If you wouldn't mind, please allow me a moment here. In a short while I'm going to pick up a knife, or an egg beater, or a lemon zester, and the next thing you know I'll be covered in stains and sauce, hands cramped from slicing and dicing and mincing, hopefully unharmed but probably tired. I expect to look in the mirror a week from today and see an unkempt, slightly stickier — but far more capable — version of myself, and before that happens I'd like you to meet me as I am. I am a newlywed. I've been married for just over six months as I write this, so I use the term "newlywed" with the big picture in mind: I'm not exactly picking rice out of my hair, but my marriage is still in its infancy, relatively speaking. Suffice it to say that I've been married for a brief enough time that — despite seven years of prenuptial dating — I'm still desperate for the approval of my in-laws, which means I'm still trying to convince them of the ridiculous notion that I am good at everything.

It's not going well.

My father-in-law has already discovered that I'm an atrocious golfer and probably below-average in matters of home improvement, and they're likely wise to my terrible diet and tendency to sleep through alarms. I am eager to stop the bleeding, and I hope to do it with a nice demi-glace. The impending holidays mean my wife's parents will be flying in for at least a week, providing me ample opportunity to impress them with my kitchen prowess — a prowess I don't yet actually possess, but one that I'm soon to acquire.

Over the next seven days I'll be taking six cooking classes, a kitchen cram session if you will. Each class, save for one, is hands-on; each is focused on a different topic; together, they might just be enough to turn me from a mediocre cook into a good one (or good enough, at least, to fake it for a little while). If nothing else, I can only hope that in the end I'll have learned enough to earn a little respect from the in-laws — and failing that, perhaps enough to make them smile, at least 'til we're through with dessert. Wish me luck.

Day 6

Dinner at Eight, 10/19/06
6:30 p.m.: Viva South America!
Menu: Saltenas; coconut rum shrimp; lomo saltado; mango-papaya smoothies

If you stayed awake for even half of your high school science classes you probably heard something about sensory deprivation, like how bats' poor eyesight is compensated by their extraordinary auditory abilities. Nature is full of such phenomena: Take away one sense and the others will be enhanced.

And so it is with cooking classes based on demonstration. You can't touch, so all your other senses are a bit heightened. You listen closer. You pay more attention to every detail — the way ingredients sizzle in a pan, or the consistency of a dough, or whether the cook allows his sauce to reach a low boil or a rolling one. You might just learn more about a dish from simply watching it be prepared, if only because the natural inclination is to extract information from every available source. Doubly so if you go home and stage the whole thing over again.

Which is precisely why I can pay so much attention to just how long chef Fredy Hernandez lets the beef cook for our lomo saltado (think Latin stir-fry). Or better yet, why I can watch him slice onions while waxing on about the relative starch levels of yucca vs. potatoes. Information is coming at me from all angles, and I want to absorb it all.

As far as I can tell Chef Fredy, owner of the aptly named and multifaceted Chef Fredy Cuisine, is a freelance contractor to Dinner at Eight, a charming little nook of a store full of high-end kitchenware, appliances and accessories. As he leads us through our Latin menu he hits trivia, essential knowledge and everything in between — from the variations on empanadas found in each Latin American country to his nutritionist's advice on the merits of bacon fat vs. lard vs. other shortenings. All the while Candace Mirza, who owns the store, plays both class leader and participant, tossing in bits of knowledge and queries for the cook, offering pours of wine (the first is free, additional glasses are $5) and making sideways sales pitches.

On top of the new material we cover, this is like the ultimate test review for me. After all, I've got an oven and range and ingredients in my own kitchen; I don't have a professional chef. Best to maximize my interaction with him while I can. And because we are not pressed with any cooking duties of our own, we are free to engage in Q&A with Chef Fredy — I even toss him a question or two that occurred to me in earlier classes.

And somewhere in this give-and-take, Fredy dumps a mixing bowl full of slightly crumbly empanada dough onto the counter and issues us a warning against overworking it. The man to my left, as if on cue, wonders aloud what changes in the dough after being handled. And without saying a word, I smile and think it to myself: Gluten development. For God's sake, don't let the gluten get too developed. Just knowing it is so satisfying I could melt down the side of my chair.

I think I'm ready.

Epilogue

Yesterday my wife pointed to a square on the calendar — the date of her parents' arrival. The countdown has officially begun.

Since completing my basic training I've tried tackling recipes both new and old, everything from homemade mac and cheese to salmon Wellington. I keep my fingertips back while mincing. I always salt my water. And, well, I'm getting better.

Not that I'm going to rob Charlie Trotter of any sleep, mind you. I still have a tendency to use salt like a sledgehammer, and in my attempt to caramelize onions for risotto I ended up charring them instead.

But I tell you again: I'm getting better.

I chop produce efficiently and into pieces of uniform size. I'm no longer given to flights of debilitating panic when something goes wrong. I even improvise in recipes, substituting and adding ingredients as the whim hits me. But of all the things I picked up during my educational blitz — all the tips and skills and tricks of the trade — perhaps the most important is simply the desire to stay in the kitchen, improving.

It's a good thing, too, because like I say, the in-laws are practically on their way. The clock is ticking. She hates seafood. He loves spice. Wish me luck.

Copyright © 2006, North Shore Magazine

For the complete article go here.

Owners Candace Mirza and Maggie Finks describe their Wilmette shop, Dinner at Eight, as "a store for people who enjoy every aspect of home entertaining, including being a guest."

That description covers a lot of ground, but so does the cozy shop.

For the sake of convenience, tableware is on one side of the store, the cookware and demonstration kitchen on the other. Both exemplify the owners' concern for quality and durability.

"We're interested in top-quality items made to be used on an everyday basis," Mirza says. "Think pewter instead of sterling silver and you're right on target."

The well-appointed kitchen is used for cooking classes and wine tastings, the "how-to" starting point for any dinner party. Guest chefs teach at various times throughout the day. Classes are limited to 12.

"Everyone has a chance to participate," Mirza says. "There's a lot of interaction. This is especially important in a class where students learn through observation. Larger classes would have to be much more formal."

Classes explore cooking in contemporary America, which Mirza says is all about "fabulous tastes." Upcoming topics include tapas (April 10), French bistro (May 1) and South American cooking (May 15). Lunch classes cost $35 to $40; evening classes are $50.

As a savvy marketer might expect, Dinner at Eight sells the cookware used in its classes. Some lines, including All-Clad and Le Creuset, are widely available; others, such as Fioreware ceramics, Viking Cookware and Doughmaker bakeware, are less common.

"We really enjoy the 'hunt,' " Finks says. "Finding something unique, something beautiful that you won't find in every other store, is well worth the effort."

Fioreware exemplifies the strategy. A small ceramics company in Ohio, Fioreware uses vintage American designs to create ceramics that have the requisite modern attributes: They're dishwasher- and microwave-safe but they also look like items you inherited from your grandmother.

The store also carries an interesting array of wines, gourmet foods, table linens and gift items.