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What burns bright and cold at the same time? The baked Alaska—a dessert of toasty meringue shielding ice cream and cake from open flame—of course. And right now, the dish is having a moment.
Until recently, like a hot pink Motorola Razr or a Juicy Couture tracksuit phase, the baked Alaska was one of those things people remembered vividly, but couldn’t quite explain. But perhaps it’s no surprise that a dish once synonymous with the brash grandeur of the Gilded Age has found new resonance in an era of gold-dusted, caviar-studded soft serve, and martinis priced like entrées.
The original baked Alaska dates to 1876, when chef Charles Ranhofer of Delmonico’s in New York City served a version made with banana ice cream and walnut spice cake he initially dubbed Alaska, Florida. It was likely inspired by the French omelette Norvégienne—ice cream and sponge cake sealed in meringue—and named to commemorate the U.S. acquisition of Alaska.
For decades, the frosty confection mostly lingered on the menus of white-tablecloth institutions. “It was the Champagne of desserts,” says Laura Shapiro, author of What She Ate: Six Remarkable Women and the Food That Tells Their Stories, referring to the dish’s rarefied air. Until the 1940s, you were far more likely to order an Alaska at a steakhouse than make one at home. But the advent of electric broilers, boxed cake mixes, and vertical freezers in the 1950s helped it cross into home kitchens. During this mid-century boom, it became a host’s ultimate dinner party sendoff.
By the late 1970s, the Alaska’s popularity waned as tastes grew sleeker, dresses less frumpy. But over the last few years, it’s returned as chefs and bakers embrace its zany drama. It’s reappeared on Mad Men, been dubbed the “ultimate gay food,” and even a nun’s secret to longevity. Today, a new generation of chefs is whipping up seasonally informed and culturally inflected variations, transforming the oddity into a full-fledged dessert genre.
One of the most recognizable versions is the storied baked Alaska at the 146-year-old Gage Tollner in Brooklyn, created by the restaurant’s former pastry chef, Caroline Schiff. While the restaurant had never served the Victorian-era dessert, Schiff unveiled this knockout in 2018: billowy swirls of meringue encasing Amarena cherry, fresh mint, and dark chocolate ice cream over chocolate cookie crumbs. The $24 dessert is meant for two, but can easily serve four. “Things come in and out of fashion,” Schiff said. “I’m seeing Gen Z kids wearing clothes I wore in high school. It’s kind of the same thing.”
In Seattle, where November brings little but rain and root vegetables, chef Johnny Courtney of Atoma developed a Baked Alaska of roasted parsnip ice cream, tarragon meringue, and carrot cake when the restaurant opened in 2023. As the seasons shift, so does the Alaska here, which takes three days to make. This summer, Atoma served a nod to cherries Jubilee with brandied fruit, malted vanilla ice cream, and rum cake. Courtney’s favorite so far, though, is the restaurant’s corn version, layered with earthy corn ice cream and corn husk–infused meringue. Next year, he plans a riff on the gas station strawberry shortcake bars of his childhood.
Further down the coast, in Carlsbad, California, smoke from the restaurant Campfire’s custom 12-foot wood-burning hearth perfumes everything on the menu, including the baked Alaska. This moodier rendition features smoked vanilla gelato over rye cake, a coffee meringue, and cassis. “We light it tableside with Grand Marnier… It’s a showstopper,” Sergei Simonov, the chef de cuisine, said. “People’s eyes just light up when it hits the table,” Eric Bost, the executive chef, added.
At Bludorn in Houston, the Alaska resembles an actual campfire: vertical swipes of meringue spike upward like flames, concealing Speculoos ice cream, malted chocolate, and a graham cracker crust. A tangle of chocolate sticks evokes firewood. “Baked Alaska is kind of a silly dessert, right?” said chef Aaron Bludorn. “But it’s an old-school classic…we don’t have to take ourselves too seriously.” His dream version would include huckleberries and cream cheese ice cream.
In Washington, D.C., chef and author of Bodega Bakes, Paola Velez, looked to the Caribbean for inspiration. At Providencia, the 22-seat cocktail bar, she created a Baked Alaska Frío Frío based on the Dominican shaved ice treat. It layers strawberries, matcha, nata de coco, and fruit syrups between wisps of ice, sealed in suspiro—a Dominican meringue that holds its shape better than its Italian or Swiss cousins. On top: a María biscuit, which she calls “the Latin American equivalent of a graham cracker.” Flavors rotate, with past renditions featuring persimmon, banana, and cotton candy grapes.
Mister A’s, the San Diego institution, has served baked Alaska since opening in 1965, but pastry chef Amy Simpson keeps it fresh by rotating flavors eight times a year. This summer, it’s a Baked Hawaiian with a coconut macaroon base and housemade POG (passion fruit, orange, and guava) sorbet. Past riffs have included spumoni and even the viral Dubai chocolate. Also in San Diego, chef Dante Romero dreams up a churro-inspired take with cinnamon and chocolate at Lion’s Share, while chef Gregory Gourget serves a Baked Haiti with a coconut sponge cake and a spiced pineapple Bavarian cream at Kann in Portland, Oregon.
Across the pond, the Alaska is reemerging too. “This trend of retro desserts making a comeback is not limited to the U.S… we’re seeing it in London as well,” said Madina Kazhimova, founder of the London restaurant and wine bar Firebird. Their take feels unmistakably British: Victoria sponge cake and Earl Grey ice cream wrapped in Swiss meringue.
Elsewhere in London, Terri Mercieca, owner of Happy Endings, created an Alaska called the Love Bomb, a raspberry parfait with a heart-shaped passion fruit center perched atop coconut dacquoise, and swirled with meringue and freeze-dried raspberries. Mercieca has made Alaskas for birthdays, sliceable versions for bake sales, and even a tarte tatin version. “You can really make them as easy or as complicated as you like,” she said.
Despite the resurgence of other vintage desserts like chiffon cakes, jelly trifles, and Black Forest gâteau, baked Alaska holds a weirdly untouchable spot in our shared sweet tooth. Maybe it’s the universal appeal of ice cream, the celebratory allure of cake, and the comfort of bonfire-singed marshmallows. It’s a trio that works no matter what flavors you throw at it—a spectacle with substance.
But its revival isn’t just about nostalgia. There are less sexy, more logistical factors at play, too. In an age of rising costs and menu prices, restaurants are under pressure to make desserts work harder. The baked Alaska, often shared between two, commands a higher price point and helps boost check averages—especially when it arrives on fire.
While it’s reappearing on menus, the meringue-capped mountain isn’t impossible to conquer at home. Schiff, whose upcoming cookbook, Daily Dessert, features a home cook-friendly version, recommends picking your favorite store-bought ice cream and going from there.
Shapiro believes part of its appeal is almost primal: the thrill of fire meeting ice, the same theatrics that draw eyes as saganaki or sizzling fajitas. “It may seem blasé, but the sight of leaping flames will forever be exciting,” Shapiro says, “and nobody’s blasé about that.”
Few desserts defy the natural order with such style. The baked Alaska is mirthful, madcap, and unapologetically extra—and offers a finale that will always be met with applause.