I ate alfajores daily when I was in Argentina, grabbing a packet of the foil-wrapped confection whenever I saw one: at cafes, markets, gas stations, the concession stand at the zoo.

The sandwich cookies were utterly irresistible, made with soft cakes and a creamy dulce de leche filling, sometimes coated in dark or white chocolate.

When I returned home to New York, I filed them away in the same Buenos Aires-only part of my brain reserved for doing the tango (badly) in the park and eating dinner at 11 p.m. It never occurred to me to make them myself.