Tiramisù
Well made, a tiramisù is a bloody good dessert, a sort of extra-boozy, fruitless, caffeinated trifle dredged with cocoa. It’s prepared—constructed, really—by alternating layers of savoiardi (ladyfingers) soaked in espresso and dark rum with a cream made from mascarpone cheese, eggs, sugar, and more booze, then finished with a liberal dusting of unsweetened cocoa powder. Literally translated, tiramisù means “pull-me-up” or “pick-me-up.” It’s a pick-me-up of considerable force, but one that shouldn’t impose or sit heavily. Rather, it should delight and leave you wanting more.
After gelato, which is more a way of life than a dessert, tiramisù is probably Italy’s most popular and ubiquitous dolce. You’d be hard pressed to find a restaurant or trattoria that doesn’t have a vast cocoa-dredged tray of it somewhere, to be served in much the same way as lasagne, or a cluster of individual tiramisùs in the fridge. It is, however, a relatively recent invention. Apparently—and who am I to doubt it?—the original was created in the 1970s at the restaurant Le Beccherie in Treviso. The idea caught on, and today there are as many recipes, tips, and tiramisù secrets as there are tiramisù cooks.
I’m not sure why, but I think it tastes better when eaten from a glass, ideally a tumbler. The modest depth and sloping sides provide a perfect vessel for the six graduating layers. Actually, nine layers if you include the cocoa, which can be sprinkled on top of each of the three layers of cream. A glass tumbler is also the perfect way to both display your imperfect layers and contain the inevitable chaos as you plunge your teaspoon down to the bottom of the glass in order to get a perfect spoonful: a soft clot of coffee-and-rum-soaked sponge, a nice blob of pale, quivering cream, a good dusting of cocoa, and just a little of the coffee and rum pond at the bottom of the glass.
makes 6 (ideally in ⅔-cup glass tumblers)
⅔ cup strong espresso coffee, still warm
2 tablespoons dark rum or brandy
½ cup plus 1 tablespoon superfine sugar
3 eggs
⅓ cup Marsala
8¾ ounces mascarpone
12 ladyfinger cookies
good-quality unsweetened cocoa powder, for dusting
Mix the espresso with the rum and 2½ tablespoons of the sugar and stir until the sugar has dissolved.
Separate the eggs, putting the yolks in one bowl and the whites in another. Add the Marsala and remaining sugar to the egg yolks and whisk until the mixture is light and fluffy before adding the mascarpone and stirring it in carefully. Whisk the egg whites until they form stiff peaks. Gently but firmly, fold the egg whites into the egg yolk mixture with a metal spoon.
For each tumbler you will need 2 ladyfingers. Submerge a ladyfinger into the coffee mixture until it is sodden but not collapsing. Gently break it in half and tuck half in the base of the glass. Spoon over a tablespoon of the mascarpone cream before placing the other half of the biscuit on top and covering it with another spoonful of cream. Using a fine-mesh sieve, dust the surface with cocoa powder. Take another biscuit, soak it as before, break it in half, and place both halves side by side on top of the cocoa-dusted mascarpone cream. Cover the surface with more cream.
Repeat this process with the other 5 tumblers. Keep them in the fridge for at least 8 hours before eating, so that they are absolutely set. Before serving, dust the surface of each one very liberally with more cocoa powder. Eat.
Affogato al caffè
Gelato drowned in coffee
Affogato means “drowned,” so affogato al caffè means “drowned in coffee,” a state I am very familiar with. It’s simple: a single scoop of gelato drowned in a single espresso. The effect of pale and dark, hot meeting cold, sweet and lactic meeting a full, tannic espresso is delicious, and one of my favorite ways to end a meal. Time is of the essence: you need to plunge your spoon in quickly so as to appreciate the contrast between hot and cold and the still-distinct flavors before the cream melts into the dark liquid and you are left with a toffee-colored inch to be drunk from the glass. With its fleeting nature in mind, the best way to serve this is to keep the gelato and coffee separate and let people do the drowning themselves.
serves 4
4 scoops good vanilla gelato, or crema or fior di latte gelato
4 shots freshly brewed espresso
Give everyone a glass containing a scoop of gelato, a cup of espresso, and a spoon. On your marks, get set, pour the espresso over ice cream, then eat.
Granita
Granita is a coarse-textured water ice, a slightly slushy, grainy mass of sweetened flavored water that is frozen and crushed to produce something between a drink and sorbet. It is the simplest and easiest of frozen treats. Vincenzo likes to remind me that granita originates, like him, from Sicily. It can be made from nut milk—almond is particularly good—and most fruits and vegetables. Melon and Campari, lemon and mint, blood orange, and of course coffee are all favorites. There are two ways to make granita. The first involves no intervention and a food processor. The second, for those of us without a processor, is more of an affair, but rewards you with lovely, distinct crystals.
One: pour the sweetened liquid into ice cube trays. Once frozen, blend into fine, soft crystals in a food processor.
Two: pour the sweetened liquid into a bowl or plastic container and put it in the freezer. After a couple of hours, move, stir, and—for want of a better word—agitate the granita as it starts to freeze. Do it again an hour later, disturbing the surface of the granita before sliding it back into the freezer. Repeat this process every hour or so (probably not more than 4 times in total), making sure you scrape down the sides, until you have an icy slush like the snow by midday, ready to spoon into glasses. In my freezer, in a medium-size metal bowl, this generally takes 4 hours and 4 agitations, which makes it sound like a lot of bother, which it isn’t, or a 1980s dance.
Granita di melone
Melon granita
It needs to be hot for me to have any real enthusiasm for granita. There was one day last week, for example, while coming home on the 280 bus, the temperature flirting around 86 degrees, my son kicking my calf, when I could think of nothing but diving into water and icy shards of pink. There was no hope of diving, but at least I could make granita. I blasted the chunks of melon with such force that I sent an arc of splatters almost as high as the mark the moka coffee pot made the day it exploded. Luca and I had two glasses each, though, and might have had a third, were it not for a kamikaze wasp.
I make melon granita with both fragrant cantaloupe and watermelon. In both cases, I blast the seedless cubes with my immersion blender. I then add the juice of a lemon to the melon pulp and taste. If the melon is as sweet as it should be, I don’t add sugar; if not I add 1 or 2 heaped tablespoons of superfine sugar. I sometimes add a tablespoon of orange flower water to the cantaloupe pulp too. I then prepare the granita in one of the two ways described above and serve it in glasses. Melon granita is especially good if you pour a little Campari over the top.
serves 6
1 large or 2 small melons, ideally cantaloupe or watermelon (you need about 1¾ pounds melon flesh)
1–2 heaped tablespoons superfine sugar (as needed)
juice of 1 large lemon
1–2 tablespoons orange flower water (optional)
Quarter the melon, scoop out the seeds, and cut away the flesh from the rind. Cut the flesh into large chunks and blend it into a pulp using a food mill, immersion blender, or ordinary blender. Transfer the pulp to a bowl. Add the sugar, lemon juice, and orange flower water, if using, and stir well. Tip the sweetened pulp into a freezerproof container or ice cube tray and prepare according to one of the methods above (here).