Good Things I've Eaten: Bernardo's Tiramasu

I don't like Tiramasu, and I don't like Bernardo.

I have worked long hours, in cramped, very hot spaces with Bernardo all summer. Now I realize he must have been raised by a family of wolves, and adopted by an estranged aunt, who made a deal with the owner of the pizzeria to have him work there to gain people skills.

He is seventeen but acts seven. He constantly smokes cheap cigarettes, drinks plastic cups of Coca Cola, and eats loose fragments of salami and sausage whenever they come his way. He is always sniffing his nose, as to retain loose boogers, and very time he walks behind me, I cringe in fear that he'll grab a big fistful of my buttocks. He is big for seventeen, and wields the strength of a man-child in unpredictable bursts that usually involve lifting his co-workers into the air .He never washes his hands, and always takes too long to do everything. The owner has told me Bernardo is “special”, “badly educated”. I think some higher power has sent Bernardo to me as a lesson in patience.

Tiramisu. To me, the soggy layers of stale, espresso soaked ladyfingers and mushy whipped cream, dusted with cocoa powder and chocolate shavings represent everything wrong with Italian restaurants in America. It is one of those menu items that sells so well that no one ever stops to ask, “Is this actually any good?” It has become dish so trite and common place that every pastry chef resents having to make it, and therefore stands no chance of making it well. I had given up on Tiramisu, and I can't remember the last time I actually ordered it, or ate more than two bites when it ended up on the table at a pre-fix dinner or banquet of some sort.

But then, on a night when the owner of the pizzeria organized an impromptu staff party at two in the morning, after white wine, fried calamari, roasted shrimp, and pasta, Bernardo surprised us all with his Tiramisu, and it completely changed my mind.

Bernardo proudly revealed a deep, ovular dish he had been hiding in the walk-in refrigerator for the whole evening, and from it served heaping spoonfuls onto small plates that quickly made their way around the table. Bernardo's Tiramisu had a height and chunky rusticity that immediately set it apart from the boring squares or triangles usually served at restaurants. I knew I was in for something good, and wasn't disappointed. The flavors of espresso, bittersweet chocolate, rum, and tangy mascarpone cheese were married perfectly. The ladyfingers were soaked just enough to be fully soft but not soggy. The dish was cool, refreshing, and airy, yet full-flavored, satisfying and decadent.

The success of Bernardo's tiramisu can be best described by what it wasn't. It wasn't too sweet, too liquor-y, too coffe-y, or too anything. It was just right. Bernardo had nailed it, and we all had to admit it.

Although I still won't order Tiramisu at any restaurant, I haven't given up completely on the dessert. Bernardo has proven, that not only is he more than a useless lunatic, that when made just right, Tiramisu can be a very, very good thing to eat.

The whiz-kid works his magic.