When a tin of condensed milk exploded in one woman’s kitchen, splattering caramel across the ceiling and walls, she didn’t scream—she laughed. She and her siblings had grown up watching that bubbling can transform into a thick, golden paste called dulce de leche. This time, they forgot to keep the pot topped up with water. The eruption was messy, but the sticky aftermath was too delicious to regret. This isn’t just a story about dessert—it’s a story about obsession, national rivalry, and a sugary treat so beloved it once sparked a political standoff.
The Caramel That Started a Fight
Dulce de leche, which means “sweet from milk” in Spanish, might look like simple caramel, but its story is anything but. Across South and Central America, dozens of countries claim they invented it. It appears on breakfast tables in Buenos Aires, street stalls in Bogotá, and ice cream cones in Santiago. It’s smeared onto crepes, stuffed into pastries, and spooned straight from the jar. But who made it first?
In 2003, Argentina tried to declare dulce de leche a national treasure. They wanted UNESCO to list it as part of their cultural heritage, alongside empanadas and barbecued meat. But Uruguay slammed the brakes. They argued the sweet treat didn’t belong to Argentina alone—it was part of the whole Río de la Plata region, which includes both countries. Chile, Colombia and Perú also joined in, each with their own name for it and their own pride.
So where did it really come from? That depends on who you ask—and how far back you’re willing to go.
A Sticky Origin Story
One legend says it was invented by accident. In 19th-century Argentina, a maid was preparing milk and sugar for her boss, the political leader Juan Manuel de Rosas. She got distracted, left the pot too long, and returned to find a thick, golden paste. It tasted like heaven. Coincidentally, the earliest known written record of dulce de leche appears in an 1829 peace treaty involving de Rosas. A curious connection, to say the least.
But others believe the treat predates Argentina altogether. Some food historians trace it back to Indonesia in the 6th century. From there, it may have travelled to the Philippines, then Spain, and eventually the Americas during the colonial period. Still others point to Napoleon’s cook, who in 1804 allegedly overcooked milk and sugar while trying to prepare something else. All the stories share one detail: dulce de leche began as a happy accident.
Many Countries, Many Recipes
No two countries make dulce de leche exactly the same. In Argentina, the recipe calls for milk, sugar, vanilla and a touch of baking soda. In Uruguay, it’s usually just milk and sugar. Colombians call it arequipe. In Chile and Perú, they call it manjar. And in Mexico, it becomes cajeta, made with goat’s milk for a tangier flavour.
Some countries get even more creative. In Cuba, the milk is curdled first. The Dominican Republic adds cinnamon and uses equal parts milk and sugar, turning it into something closer to fudge. Puerto Ricans might make it with coconut milk, while in Panama, it develops a crispy crust on top as it cools. Chilean versions have even been rumoured to contain butter infused with cannabis. It’s not just a treat—it’s a national identity, a kitchen experiment, and sometimes, a dare.
Sweet Obsession, Global Craze
For many South Americans, dulce de leche is more than a dessert. It’s a daily staple, like peanut butter or jam. It’s eaten on toast, pancakes, waffles, or with bananas. Some pour it warm over cakes and muffins. Others scoop it cold and straight from the fridge. In Argentina and Uruguay, alfajores—sandwich cookies filled with the gooey caramel—are as common as chocolate bars.
Today, you can find dulce de leche in supermarkets worldwide. Global brands have caught on, selling dulce de leche ice cream, spreads, and lollies. Gourmet gelato shops like Gelato Messina in Australia have even launched special flavours dedicated to the stuff. On October 11, sweet-toothed fans celebrate International Dulce de Leche Day, honouring the treat with spoonfuls, cakes and laughter.
And yes, some still boil tins of condensed milk at home, despite the risk. After all, what’s a little caramel on the ceiling in exchange for a spoonful of the most beloved dessert in Latin America?
