Tiramisu: You’ve got no passion! [Part 1]

After a captivating rollercoaster ride of trial and error, dozens of calls, and countless interviews, I finally secured my spot as a permanent kitchen porter. But there’s more to this story than just landing the job; it’s about the sweet journey to mastering Tiramisu.

From chocolate cake to lemon cake (my personal favourite) and the enigmatic Tiramisu, I dived headfirst into the world of dessert-making. As I dug deeper into recipes like this one from BBC Good Food, I couldn’t help but chuckle at their “easy” label. Once again, it seemed like another simple task, but little did I know it would introduce me to an entirely new culinary adventure.

Now, let me spill the coffee beans on the real challenge: perfecting the sponge fingers. These delicate creations had to be soaked for just the right amount of time—not too little, not too much. But here’s the twist: in a professional kitchen, if you drench those sponge fingers with too much coffee, your Tiramisu would turn into a miniature swimming pool of coffee and Tia Maria, a sight that’s as unappetizing as it is costly. Trust me, you don’t want to dive into that pool.

This wasn’t my first rodeo in the world of upskilling, and it certainly wouldn’t be my last. Nowadays, I keep clear expectations and key performance indicators close to my heart, from daily tasks to annual reviews. Back then, it was a sink-or-swim situation, and here’s where it gets comical:

I was shown how to bury my beloved sponge fingers once, and then I took over the rest of the prep work.

When it came to the delicate art of dipping them, it was a simple “you count 1… 2… 3…” and then you’d gently place them. I followed the steps meticulously, and when the Tiramisu emerged, it looked like a masterpiece. At least, that’s what I thought. But the true test came after it spent a few hours chilling in the fridge, and you wouldn’t know if it was a success until you served that first heavenly slice, during service.

The moment of truth arrived with the first Tiramisu order, and to my dismay, it was a disaster. Let’s just say the feedback from the owner the next day was colourful and motivational:

“You ruined the Tiramisu. What’s wrong with you? How could you not get it right after I showed you? It’s very easy! You see?”

And then, the kicker:

“YOU’VE GOT NO PASSION! YOU WON’T BE MAKING TIRAMISU ANYMORE!”

I had a hunch something was off, but back then, I couldn’t quite figure out how to make it right.

My punishment was simple—watch the same “show me how because I’m passionate about doing easy things” approach to Tiramisu, but this time, it was someone from the mysterious Tirumaster clan who took the reins. I had never seen that guy, and never saw him afterwards. I can’t even recall his name, so I decided to call him “Tiru”. I stood there, half a metre away from the action, cleaning up once the magic was over.

Service began with a brand new Tiramisu, prepared with micromanagement and passion. Even though I was out of the Tiramisu-prep equation, I was still enlisted to help with serving.

During service, as I removed the first tricky portion from the tray, I noticed a thin layer of liquid starting to pour. I didn’t say a word, saved that first slice, and moved on. By the time the second Tiramisu order came, the dessert had met the same watery fate.

Could the way I served it really make or break a Tiramisu? I’m no culinary genius, nor am I completely clueless. Even un-passionate folks like me don’t mess up everything they touch! C’mon!

The following day, we gathered for a reflective session on how “passionately easy” Tiramisu was equally prone to failure as the “un-passionate” version.

The owner’s verdict was perplexing:

“I DON’T KNOW, IT’S EASY, IT’S 1-2-3… SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH THE FINGER SPONGES… THE BRAND? I DON’T KNOW… WE WON’T SERVE TIRAMISU.”

Maybe my lack of passion left me numb to the situation, but what I appreciated most was that no one was scapegoated. The owner had shown Tiru the ropes, so if blame had to be assigned, it had to be somewhere in the process.

During that time, I was assigned to receiving deliveries, extra cleaning, and preparing cakes before service. It was once a week, on my own. It was peaceful solitude. I was alone, accompanied only by some friendly mice who posed no threat. I even brought along English books to get some homework done. Call me an optimistic un-passionate individual, but in those moments, preparing desserts became genuinely intriguing. It was magical to watch fluffy clouds form from egg whites.

As a slow learner, once I grasped a concept, I usually picked up the pace. So, there I was, with two cakes (lemon and chocolate) in the oven in half the time it had taken me just a couple of tries ago. Plus, I still had all the ingredients to give Tiramisu another go…

By this point, with my less-than-passionate track record with Tiramisu, what would you have done? Click one of the two options below to continue reading.