On Iebiezinātais Piens

There is an object in Latvian cuisine that has outlasted empires and is still in supermarket aisles today. It is small. It is round. And it is very, very sweet. It is a tin of condensed milk. Iebiezinātais piens is nostalgia in a can.

We will trace the history of this product, explore its use in Latvian cuisine and make one of Latvia's most celebrated cakes.

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Transcript

On Iebiezinātais Piens

Nostalgia in a tin

There is an object in Latvian kitchens that has outlasted empires, survived shortages, travelled across time zones in soldiers’ rucksacks, and still turns up today in supermarket aisles between yoghurt and kefir. It is small. It is round. And it is very, very sweet.

I am talking about a tin of condensed milk. Or, as every Latvian will say, with that particular softness reserved for beloved things: iebiezinātais piens. We are going to open the tin!

Now, if you grew up in Britain or the United States, condensed milk probably lives in your memory as something your grandmother spooned into a cup of tea, or perhaps as the sticky-sweet filling of a toffee. Carnation is an old US brand, well known in Britain. But in Latvia and across the wider post-Soviet world, condensed milk is altogether more resonant. It is nostalgia in a can. It is the taste of childhood birthdays, of Soviet-era shortages navigated with creativity, and of a particular Latvian ingenuity in the kitchen that I have come to admire.

Today we are going to do three things. First, we are going to trace the history of iebiezinātais piens in Latvia: from its unlikely origins in nineteenth-century America, through the extraordinary story of a factory in Latgale that I visited in the late 1990s, to the present day. Then we are going to spend some time exploring Latvian cuisine, where condensed milk turns up in more places than you might expect. Finally, I am going to make one of Latvia’s most celebrated desserts. Layers of pastry. A condensed-milk cream. The legendary Napoleons kūka.

Let’s begin.

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The history of iebiezinātais piens in Latvia

Part One: A sweet invention from America

Every good story needs an unlikely hero, and the story of condensed milk has one in the form of Gail Borden, a man who, in no particular order, was a teacher, a land surveyor, an inventor, a real estate salesman, and an editor. He was not, you will note, a dairy farmer. But in the 1850s, driven by infant mortality and the inability to safely store and transport fresh milk, Borden developed a process for concentrating milk by evaporating it under vacuum, then preserving it by adding sugar. He patented this process in 1856, and the result — a thick, sweet, shelf-stable concentrate — was something the world had never quite seen before.

The timing was, to use a modern phrase, impeccable. Five years later, the American Civil War broke out, and Borden’s condensed milk became one of the earliest mass-produced military rations. The Union Army ordered its first five hundred pounds of the product from Borden’s New York Condensed Milk Company in autumn 1861. Soldiers returned from the war with a taste for it, and civilian demand followed.

In Europe, the product arrived via Switzerland. The Anglo-Swiss Condensed Milk Company was established in 1865, and by the 1880s, tinned milk was reaching consumers across the continent. By 1890, the price had fallen sufficiently to make it accessible to working families: a significant moment, as condensed milk was notably cheaper than fresh milk when diluted to the same consistency and kept far longer. In towns and cities without reliable dairy milk deliveries, this mattered enormously.

Part Two: The Soviet tin

Now, fast-forward to the Soviet Union. And here, iebiezinātais piens — or sgushyonka in Russian — takes on an almost mythological quality.

The Soviet Union began industrial production of condensed milk in 1932. During the Second World War, it was produced primarily as a military ration, but in the 1950s, mass civilian production began. And here is where something interesting happens. The Soviet state applied strict standards regulations to the product, which mandated that condensed milk could contain only one thing: real milk and real sugar. Nothing else. No substitutes. No additives. And for citizens in a system where food quality was frequently unreliable, this consistency became a kind of comfort. You knew what you were getting. You trusted the tin.

The condensed milk tin became, across the Soviet republics, a universal kitchen staple. Housewives used it in cakes and creams, stirred it into tea and coffee, and made fillings for pastries. And, perhaps most famously, Soviet cooks discovered that boiling the sealed tin in water for several hours would caramelise the contents into a deep, toffee-dark substance almost identical to dulce de leche. This boiled condensed milk became a dessert in its own right. Whether the discovery was accidental or deliberate is disputed. One popular story involves the curious son of a Soviet food official, an unwatched saucepan, and an explosion, but the result was undeniable: something magnificent.

