Last week the Potato Non Grata and I cooked a three-course dinner for six people. In less than three hours from prep to plate, we made our own hand-cut fettucine with shrimp, peppers, and leeks; braised short ribs with pommes anna; and chocolate hazelnut soufflé cake. Oh, and a little appetizer of scallops seared in butter.

Impressed? I was. But actually, we had some help … from our chef-instructor Brian Lee and our three fellow diners.

Thanks to a few evenings like this one and this one spent in the company of serious cooks, I decided it was long past time to take the sauté pan by the handle. To explain: I am an OK cook. I can follow recipes, or intentionally not follow them, most of the time with better-than-just-edible results. I make simple dinners for the two of us from scratch at least four or five nights a week. But I come unglued over dinner parties, and I’m lacking some basic skills. No, I don’t watch the Food Network; tell me who’s skilled and not annoying and I’ll check their show out.

Enter Brian. Brian trained at the California Culinary Academy but now works as a project manager for an Internet firm. He misses cooking, so he now gives private lessons occasionally at his home in Pacific Heights. Our friends the Squirrels used to work with him, and invited us to join them in an evening’s instruction; the Potato’s former wife, a dear friend of ours who I’ll call the Ex Con Grata, was visiting us and so tagged along. (Brian usually prefers groups of four, as his kitchen is on the small side.)

I was pleased that Brian took the time to email us all a questionnaire a few days beforehand, asking us what we wanted out of the class, what our favorite restaurants were, whether we had food allergies, what dishes we would like to master, etc. I said that I wanted to learn basic knife skills, how to cook seafood or carve large cuts of meat, and how to manage my dinner parties better so I wouldn’t still be madly stirring, surrounded by piles of dirty pots and pans in our open-plan kitchen, when guests arrived. Mrs. Squirrel wanted to learn how to make pasta, and the men were along for the ride. Brian planned the menu accordingly, stopping at Whole Foods earlier that day to pick up everything.

When we arrived — 15 minutes late thanks to bridge traffic, I’m ashamed to say — he immediately had us each don an apron, and grab a cutting board and knife.

“Now Bonnie, I’m a list maker, so when I cook for a dinner party, I first make a very detailed schedule of what has to happen when,” he said. “And at 6:45 we’re supposed to be chopping. At 6:50 we’re going to start the scallops.”

Brian showed me his schedule, in which he had deconstructed each of our dishes into its various steps and then ordered them based on time needed to complete them. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so dumb in my life. A list? A schedule for cooking? I balance my checking account using an Excel spreadsheet and planned our wedding and associated construction project using a detailed six-month timeline, which I forgot to take off the fridge before the reception at our house, much to the guests’ amusement. Yet somehow it had never occurred to me to apply my anal-retentive organizational skills to planning a multi-course meal. Instead I’ve always just juggled the tasks mentally, dropping at least one every hour.

He proceeded to demonstrate how to hold a knife properly (nope, I didn’t know that either) and chop safely, quickly, and efficiently. Omniwhore posted about this before and I tried to follow her instructions , but it was much easier to watch someone do it. We chopped faster than I ever had before, practiced shaking and flipping the contents of a sautée pan, learned about braising and reduction sauces, and made fresh pasta — which was so ridiculously easy I can’t believe nobody ever does it at home. I also finally learned how to whip egg whites properly, and the difference between soft peaks and hard peaks.

All the while, Brian kept up a steady stream of useful tips and advice, and freely fessed up to when things weren’t going according to plan. (The short ribs were refusing to get tender, so he boldly boiled them. His ovenside manner was very reassuring, and was well-geared to us advanced-beginner home cooks; I suspect he could easily ratchet it up a notch for the more experienced.

We sat down to eat just past 9 o’clock, with the kitchen was practically as clean as when we’d arrived and everything on the plates was warm. The fettucine was tender and eggy tasting, bathed in a light broth made from the sautéed shrimp, leeks, peppers, and the leftover scallop juice, with a spoonful of mascarpone. The short ribs had dissolved just in time, and were dark and sumptuous under their drizzle of red-wine reduction. Even though the potatoes hadn’t gotten as crisp as Brian wanted, they were way better than any I’ve ever made. (There’s a reason my husband’s nickname is Potato Non Grata.) And the chocolate soufflé cake — a pinch of flour added to stabilize the soufflé so that it could emerge from the oven early and wait without collapsing into a tuffet — was pure gooey delicious, balanced with the crunch of toasted and chopped hazelnuts.

For a very reasonable fee, both the Potato and I gained new confidence and skills. The Ex Con Grata, who is already an accomplished cook, said she had fun too, especially making the pasta dough. Brian also sent us all home with a detailed packet of notes and recipes, although the Squirrels scored the leftover pasta. We’re planning to practice a bit, and then go back to Brian to learn more complicated things. How can you not love school that finishes with dessert?