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'It is done when it is done," proclaims Chef Yann. He is referring to our ability to recognize the perfect cooking point of gnocchi. "We are not amateurs, we are chefs," he says.

Apparently, "done when it has floated to the top of your pot" does not apply here.

This is London's Cordon Bleu — one of the most respected cooking schools in the world — and I am sweating bullets trying to channel Julia Child.

My gnocchi turn out perfectly shaped — oval and pretty, like smooth white pebbles. But when I bite into one, it seems to have a similar stone-like density. I remember a distant instruction in class about not overworking the dough. Too late — I have only minutes before I have to plate and serve my culinary experiment to Chef Yann.

He stares at my plate longer than usual — the gnocchi in his mouth taking longer to dissolve than a jawbreaker — before reminding me of the importance of getting the exact ratio of flour to potato. "Which is why scales are part of the equipment kit," he mentions dryly.

The first Cordon Bleu cookery class was held in 1896 at the Paris Palais Royale, in kitchens on the cutting edge of the culinary technology of the time — one had just been fitted with electricity.

Since then, the prestigious Master Chefs of the Cordon Bleu have been passing on traditional French methods of cooking, pastry making and bread baking to culinary students — including future celebrity chefs — from all over the world. The London school is one of 26 locations.

I arrived at the Cordon Bleu with a love for cooking but an inability to put a drop of oil in a pan without the security blanket of an exact recipe. I wanted to learn how to loosen up, to understand some of the mysteries of culinary alchemy, to become more confident in the kitchen.

On the first day of class, I put on my houndstooth pants and white chef's jacket and, eagerly clutching my Wüsthof knife kit, felt slightly as if I were wearing a Halloween costume.

Chef David, who is English, gives us our first demonstration. He reminds me of Ricky Gervais — he has a similar accent and I cannot concentrate on knife basics without pretending I am in an episode of The Office.

Within minutes, my knowledge of chopped vegetable variations has progressed from "smallish" and "largish" to include cuts such as chiffonade (thin ribbons), julienne (long, thin, match-size strips) and brunoise (finely diced). