In Poland, there’s a pastry so deceptively innocent, so impossibly light, that it ended up tied forever to a man who would one day become one of the most influential figures on the planet. Kremówka — the Papal Cream Cake. On paper, it’s just layers of puff pastry and custard. But in Wadowice, the little town where Karol Wojtyła grew up, it’s practically folklore baked in sugar.

Kremówka comes from the old European tradition of mille-feuille, the kind of dessert France perfected and everyone else proudly borrowed. But Polish bakers, in that stubborn Slavic way, made it their own — thicker cream, higher layers, a custard that doesn’t ask for permission. Somewhere between the 18th century and the modern day, it became a staple of Sunday afternoons, family gatherings, and bakery windows that fog up in winter.

And then there’s the legend — the one that turned a humble pastry into pop-culture relic. Before he was Pope John Paul II, before the white robes and global tours, he was just a teenager in Wadowice with a competitive streak and a sweet tooth big enough to scare a dentist. One day, he and his friends held an eating contest. Who could down the most Kremówka? Young Karol reportedly polished off twenty-one and a third. Twenty-one. And a third. You don’t forget a number like that.

People later whispered that the custard back then had a shot of grain alcohol strong enough to make the angels cough. Ninety-four percent, they said. Maybe that explains the enthusiasm. Maybe it doesn’t. Either way, the future pope handled it like a champ.

Bite into a slice today and you get that perfect contrast — the shattering crisp of puff pastry, the soft, cool custard sliding underneath, vanilla and sugar carrying just enough nostalgia to make you understand why a young Polish kid might go back for number twenty-two. In Wadowice, they still sell “Papal Cream Cakes,” a small nod to the boy who grew up to lead millions but never forgot where he came from.

Like all great desserts, Kremówka isn’t really about indulgence. It’s about memory, place, and a kind of sweetness that sneaks up on you — the past reaching out through powdered sugar. Eat it in Poland and you’re tasting more than a pastry. You’re tasting a country’s pride, a childhood legend, and a reminder that even saints-in-training had their vices.

And honestly? We should all be so lucky.