In my late teens, I encountered the most delicious, creamy, decadent dessert my taste buds had ever detected. What was this wonderful treat, you may ask yourself? None other than the coffee- and brandy-infused, silky, spongy Italian dessert named tiramisu.
My first bite of tiramisu came at an Italian restaurant named Trevi’s, located in Asheville, NC. I would have many more tiramisus from Trevi’s; for a while, it was the only place I would eat the dessert.
Eventually, like many good things, this particular tiramisu came to an end when Trevi’s closed. Since that date, I searched for a tiramisu that could equal or surpass Trevi’s. I tried it in different forms—flavored gelato (Italian ice cream), torte, cheesecake, and others I can’t quite recall. Each tiramisu, whether a variation or a classic recipe, while good in its own right, just didn’t measure up. There was something missing from each dessert; each bite fell flat.
A year or so ago, I decided to give up on my search for a tiramisu that could rival Trevi’s. I continued to eat the dessert, as it had become my favorite. Truth be told, I was still comparing the desserts—just not actively seeking out new places. If I happened to be at a restaurant that offered tiramisu, I would try their version.
Just over a week ago, I found myself at Joe Vicari’s Andiamo Italian Steakhouse in Las Vegas, Nevada, with my absolutely gorgeous girlfriend, Matty. The meal was amazing. It started off with escargot and a meatball for appetizers, moved to a lobster bisque, then to a Caesar salad made tableside. The entrée was spinach linguine with a white wine cream sauce and chicken, and lastly, for dessert, we tried tiramisu. The first bite of the tiramisu hit me just like all the others. It was good, but just not there. For such a great meal, it was a small disappointment. My hope had grown with how much my taste buds danced with each advancing course, and I felt that the dessert would be equally great.
I took a pause before my next bite. I took in the atmosphere, looked in Matty’s eyes, and thought of how great the experience had been. My mind then began to wander, drifting to the other experiences of that day, and I fell back to my feelings for Matty. Then a realization hit me like a ton of bricks. All these years I wasn’t chasing the perfect tiramisu—I was chasing a moment, a memory, a ghost. I expected every other dessert to measure up to my first, which wasn’t fair to them. I hadn’t given them a fair shake.
For my next bite, I slowly cut into the creamy cake. As I placed it in my mouth, I let it sit; I let my mind run to everything else. I allowed myself to get lost in the moment, to get lost in the taste. When I let go of the memory of the first tiramisu and allowed myself to make a new memory with this one, I found it was amazing—and the taste far surpassed Trevi’s tiramisu. It was astounding how one bite could differ so much from the first.
In that moment, I had another realization: I truly loved Matty. I know we as people toss the word love around a lot, but this was something I had been feeling—something I hadn’t felt that strongly before.
In that moment, I had the perfect tiramisu with the only person who could make it so.
