A Tiramisu for Randy, Twelve Years Running
Life · published May 27, 2026
The first time I had this tiramisu, I was being courted, though neither of us would have used the word. Randy was managing Il Bistro, one of those Seattle restaurants that the city has decided is permanent. I was new to him, new to the city, and full of the particular susceptibility of a person who has just moved somewhere and is letting it impress her. The tiramisu arrived at the end of a meal I do not otherwise remember. I remember the tiramisu.
I asked the chef for the recipe. This is not something I would normally do. I did it then because the dessert genuinely warranted it, and because there is a particular kind of nerve a woman has when she is being courted by someone she has decided she will keep. The chef said yes — out of respect to Randy, I was told, which was the first inkling I had that the man I was dating mattered to people I had not yet met. He emailed the recipe to Randy. I printed it out.
It was a restaurant recipe, which is to say it made enough tiramisu for an evening's service. The first thing I had to do was cut it down. I am not a chef, and I do not have a walk-in. I scaled it for a 9x9 pan and a household of two and Rudy, who would, in fairness, eat tiramisu given the chance, but is not permitted to.
What followed wasn't a single act of adaptation. It was years of it. The first time I made the smaller version, it was correct and slightly thin. The coffee didn't carry. So I doubled it and made it stronger. The next time, the rum felt timid. There are no underage palates in this house, and I had no reason to be cautious, so I poured with a freer hand. After a few birthdays, the recipe had drifted into the version I now make without consulting anything. The chef's recipe is in a folder somewhere. Mine is in my hands.
Randy's birthday is this week. I will make the tiramisu in the morning, because it needs at least four hours in the refrigerator, and twelve is better. He will eat one piece that evening and one piece the next morning, standing up, with coffee, which is the correct way. Last year, for our tenth anniversary, we went back to Il Bistro. The tiramisu was still on the menu. It was still very good. It was not the tiramisu I make at home, and that felt right.
The recipe is below, in the form I actually use, with the coffee and the rum where I have settled them. If you cut it further or stretch it, the architecture holds. The sabayon is the thing that wants attention. Everything else is layering.
Tiramisu, Inga's version
Makes one 9x9 pan. Best made the day before.
You'll need
6 egg yolks
1 cup sugar
1 package (about 8 oz / 250g) mascarpone, room temperature
1¾ cups heavy whipping cream
1 teaspoon vanilla
3 packs of savoiardi (ladyfinger cookies)
About 1½ cups strong cold coffee — espresso if you have it, dark and unsweetened
A generous pour of dark rum, into the coffee (start with ¼ cup; add more if you like it the way we do)
Unsweetened cocoa, for the top
Method
Set a small pot of water to barely simmer. Not boil. Barely. If the water is too hot, you'll have sweet scrambled eggs and a bad afternoon.
In a metal or glass bowl that fits over the pot without touching the water, whisk the egg yolks and sugar. Place over the simmering water and keep whisking steadily until the mixture turns pale, thick, and forms ribbons off the whisk. This is your sabayon. Take it off the heat.
In a separate bowl, whip the cream with the vanilla to stiff peaks.
Add the mascarpone to the warm sabayon. Whisk until smooth.
Fold the sabayon-mascarpone mixture into the whipped cream by hand. Do not use the mixer here. You will lose all the air, and the texture will collapse.
Combine the coffee and rum in a shallow bowl.
Working one at a time, dip a ladyfinger into the coffee-rum quickly — a count of one, no more. Soggy cookies are the most common ruin of a tiramisu. Arrange the dipped cookies in a single layer in the bottom of the 9x9 pan.
Spread half the cream mixture over the cookies.
Repeat: a second layer of dipped cookies, the rest of the cream on top.
Sift cocoa generously over the top. I like it heavy — the bitter against the sweet is the point.
Refrigerate for at least four hours. Overnight is better.
Notes
A double yolk in the bowl is a good omen, and I always trust it. If your eggs surprise you with seven yolks when you cracked six, you have permission to proceed.
