You’ll step into a real Genoa home for an afternoon rolling fresh pasta, sipping prosecco over nibbles, learning family tricks for two classic pastas, and assembling creamy tiramisu from scratch. With your host guiding each step—and plenty of laughter around the table—you’ll taste everything you make together. It’s relaxed, personal, and honestly feels like being welcomed into someone’s family kitchen.
Yes, the class takes place in a carefully selected local home hosted by a Cesarina.
You’ll learn two types of handmade pasta (seasonal varieties) and classic tiramisu.
Yes, beverages such as water, wine, prosecco (aperitivo), and coffee are included.
The class is small-group style with up to 12 participants maximum.
Yes, you’ll sit down together to enjoy all the dishes you’ve prepared during the class.
Pasta fillings or sauces may be adapted seasonally; ask your host about vegetarian options on arrival.
The exact duration isn’t specified but expect several hours including cooking and eating together.
Yes, public transportation options are available near the meeting point/home.
Your day includes an Italian-style aperitivo with prosecco and nibbles as soon as you arrive, hands-on lessons making two kinds of fresh pasta plus classic tiramisu from scratch—all guided by your local Cesarina host—and plenty of time around the table tasting everything you cook together with wine, water, and coffee provided throughout.
I didn’t really know what to expect as we buzzed the doorbell—just that it was someone’s actual home in Genoa, not a restaurant or fancy school. Our host, Lucia (she said to call her “Cesarina”), greeted us with this big smile and the smell of coffee already drifting from the kitchen. There were six of us, plus Lucia’s cousin who kept popping in to check on the sauce simmering behind us. She poured everyone a glass of prosecco right away—honestly, I needed that after getting lost in those winding Genoese streets.
We started with this little aperitivo—salty olives, tiny focaccia squares, and some cheese I still can’t pronounce. Lucia showed us how to roll out sfoglia by hand. My dough looked more like an old map than pasta at first (she laughed but helped me fix it). We made two types—one filled with ricotta and herbs she’d picked up that morning at the market, the other just simple ribbons tossed later with pesto. The kitchen was noisy with chatter; someone tried to say “buon appetito” and totally butchered it, which set off a round of laughter. The whole thing felt less like a class and more like being at someone’s Sunday lunch.
Then came tiramisu. I never realized how much patience it takes not to eat half the mascarpone before you even start layering. Lucia let us dip our own ladyfingers in espresso—my hands shook a bit because she said “not too soggy!” The whole room smelled like coffee and sweet cream by then. Sitting down together at her table after cooking, eating what we’d just made—it’s hard to explain but it felt warm in a way restaurants never do. I still think about that first bite of tiramisu when I smell coffee now.

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