There is exactly one thing that could start an argument at nonna’s table faster than politics, and it
was the tiramisù. Someone would mention they’d tried a version with rum, or brandy, or — heaven help
them — coffee liqueur, and nonna would put down her spoon. For her there was a right answer, and it was
Marsala. Not out of stubbornness, but because she understood something simple and true about how flavours
fit together. So let mamma settle the debate the way nonna would have: with a story, a little patience, and
the honest reason behind the rule. By the end you’ll know exactly why real tiramisù uses Marsala — and what
you’re really changing when you reach for the rum instead.

First, what tiramisù actually is

Before the wine, the dessert. Tiramisù is one of the simplest great desserts in the world, and like all
simple things it lives or dies by its few ingredients. At its heart: ladyfinger biscuits — savoiardi
— soaked in strong espresso; a cloud of whipped mascarpone enriched with egg yolks and sugar; and a dusting
of bitter cocoa over the top. That’s it. The name means, more or less, “pick me up” — for the coffee, for
the little lift of it — and the whole magic is the contrast: bitter espresso against sweet cream, soft soaked
biscuit against airy mascarpone, dark cocoa against pale custard. Every element is balanced against another.
Which is exactly why what you put in the cream matters so much.

Meet Marsala: the wine that belongs in the bowl

Marsala is a fortified wine from the area around the town of the same name, in Sicily — wine that’s had a
little extra spirit added to strengthen and preserve it. What matters for us is how it tastes: nutty,
warm, with notes of caramel, dried figs, brown sugar and a faint edge of something almost like toffee. It’s
rich but not sharp, sweet but with a vinous depth behind the sweetness. In the Italian kitchen it’s a quiet
workhorse, used in savoury sauces and, above all, in custards and desserts. When you fold a little Marsala
into the mascarpone, it doesn’t announce itself — it deepens everything, the way a little salt deepens
bread. It tastes like it was always meant to be there, because, in this dessert, it was.

So what happens if you use rum?

Now to the heart of the argument — and mamma will be fair, because there’s no need to be cruel about it.
Use rum, and you don’t ruin anything; you make a different dessert. Rum brings sweetness too, but
of a completely different character: bright, sugary, a little tropical, with that warm caribbean heat and
notes of vanilla and molasses. Against the espresso and cocoa it stands out and pushes forward — it announces
itself rather than blending in. Some people love that louder, sweeter result, and that’s fine. But it stops
tasting like the Italian original and starts tasting like its cousin from somewhere warmer. The coffee fights
the rum instead of marrying it. Where Marsala disappears into harmony, rum stays a soloist.

It’s not really about the alcohol — it’s about harmony

Here’s the deeper truth nonna understood without ever explaining it. Marsala works because it
echoes the other flavours already in the dessert. Its caramel and dried-fruit notes shake hands with
the toasty bitterness of the espresso; its mellow sweetness rounds the tang of the mascarpone; its warmth
lives in the same family as the cocoa. Everything points in the same direction. Rum, by contrast, points
somewhere else — its brightness pulls against the dark, mellow, coffee-and-cream world of the dish. Neither
is “wrong,” but only one creates harmony rather than contrast. Cooking, nonna would say, isn’t about adding
good things; it’s about adding things that agree. Marsala agrees with tiramisù.

The zabaglione connection

There’s also history in the bowl. Long before tiramisù, Italians were whisking egg yolks, sugar and
Marsala over gentle heat into zabaglione — a warm, frothy custard eaten on its own or spooned over
fruit and cake. That trio of yolk, sugar and Marsala is one of the oldest sweet ideas in the Italian
kitchen, and tiramisù is, in a sense, its cool and modern grandchild: the same custard logic, layered with
coffee-soaked biscuits and mascarpone. So when nonna reached for the Marsala, she wasn’t following a rule
from a book — she was following a thread that runs back generations through every Italian nonna’s kitchen.
The wine was already part of the family before the dessert had a name.

How nonna actually layered hers

Mamma won’t hand you a recipe with exact grams — nonna never used them, and half the joy is doing it by
feel — but here’s the shape of it, the way it happened in our kitchen. First the custard: egg yolks beaten
pale with sugar, a little Marsala whisked in until it’s thick and glossy, then the mascarpone folded through
gently so it stays airy. Meanwhile, a wide bowl of strong espresso, cooled, with a small splash of Marsala in
it too. The savoiardi take a quick dip in the coffee — in and out, never a soak, or they collapse —
and get laid in a single layer. Cream over biscuits, biscuits over cream, two or three layers, and a heavy
veil of cocoa sifted over the top. Then the hardest part: the wait. It has to rest in the cold overnight, so
the layers settle into one another and the flavours marry. Tiramisù made and eaten the same hour is good;
tiramisù that rested is unforgettable.

Can you make it without any alcohol?

Yes — and mamma would never turn away the children, or anyone who’d rather skip it. A tiramisù made with
just strong espresso, perhaps a touch of vanilla, is still a beautiful thing; the coffee and cocoa carry it
happily on their own. So if you’re making it for a family table with little ones, or for guests who don’t
drink, leave the wine out with a clear conscience. It won’t be nonna’s exact version, but it will still be
tiramisù, and it will still disappear from the dish faster than you can cut it. The spirit of the dessert was
never really the spirit in the bottle — it was the care in the layering.

How to serve it — and end the night right

A great tiramisù deserves a great exit, and the Italian way is simple. Serve it cold, straight from the
fridge where it rested, cut into generous squares — this is no moment for a stingy slice. Alongside it, the
only thing it really wants is a small, strong espresso; the warm coffee against the cold cream is the whole
point of the dessert, repeated in the cup. If the evening calls for something more, a little glass of the
same Marsala that’s hiding in the cream closes the circle beautifully, or an amaro for those who like to end
on something bitter and herbal. Nothing fancy, nothing fussy — just the quiet, satisfied lull at the end of a
long meal.

And here’s nonna’s real secret for serving: make more than you think you need. Tiramisù is the one dessert
where “I couldn’t possibly” turns into “well, maybe just a little more” within about ninety seconds. A dish
that looked like plenty empties faster than any other on the table. Mamma has never once regretted making a
second tray — and never once had leftovers to prove it was too much.

Taste nonna’s at My Mamma

All of this — the Marsala, the overnight rest, the quick dip and the heavy cocoa — is why a real tiramisù
tastes the way it does, and why ours tastes the way nonna’s did. You can argue about it at your own table, or
you can come settle it at ours: tiramisù is one of the dolci we make the proper way, and there’s no better
ending to an Italian dinner. See what’s on the menu, or simply come sit down at
My Mamma and order it for the table — because the last, best argument for Marsala is the
first spoonful, and that’s one nobody ever wins on paper.