Part Three: Rēzekne — Latvia’s condensed milk capital

But Latvia’s relationship with condensed milk is not merely a story of Soviet supply chains. It has its own, very specific geography. And that geography centres on a city in Latgale and on a factory that, for nearly half a century, made Latvia one of the Soviet world’s condensed-milk capitals.

On the 6th of November 1957, the Rēzeknes Piena Konservu Kombināts — the Rēzekne Dairy Canning Combine — began operations. It had been established as part of the Soviet industrialisation of Latvia’s food sector, which had identified the country’s abundant dairy agriculture as a strategic resource. Rēzekne, in the heart of Latgale — a region known for its deep agricultural traditions and its Latgalian identity — was the chosen location.

What followed was remarkable. Over more than forty years, the Rēzekne combine processed around 8.2 million tonnes of milk and produced approximately three billion cans of condensed milk. Three billion. The factory exported its products worldwide, won regular awards, and, in the words of those who have since studied its history, became a legend.

The Rēzekne combine was not simply producing the standard Soviet tin, either. Its specialists were creative. They developed varieties that went far beyond plain sweetened condensed milk: versions with cocoa, with coffee, and, most intriguingly, in the early 1980s, a condensed milk flavoured with chicory. This was not imported chicory; note that chicory grows wild and is cultivated across Latvia, and the idea of using a local, caffeine-free coffee substitute in a condensed milk product was both practical and ahead of its time. The Rēzekne standard for condensed milk with chicory was adopted by other canning plants across the USSR. The factory in Latgale was, in effect, setting the flavour agenda for an entire empire.

And there is an even older story buried here. A Soviet standard from 1939 described a now-forgotten product: sweetened condensed milk with acorn coffee. Acorn coffee, roasted and ground from the oaks so deeply woven into Latvian culture and mythology, had long been a traditional beverage in Latvia before coffee was imported from distant continents. The Second World War interrupted the development of this product, and it faded from memory. But it has recently been revived by researchers at the Rēzekne Academy of Technologies, and I find that rather beautiful. The past and the present are talking to each other across the lid of a tin.

In the late 1990s, while I was deputy British ambassador to Latvia, I was taken to the factory in Rēzekne. They were desperate for investment, or even to sell the company. Sales had dropped significantly. Everywhere in that factory, including the toilets, I recall, you found stacks of tins of condensed milk. Thousands of them. No market.

The Rēzekne combine operated until 2001. Today, only one small-scale Latvian producer of condensed milk remains — the company SIA Vajars — while the local market is largely supplied by producers from Lithuania, the Netherlands, and Ukraine. However, a community of Latvians and food historians remembers the Rēzekne tin with a nostalgia that is not merely sentimental. It is the memory of something genuinely world-class, made here from Latvian milk. The boutique clothing retailer M50 in Rīga even has a T-shirt dedicated to the original tin.

Part Four: Nostalgia and the Rēzekne brand today

One small postscript to this history. In 2021, a Latvian consumer made a charming discovery that went viral: she had bought a tin labelled Rēzeknes iebiezinātais piens — Rēzekne’s condensed milk — only to find, on reading the small print, that it had actually been manufactured in Estonia. The producers, a company called Polven, acknowledged that the original Rēzekne product had inspired their recipe and that they had tried to recreate what the tin’s fans remembered as its distinctive taste, which they called “the nostalgic flavour of childhood”. It is a small story, but it tells you something important: the Rēzekne condensed milk is not merely a product. It is a cultural touchstone. People in Latvia still go looking for it.

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Iebiezinātais piens in Latvian cuisine

History lesson over. Let’s cook. Or rather, let’s talk about cooking. Because condensed milk in the Latvian kitchen is not a single-purpose ingredient. It shows up in the most unexpected places, and once you start looking, you realise that a remarkable number of Latvian desserts and sweets owe their existence to that small tin.

