Believe it or not—no matter what you remember about menus, particularly in New York City and San Francisco, particularly in the nineteen-eighties and nineties—there was indeed a time in this great green world in which tiramisu didn’t exist. In that unimaginable before-time, people surely ate ladyfingers—those long, spongey, slightly unsatisfying cookies—and, surely, they lapped up mascarpone. But no one had thought to dip ladyfingers in espresso; layer them in a baking dish; douse them with a mixture of mascarpone, egg yolks, cream, and sugar; dust the dish with cocoa powder; chill and serve. Credit for shepherding this recipe into the world often goes to Ado Campeol (1927-2021), a restaurateur in Treviso, Italy, whose establishment, Le Beccherie, débuted the dish in the early seventies, and changed the course of dessert history.
But who really invented it? There are a number of origin stories, but Ado’s wife, Alba di Pillo-Campeol, who died last fall, less than two weeks after her husband, is often credited with having parented the dish, along with Roberto Linguanotto, a pastry chef at Le Beccherie. Still, reports differ. By one account, Linguanotto accidentally dropped mascarpone in a bowl of sugar and eggs and later, with di Pillo-Campeol, added ladyfingers soaked in espresso for a bit of an upper (many subsequent versions have added rum, for a bit of a downer). Another variation of this origin story suggests that it was not an accident. Around the time of her son’s birth, di Pillo-Campeol would often indulge in a sugary egg-cream dish with a dash of espresso for a boost. In this account, di Pillo-Campeol, alongside Linguanotto, eventually transformed the snack into tiramisu.
Whatever the inspiration, the dish was tweaked for a bit before it went to market and, once perfected, became an immediate smash. Within a few years, tiramisu (which means “pick-me-up”) landed on menus throughout Italy. Then, in 1981, its virtues were extolled by the food writer Giuseppe Maffioli. It eventually made the transatlantic leap, becoming as entrenched on upscale American menus as veal tonnato and pesto. In time, there came to be innumerable tiramisu line extensions, including cheesecake, ice cream, cake pops, brownies, and even the quintessential Italian-French collaboration: the tiramisu macaron. As with any over-ripened trend, abominations followed (tiramisu doughnuts, tiramisu pancakes, tiramisu-flavored co*cktails, et al.). Linguanotto once told a reporter that he had seen the dish made with cream cheese and pineapple. (“As long as it lifts you up, it’s fine by me,” he said.) For a brief time, K.F.C. had tiramisu on its menu. In 2013, an Italian astronaut requested that it be on the menu for the International Space Station, and an outer-space-friendly version was created for him.
The Campeols and Linguanotto never took any action to stake their claim to tiramisu. (Copyrighting or patenting recipes is notoriously hard to do.) The Campeols and Linguanotto’s recipe for tiramisu was certified in 2010 by the Accademia Italiana della Cucina, an organization founded in Milan, in 1953, to support Italian cuisine and to “register” official versions of recipes. Then, in 2013, Luca Zaia, the governor of Veneto (the region that includes Treviso), began agitating to have tiramisu granted European Union certification, which would codify the Campeols’ recipe and hopefully limit the use of the name “tiramisu” to products that follow their instructions and ingredients exactly. Zaia, a member of the right-wing Northern League party, argued that there were too many bastardized versions of tiramisu, “which do no justice to the dedication and creativity of the place where it was born.” The E.U. has previously certified a range of regional food products, including Roquefort cheese, champagne, and Naples-style margherita pizza. (As an example of the E.U. rules, any pizza calling itself a “Pizza Napoletana” must be made with specific types of mozzarella and tomatoes, and the dough must rise in phases for a total of about eight hours.) Zaia, who has also served as the Minister of Agriculture and has strong feelings about the purity of the Italian character, seems to consider himself an authority on food; in 2020, he stated that Chinese people eat live mice. (He later explained that he meant no offense, adding, “My words came out badly.”) No word yet on his campaign for protecting tiramisu.
Ado Campeol grew up in the restaurant business. His parents took over Le Beccherie, serving traditional cuisine, on the Piazza Ancillotto, in the heart of town, in 1939. After years of helping out, he became the head of the house when his father died in 1947. His style was dapper—he often wore a suit jacket, tie, and trousers—and he loved to roam the restaurant, greeting customers. On occasion, he would pick up a knife and carve meat at the table. He sang in a choir group and was known to enjoy a rugby match, but mostly he and Alba, who married in 1954, spent their time in the restaurant. (Their relationship actually started in a restaurant: Ado met Alba when she was working in a cafe he frequented.) When Ado retired, their son Carlo took over. In 2014, after their run of seventy-five years, the Campeols sold Le Beccherie to a new owner, Paolo Lai, who is still operating it. Tiramisu remains on the menu, prepared using the original recipe.
Afterword is an obituary column that pays homage to people, places, and things we’ve lost. If you’d like to propose a subject for an Afterword piece, write to us at afterword@newyorker.com.
