I don’t know how I developed a taste for Zabaglione, but I maintain that nothing cannot be made better by it. If you’re having a terrible day, a Zabaglione will cheer you up no end. And if you’re having a wonderful day, a Zabaglione will make it superlative. Legends abound as to when and why it was invented – but I quite like the suggestion that it was The Middle Ages’ answer to Viagra.

Growing up in a restaurant with a father who was a chef, eating was more than a pastime for me – it was a family sport. We travelled to eat, driving for hours on Sundays; L’Ortolan, The Bell at Aston Clinton, The Waterside Inn. I recently unearthed a menu my mother has kept from The Bristol in Paris from 1983. As a result, I was a gastronomically precocious child.

I have an abiding memory of a Zabaglione incident which I have come to appreciate only in hindsight. I was about nine years old, home from school on exeat. My father and I drove past a trattoria on Haverstock Hill – somewhere between Chalk Farm and Belsize – something we had done on numerous occasions but never thought to stop in. It was the kind of neighbourhood Italian that had candles in straw-wrapped Chianti bottles and slightly worn Italian waiters – in equally worn white jackets. Having not had lunch, my father suggested that we might try it. I don’t remember what I ate as a main course but for pudding, I asked for Zabaglione. The maître d’ apologised, explaining the chef had gone home and instead offered me tiramisu, torta della Nonna or fruit salad – all poor substitutes. My father spotted a guéridon in the corner of the dining room and asked if they had eggs, Marsala and sugar, to which the indignant response was, ‘But of course!’.

Summoning said ingredients, a couple of bowls, a whisk and the guéridon, he rolled up his sleeves and – to the astonishment of the stunned Italian wait staff – produced two large glasses of airy, thick golden nectar. I thought nothing of it and tucked in, but only now do I understand how incongruous it must have seemed; a Chinese man whipping up the most classic of Italian desserts in quite an ordinary local North London restaurant.

Conversations about food have recently become quite weighty. It seems we must talk about food in the context of social history, politics, cultural appropriation and identity – and whilst I think these discussions certainly have their place, sometimes it’s just nice to shout about something joyful and delicious. Not every dish or meal has to be a statement, a protest or an opportunity. I don’t know why Zabaglione has never had its moment. It doesn’t seem to have captured the imagination like burnt cheesecake or olive oil ice cream. In no way a slight, I salute the restaurants unfashionable enough to still offer it on their menus – namely Isolabella, La Ballerina and La Barca.