.
Practical Tips for your visit
Don't be that person who blocks the sidewalk.
- Parking is a nightmare. It’s Geary Boulevard. Just take the 38 bus or be prepared to circle the block for twenty minutes.
- Cash or Card? They take cards now, but having cash is always faster when the line is out the door on a Saturday night.
- The "Ugly Mug" is the pro move. It’s their signature sundae. It’s messy. It looks like a disaster. It’s perfect.
- Check the hours. They aren't open 24/7. Don't show up at midnight expecting a milkshake.
Why it still works in 2026
We live in a world of "concept" restaurants and Instagram-bait food. Everything is designed to be photographed, not necessarily eaten. Joe’s Ice Cream Supreme Shop is refreshing because it doesn't care about your TikTok. The lighting is okay. The plating is functional.
But the flavors? They’re deep.
There’s a reason it has outlasted a dozen "revolutionary" dessert shops that popped up with liquid nitrogen or gold-leaf toppings. Those places are trends. Joe’s is a staple.
When you taste their Butter Brickle, you aren't just tasting sugar. You're tasting a specific ratio of salt and toasted toffee that has been perfected over six decades. You can't shortcut that with an algorithm or a fancy marketing campaign. It’s just labor. It’s just showing up every morning and making the mix.
If you want to support a local institution, go to Joe’s. Order something you can't pronounce or something you haven't had since you were ten. Sit at the counter. Watch the fog roll past the window.
Next Steps for the Joe's Newbie:
- Visit during the "off-peak" hours (Tuesday or Wednesday afternoons) to actually chat with the staff about the seasonal flavor rotations.
- Compare the "Joe's Burger" to a standard fast-food patty to understand the difference that a sourdough roll makes in structural integrity.
- Order a hand-spun milkshake—it's one of the few places left that doesn't use a pre-mix base from a bag.
- Look at the walls; the awards and old photos tell a better story of San Francisco's Richmond District than any guidebook ever will.