Luca had eaten raskils in Cienne, but had discovered since arriving in Glassport that nobody in the harbour city considered the cheese-and-herb pastries, in the shape of a curling snail shell, to be real raskils unless they were made locally. The one from Erneska’s was certainly the best example he’d ever tasted, with an audible buttery crunch to the browned edges and melting threads of cheese still so hot that Luca burned his tongue on the first bite.