The Gotiņa — Latvia’s national candy

Let me begin with perhaps the most quintessentially Latvian expression of iebiezinātais piens: the Gotiņa. Gotiņa literally means “little cow”, and it is a milk candy, a soft fudge, made by cooking condensed milk, butter, glucose syrup and a hint of vanilla until the sugars caramelise into something dense, sticky and intensely sweet. The Gotiņa is not just a sweet. In the view of many Latvians, it is a national symbol.

The most celebrated origin story places the first Gotiņa at the Skrīveru pārtikas kombināts — the Skrīveri food factory — in 1957, the same year, by coincidence, that the Rēzekne combine opened its doors. The Skrīveri factory, in a small town on the Daugava River, produced these candies by hand, and they were so popular that, according to local legend, confectionery from other manufacturers was sometimes sold under the guise of Skrīveri cream bars, such was the original’s reputation. Today, the Skrīveri factory is still operating, still making Gotiņa by hand, still using the same essential recipe: condensed milk, butter, glucose syrup, and vanillin. You can buy a packet in most Latvian supermarkets.

There is also a rival claim. The Saldus pārtikas kombināts in Saldus maintains that it is the oldest surviving Gotiņa production site in Latvia, having begun production in 1960 with the blessing of the Latvian SSR Consumer Unions. The Saldus Gotiņa became an export product on a remarkable scale: in the 1990s, 150 tons of the candy were produced each month, primarily for the Russian market.

Whether Skrīveri or Saldus, the point remains the same: Latvia’s most loved sweet is, at its heart, a condensed-milk product.

Riekstiņi — Nut-shaped cookies

Another beloved use of iebiezinātais piens — particularly the vārītais, or boiled, caramelised variety — is as the filling for Riekstiņi: small walnut-shaped shortbread cookies, pressed in special moulds, sandwiched together with boiled condensed milk and sometimes a whole nut. These are a staple of Latvian home baking and appear at virtually every family celebration. The contrast between the buttery, slightly crumbly shell and the deep caramel filling is, I speak from personal experience here watching my waistline, dangerously good.

In coffee and in porridge

Beyond the confectionery aisle, iebiezinātais piens serves more purposes. It is stirred into coffee — a habit with deep Soviet roots, when condensed milk replaced fresh cream — and it is drizzled over hot porridge, over blueberries and raspberries picked from summer gardens, and over the simple desserts that Latvian grandmothers make without recipes, from memory.

Cakes, creams, and the Soviet dessert tradition

In cake-making, condensed milk comes into its own. It forms the base of a classic buttercream, simply beaten with softened butter until smooth and pale, which is used to fill and frost a wide range of Latvian celebration cakes. This condensed-milk buttercream has a silkier texture and a more complex flavour than a plain sugar frosting: there is a faint note of caramel and a richness that makes each slice feel like an occasion.

And it is this cream, made from condensed milk and butter, sometimes enriched with a cooked custard base, that is the defining element of the cake we are about to make.

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Making Napoleons Kũka

Right. It is time. I have my ingredients out on the kitchen counter, the oven is heating up, and I am going to attempt something that every Latvian grandmother does with effortless confidence, and which — as an Englishman — I approach with a mix of enthusiasm and mild terror. I am making Napoleons kūka. Napoleon cake. The classic Latvian way.

First, a little context. Napoleons kūka is the Latvian and broader post-Soviet interpretation of the French mille-feuille — a thousand layers. The original French version uses puff pastry and crème pâtissière. The Latvian version takes that idea, increases the butter, and then makes it its own by adding condensed milk to the cream.

The result is a cake of many layers: eight to ten sheets of thin, golden, flaky pastry, sandwiched with a cream of butter and condensed milk, left overnight in the fridge so the pastry softens into the filling and the whole structure becomes something you can actually slice and eat without it collapsing dramatically onto the plate. In theory. It is a showpiece cake, served at birthdays and name days, at Christmas and at Easter. It appears on café menus across Rīga and in every Latvian bakery worth its salt.

Today I am making it, and I am going to walk you through every step as I go.

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The recipe: Napoleons Kūka (Napoleon Cake with Condensed Milk Cream)

Serves: 8–10 | Preparation time: 1.5 hours + overnight chilling

The ingredients.

