Rocco was the horse, not the man. In 1963 he pulled a gelato cart through Milano fast enough to beat the melt, and the name stuck to the cart, then to the counter, then to everything. The whole identity runs on that race: a script that leans forward like it is already moving, a rider-and-cone seal stamped across coupes, wrapping and street signs, blue-gray and cream where everyone else reaches for pistachio pastel. Made every morning, gone by night. Gelato sold at the speed of a thing that was never meant to keep.