The sound of shaving ice is unmistakable. The rasp, first pressed into the ice block, tense as a spring, suddenly surfs across the berg, scraping up a spume of glittering white snow as stray flecks flutter into the air. For some it may ring harsh, but under a blistering sun it signals imminent relief.

　　Shikashika—that’s how Quechua communities near the Andes describe it. It’s a sound so recognizable that street vendors use it as an onomatopoeic term for their shaved-ice desserts. Elsewhere, similar treats go by other monikers. In the Hawaiian Islands, descendents of Japanese plantation workers have sold their version—shave ice—drizzled with neon syrups and condensed milk, since the 1940s. Turkish bici bici, Italian grattachecca, Filipino halo halo—the list goes on.

　　Long before modern refrigeration, shaved-ice desserts emerged in various places around the world, especially in warm climes with access to ice from nearby mountains. On the U.S. mainland, however, they’ve never been more popular than they are now. As T: The New York Times Style Magazine recently put it: shaved ice has taken over the dessert menu.

　　So what counts as shaved ice? Take the snow cone. With small shards of ice doused in colorful syrup, it’s not that different from shikashika or bici bici, but snow-cone ice is more crushed (i.e., crunchy) than shaved. In contrast, Hawaiian shave ice is made with fine, snowlike flakes, placing it squarely in its namesake territory. And unlike granitas and Italian ices, it’s made from pure, unflavored water.

　　One of the first documented forms of shaved ice is kakigori, which can be traced back to Japan’s Heian period, from 794 to 1185 AD. An early mention of kakigori occurs in Makura no Soshi, a book of musings written by Sei Shonagon in the 990s, which describes it as ice “mixed with liana syrup and put in a new silver bowl.” It earned a spot on Shonagon’s list of “elegant things.”

　　Nowadays you don’t need to be in Japan to enjoy kakigori. In Orlando, Florida, couple Hiep Nguyen and Tammy Truong run Koko Kakigori, a year-old pop-up business that since October has resided in a 150-square-foot shop next to the Filipino restaurant Kaya. While Kaya made recent headlines as a James Beard Award finalist for best new restaurant, Koko Kakigori’s diminutive space has kept it a humbler affair. But make no mistake, Nguyen and Truong are masters of their craft.

　　Before becoming culinarians, the two co-owners made art. “All the skills we’ve been using as artists we transferred to the shop,” Nguyen says. Truong, for instance, makes many of the colorful ceramic bowls in the business’s mismatched collection of dishware. The menu, usually a handful of regular and seasonal flavors and a small selection of drinks, is written out by hand and adorned in watercolor.

　　The kakigori itself is also a work of art. Nguyen and Truong are both of Vietnamese descent, and they grew up in Orlando eating chè, a sort of dessert soup often served with ice. But the two were drawn to the aesthetic qualities of kakigori—usually a mountain of shaved ice, where the nearly toppling-over pile is delicately dressed with syrups, milks, mochi, and fruit. Koko combines Vietnamese ingredients with the texture and look of kakigori. “It’s technically chè,” Nguyen says, “but we’re repackaging it. We get to share Southeast Asian flavors with people who wouldn’t have tried it otherwise.”

　　The couple’s wide-ranging inspiration is perhaps most evident in the ube coconut kakigori, partly an homage to the shop’s Filipino neighbor. The treat incorporates, among many house-made components, a cream made from the ube, or purple yam; pandan-infused Vietnamese jelly noodles called banh lot; and black sesame corn flakes, a Japanese-tinged nod to the cereal’s frequent appearance in halo halo.

　　Nguyen and Truong’s eclectic approach mimics kakigori’s impact beyond its native country. In fact, both Hawaiian shave ice and Filipino halo halo originated as renditions of kakigori made by Japanese immigrants. Over time the three desserts evolved to look and taste completely different.

　　Shaved ice has and always will be an experiment. At first it was designed for cooling off; for Nguyen and Truong, the pursuit is as much about form and flavor. And while modern conveniences have made the dessert less rarified, with the sound of every scrape by hand or machine, the ice maintains its magic.

　　Shave Your Own Source your shaver. The key to great shaved ice is texture. The Hawaiian Shaved Ice HomePro ($120) achieves a fluffy, snowlike consistency with ease, although snow-cone makers or high-powered blenders work, too. Pick a liquid. Homemade syrups are how you customize your dessert. Cook sugar and water in a one-to-one ratio with your favorite fruit or herb until the sugar dissolves, then strain and let cool before use. Or go the Filipino route with evaporated milk or coconut milk. Experiment with toppings. Fresh fruit brings a pop of sweetness and color to your shaved ice, while toppings such as breakfast cereal or toasted coconut provide texture and crunch. Add a scoop of ice cream or drizzle with sweetened condensed milk for a more luxurious experience. Assemble with gusto. Fill a glass or bowl with the ice, then apply your syrup. How much? “You kind of go on feeling, but I’d say safely about three ounces,” Nguyen says. Then arrange your toppings to taste. If you’ve got a crowd, set out bowls and squeeze bottles for a shaved-ice bar.