Pancakes are a bit like the Beatles back catalogue. A handful of ingredients, a simple batter as the hook, and voilà! You’ve got yourself an international playlist of mouth-watering hits.

I should know. I’ve made it my mission to sample them all, from the classic French crepe and fluffy American griddle cake to the Irish potato

and South India

, a crispy breakfast pancake made from fermented rice and dhal. The Germans cut theirs into strips and add it to a broth known as flädlesuppe. 

Palačinke is Croatia’s version, a dense crepe unique for the glug of

or 

in the batter. This fiery fruit brandy, traditionally made from pear or plum, is the national drink and lends a fruity je ne sais quoi – or should that be, a fruity ne znam? I don’t know, but it certainly gives these pancakes a spirited lift.

For anyone raised Croatian, booze in pancakes will seem totally normal. My family cracked out the rakija at gatherings faster than you could say hello. It was gifted in jam jars and free poured at weddings, christenings and funerals. I’m surprised it wasn’t the ‘holy water’ of choice at Croatian baptisms.

Mum liberally doused her pav, walnut roll and

with my grandfather’s moonshine, with the same devil-may-care abandon for child health and safety that allowed us to legally bounce around the backseat of the Ford Fairmont in the '70s without restraint.

Dad took a medicinal tack, downing a shot each morning for a year. When it ran out, he spent another two at the dentist getting root-canal treatment. Today he carries around a spray bottle of the stuff, ingeniously devised in Sydney’s first lockdown when sanitiser was overpriced and scarce. I’m not sure it kills COVID, but it certainly keeps people at bay.

I say this not as some well-meaning intervention, but to show how much rakija is part of the national spirit, be it toasting friends, ringing in the new year or downing a shot on Christmas morning, over a typically Slavic breakfast of ham, pickled cucumbers, shallots and boiled eggs.

Like Austria’s palatschinken and Poland’s naleshnik, palačinke has a higher ratio of eggs to flour and milk than, say, a French crepe or Russian

. The result is a glossy pancake that’s denser than a crepe. Be prepared for the first one to flop. If it’s too thick, adjust the milk. Too thin? Up the flour. Make sure the pan is hot enough to cook the palačinke quickly, but not so hot that bubbles appear on its surface. Don’t overdo the melted butter.

Palačinke is traditionally served smothered in plum jam, Nutella or a sprinkling of sugar and rolled up tighter than a carpet.

But my earliest and fondest memories are of sweet cheese palačinke my lovely Baba liked to make. Topped with sour cream, she’d bake them until gooey and golden, often serving them in summer with a bowl of cream and ripe strawberries.

It was a dessert on high rotation each week at Sunday lunch at my grandparents, where course after course of cold meats, chicken soup, roast pork and stew inevitably ended with these delicious cheese-filled mouth bombs.

You could win a war – any war – on the weight of those Sunday lunches. The palačinke was an A-bomb heavy hitter that left us immobilised, our pants unbuttoned. 

Unlike revenge, it’s a dish best eaten hot.

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