I can't call myself a fan of Soviet cuisine, nor do I feel any nostalgia for it—there's no Olivier salad, meat jello (kholodets), or herring "shuba" in our home. But some Soviet pastries? That's a love so intense it gives me the shakes. Between mille-feuille, profiteroles, éclairs, tiramisu, crêpes Suzette, and all the other wonders of global dessert artistry, I would still choose kartoshka—that leftover byproduct of the Soviet confectionery industry, originally invented to use up leftovers of sponge cakes and biscuits. Then there are those little pastry tubes filled with whipped egg white cream, but that's a story for another time.

For me, the gold standard was the kartoshka from the Praga restaurant's deli on Stary Arbat in Moscow. But it's price was, to put it mildly, steep, so it was strictly a festive treat. When my university friend and I passed an especially tough exam or wrapped up a semester, we'd head to Arbat. If we had the money, we'd buy one each; if not, we'd split one in half. And that was pure happiness.

Back in my Soviet childhood, getting my hands on this coveted pastry required a fair bit of luck. First, for some reason, it was rarely available in shops or bakeries—it sold out immediately. Second, you had to find a fresh one from that very day. Third, you had to convince your mum—I was allergic to sugar. And fourth, my doctor-mum strictly ensured that the shop assistant transferred the pastry into the bag with tongs rather than bare hands (which, unfortunately, was a common occurrence). If all these stars aligned, I'd get my treasured kartoshka, nibbling it in tiny bites while sipping hot tea from a blue cobalt cup with golden stars, perched on the kitchen stool with my legs tucked under me.

Where I live now, they don't sell these pastries (there are similar ones, but it's not the same! Not the same!), so I have to make them myself. I try not to overindulge—to keep that thrill of anticipation, that joy of sinking my teeth into the soft, chocolatey peak of kartoshka.