Y’all know that I carry a bit of misguided pride on being that sort of solo traveler who tends to shun preplanned group activities in favor of venturing out unguided and discovering things myself. Right? So you can imagine that I bridled a bit when an acquaintance recommended – no, insisted – that I sign up for one of those kitschy, touristy “learn to make pasta in Italy” classes. I mean, really?

Okay, okay, it was a blast. And unreasonably tasty.

I signed up online, feeling guilty that I was using one of those aggregators who must take a big cut from whoever it is that actually provides the services they advertise, and hoped for the best. It was just across the river at 10:00 the next morning, so I set my alarm for 8:30 (still dealing with the 8 hour time difference). And ended up scrambling because, when I checked the address, it turned out that I’d inadvertently signed up for their other location halfway across town.

I arrived, breathless, only a couple of minutes late, and just ahead of a Welsh/South African couple who had similarly mistimed their travels. Our charming instructor Simone insisted that it was all fine, all fine, and prompted us for introductions around the counter with the usual stock questions: where were we from, was this our first time visiting Florence/Italy/planet Earth, and what was our favorite dish. We tallied a pair of Texans (yes/no/no, chili), Canadians (yes/yes/no, BBQ), a delightful Portuguese couple (no/no/no, …uh), and the Welsh-SA duo, who apparently pop over here for weekends on a regular basis.

For the foodies here: hit me up separately for a detailed discussion of the sauces Simone walked us through – Osso buco ragú, brown butter-sage-garlic, and an olive oil-dill concoction – but I’ll gloss over those in the name of brevity. Also because the space bar on my laptop has all but failed, making lengthy exposition a little more challenging than normal.

Simone got the osso buco going and set it on simmer, then walked us over to the pasta table, where he’d laid out our ingredients and started us into mixing, dipping, sprinkling and kneading. It was, as I said, great fun, and Simone had his patter down. I’ll admit that I could never get completely past my recognition that it was in fact well-rehearsed patter, and not spontaneous banter. He was getting paid to keep us entertained, and he was entertaining us with bits (sometimes repeated once too often?) that he’d found were entertaining to previous audiences.

But. He was engaging and entertaining. And he was teaching us to make pasta that we were all going to eat once we got to the end of the show, so it wasn’t all that hard to let go of my overly-critical take and enjoy the ride.

There were plenty of “So that’s how that’s done!” moments as we rolled, folded, filled and pinched our bits of dough and ricotta together and, at the end of the assembly I think we were all pretty surprised and pleased at how…recognizable and normal our little creations looked.

Throughout the process there were plenty of pauses to wave at passersby peeping in from the glass shop front. Great marketing by whoever designed these gigs – I imagine they get a substantial portion of their customers from pedestrians who glance in and think “that looks like fun!”

Then back to the counter for more sauce prep (“Do I have a volunteer?) and more wine. I don’t think I mentioned the wine. There was wine, and plenty of it, straight through every step of the process. Little glasses on the counter, taken to the rolling table, with the red and white passed along at regular intervals. I do wish I was more of a wine drinker, but at 10 am I found myself hard pressed to do more than pretend to take sips and hold up my still-full glass for show every time the bottle came along. Thankfully, Simone appeared to be dialed in enough that there was no insistence or calling out of my little charade.

Simone walked us through one sauce for each of the three pasta shapes we’d made, helped a classmate dish and distribute, and we ate. And ate. And ate. It was as tasty as it all looked, which was very.

We rolled out through those glass doors four hours after stepping in, but with our bellies and brains full. Simone had given us a link for the recipes, so those who imbibed didn’t have to worry about remembering whether it was a pinch of salt and a pound of butter or vice versa. But he did send us off with directions for his favorite gelato and coffee just around the corner and, once again, failed to disappoint. It had a line stretching out across the square, and I am now ruined for gelato after this place.

So overall? Two thumbs up. There was the undeniable tinge of artificiality: an experience where you pay for someone local to be entertaining and expose you to some local activity/sight/custom in the company of other foreigners. But would I do it again? Heck yeah. Might even insist – no, recommend – that others give it a try.