On becoming a bonafide pasta master


I enrolled in a pasta making class because of my obsession with the second season of Master of None. Don’t judge me.

There’s something so romantic about when lead character Dev throws in everything and moves to Italy to learn how to make pasta from an authentic pasta-making nonna.

There’s something even more romantic (and pretty damn hilarious) about the bromance between Dev and his big bud Arnold singing to their pasta, and each other.


So I signed hubby and I up to pasta making 101, secretly hoping this would inspire us to throw in everything and move to Italy.

It didn’t quite do that, but it did give me a full belly and a slight hang over the next morning.

Arriving at Signorelli Gastronomia after work we were greeted with flutes of bubbly even before walking through the door. This was my kind of class.

Four individual stations were set up at each prep table with flour, eggs, oil and salt laid out neatly in front of the stainless steel pasta makers.

Chef Marco greeted us and got straight into the demonstration of making a basic pasta dough before sending us back to the stations to get kneading.


On account of being a quarter Italian, I was probably a little cockier than I should have been when envisioning how great I would be at making pasta. I’ve never actually made it before, or have even seen it being made, but surely the skill is a genetic thing. Instead, one of my two eggs spilled straight over the well in my flour onto the bench. I blame the bubbly.

Hubby dumped the entire portion of salt into his dough before being told by the maestro only a pinch was required, then attempted several times to swap his batch for mine – with little success. He blames the bubbly.

The dough rested and we learn how to roll and cut our way to pasta glory. Surely I couldn’t stuff this part up. Because of genetics.


The dough was cut into two portions: one to eat now and one to take home for eating later.  The first portion was not so bad. I rolled and stretched, and floured and stretched, and cut and floured. Fantastico.

The second portion was not as fantastico. I rolled and stretched, and floured and stretched, and cut and floured – and am told it is too thick. I begin to question my genetic makeup, and attempt to thread individual strands of tagliatelle through the pasta maker to thin them out. Chef Maestro looks on in disbelief and says this method could take me a while.

I blame the bubbly.

It really doesn’t bother me at this stage though, as I am well and truly plastered when sitting down to enjoy my first portion cooked with a delish napoletana sauce.

Maybe I’ll do better at the pizza making course.

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