Because it is our last night in Argentina, I decide to celebrate with a sweet nod to Argentina’s staple gateau–the dulce de leche moon pie–the alfajore.
This cake is ubiquitous with our time in this country, present, it seems, at every moment, every journey, every purchase, the little packet available mass-produced, artesanal, coffee-shop variety, for breakfast, lunch, dessert, dark-chocolate, white-chocolate, squishy, cookie-like.
So, here, in this gourmet mountain town, I spring for he / she versions, opting for a homemade onesie to the cellophane squares adorning your local grocer’s check-out line, eager to slice into the chocolate crisp of the outer shell into the spongy layers, only to slide through the caramel center.
Pure sugar, these things, somewhat balanced by the toffee caramel of the dulce and the subtly of the cake halves, one sufficient for an afternoon treat, or, if Argentinian, breakfast.
My, little moon pie, so delish, it’s a good thing I bid you adieu in the morn.