A lot of people say they “love to travel.” But let’s be honest—what that means can look wildly different depending on who you ask. For some, it’s coconut rum in hand, beach chair locked in recline. For others, like me, it’s all about discovery. Sure, there’s a time and place for a do-nothing beach day—but the trips that change me are the ones where I’m elbow-deep in flour in a stranger’s kitchen, learning something new.
Whether you’re a professional chef or just someone who plans every vacation around the next meal (and let’s face it, most of us do), food has a way of anchoring a trip. I can’t tell you how many breakfast conversations I’ve had that revolve around where we’re eating lunch. It becomes the itinerary.
Years ago, when our kids were in their late teens, Sherrie and I took the whole family to Italy. For the first time, we were intentional about seeking out hands-on experiences—cooking classes, local markets, street food. Back then, TripAdvisor and eventually Viator started making that kind of experiential travel easier to find. That trip flipped a switch.
I’ll never forget stepping into All’Antico Vinaio in Florence for the first time. A buddy from Long Island told me it was a must—and he wasn’t wrong. I had no idea at the time how much that humble sandwich shop would end up shaping my journey. It wasn’t just about the flavor. It was about the energy. The line. The ritual. That experience planted a seed that would eventually grow into my career in bread and pizza making.
On that same trip, we signed up for a cooking class in Florence. It started with a shopping trip through Mercato Centrale Firenze, where we picked out ingredients like locals. Then we headed back to a small commercial kitchen and made fresh pasta and Bolognese together as a family. It became a memory that lived well beyond the trip. Once we got home, Sunday pasta night became our new ritual—recreating those dishes and reliving those moments.
Fast forward more than a decade: I’ve left my TV career behind and built a new life as a professional bread and pizza maker. And my hunger to explore hasn’t dulled. In fact, it’s sharper. I now travel with an even deeper appreciation for the way food connects people. I’m not just looking to eat well—I’m looking to learn, to bond, to discover what’s possible through dough, fire, and shared meals.
Recently, Sherrie and I visited one of our sons who was studying abroad in Madrid. We explored the city and ventured out to Barcelona, Lisbon, and Porto. In each place, we signed up for group tours and classes—not to be tourists, but to participate. In Madrid, we didn’t just eat tapas; we learned to make them. We didn’t just drink cider—we learned the traditional Basque way of pouring Sidra, which involves holding the bottle over your head while aiming for a tiny glass at your waist (I may or may not have soaked my shirt in the process). There are even Sidra-pouring competitions—and yes, I’m seriously thinking about starting one on Long Island.
In Porto, we took a port wine tasting at Ferreira, one of the oldest producers in the region. We were seated at a long communal table when someone from Dublin leaned over, pointed at the regal portrait of founder Dona Antónia Ferreira, and said, “Holy shit, she looks exactly like Steve Buscemi.” And you know what? She really did. We spent the next hour laughing, drinking, and connecting with total strangers over a shared table—and that’s the magic of it.
Here’s the point: next time you plan a trip—solo, with a partner, or with friends—consider skipping one of the museums and booking a cooking class instead. These kinds of immersive, hands-on experiences don’t just teach you new skills. They give you stories. They bond you to a place. They remind you that food is one of the great universal languages.
If it were up to me, I’d organize a culinary tour through Southern Italy for our friends, customers, fellow foodies, and pizza pros. We’d walk Pasta Street in Bari, take a bread-making course in Altamura, and learn to make street food in Naples. Maybe we will.
Who’s in?