A morning with a Bolognese nonna and a wooden pin turns egg and flour into the city's defining dish.
The class starts with a mountain of '00' flour on a scarred wooden board and four eggs cracked straight into the well, no recipe card in sight — just a nonna's hands showing you how the dough should feel before it's ready to knead.
Rolling it thin enough to read a love letter through takes longer than you'd think, and the tagliatelle only counts if it's cut to the width of a little finger, then tossed in a slow-cooked ragù that has nothing to do with the spaghetti bolognese sold abroad.
Book a class run out of an actual home rather than a demonstration kitchen if you can — the pasta is the same, but the two hours of stories about a family trattoria are worth the price alone; wear something you don't mind dusting with flour.