For the pastry layers:

• 500g ready-made puff pastry

• A little plain flour for dusting

For the condensed milk cream:

• 300g salted butter, softened to room temperature

• 380g (one standard tin) of sweetened condensed milk — iebiezinātais piens or equivalent — at room temperature

• 200ml whole milk

• 2 egg yolks (you can use 2 whole eggs if preferred)

• 1 heaped tablespoon potato starch (or cornflour)

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract or 8g vanilla sugar

The method.

Step One: Make the cooked custard base

In a small bowl, whisk the egg yolks with the potato starch and 50 ml of cold milk until completely smooth, with no lumps. Warm the remaining 150 ml of milk gently in a small saucepan until it is steaming but not boiling. Pour the warm milk into the egg mixture in a slow stream, whisking constantly. Return the mixture to the saucepan and, over a low heat, stir continuously until it thickens, which should take three to four minutes. Do not let it boil. Once thickened, pour into a bowl, stir in the vanilla, cover the surface with cling film to prevent a skin from forming, and leave to cool completely.

Step Two: Make the condensed milk buttercream

Beat the softened butter in a large bowl with an electric mixer for five minutes, until pale, fluffy, and increased in volume. Then, with the mixer still running, add the condensed milk, a tablespoon at a time, beating well after each addition. This patience is rewarded: the cream should be completely smooth and uniform, without any graininess. Once all the condensed milk is incorporated, add the cooled custard base, a spoonful at a time, beating continuously until the whole cream is silky and holds its shape. Refrigerate until needed.

Step Three: Bake the pastry layers

Preheat your oven to 200°C (fan 180°C, gas mark 6). Line your baking trays with baking parchment.

Divide your puff pastry into eight to ten equal pieces. On a lightly floured surface, roll each piece into a thin rectangle or square, aiming for about 3 mm thickness and roughly the same shape for each layer so the finished cake is even. Prick each sheet all over with a fork to prevent excessive puffing. Transfer each sheet to a lined baking tray, lightly splash with cold water (this encourages crispness), and bake for twelve to fourteen minutes until golden. Work in batches, and be vigilant, as puff pastry moves quickly from golden to burnt.

When each layer comes out of the oven, leave it to cool completely on a rack. It will be very fragile when hot, so handle with care.

Set aside the least attractive layer (or two small offcuts) to use as decoration crumbs.

Step Four: Assemble the cake

Place your first pastry layer on a flat serving plate or cake board. Spread a generous, even layer of cream over it. I find a palette knife makes this easier and more meditative. Place the next layer on top, press down very gently, then repeat: cream, pastry, cream, pastry. Build all eight to ten layers. Spread the remaining cream over the top and sides.

Now take your reserved pastry layer and crush it thoroughly with your hands, a rolling pin in a bag, or in a food processor until you have golden, fine crumbs. Press these gently over the top and sides of the cake so the entire exterior is covered.

Step Five: The difficult part of waiting

Cover the cake loosely and leave it in the fridge for at least four hours. Overnight is better. Twenty-four hours is even better. The cream will slowly penetrate the pastry layers, and what was crisp and architectural will become soft, yielding, and deeply united. This is, in my view, the most important step in the whole recipe and also the hardest for an impatient Englishman!

When you remove it from the fridge, leave it at room temperature for twenty minutes before slicing.

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Have your cake and eat it

The cake is in the fridge, and the kitchen smells extraordinary. That particular combination of warm butter and caramelised milk is primal. It is the smell of Latvian celebrations, of family gatherings, of classic cooking that is beyond fads or fashions.

There is something genuinely moving about iebiezinātais piens as a cultural object. It was invented by an American, industrialised by a Swiss company, adopted by an empire, and then — quietly, over decades — became something that belongs to Latvia in a way that feels entirely specific and uniquely its own.

The factory in Rēzekne that produced three billion cans of the stuff. The hands in Skrīveri still wrapping Gotiņa by hand. The Latvian grandmother stirring it into her coffee. The researcher in Rēzekne who found a 1939 standard for condensed milk with acorn coffee and decided it was worth reviving. All of these are part of a single, sweet, continuous story.

And somewhere at the centre of it — a small, round tin.

[Illustration by An Englishman in Latvia. Music and sound effects by Dmitrii Kolesnikov, Mykola Sosin, DRAGON-STUDIO, freesound_community, Mertsfx and Pawel Spychala from Pixabay}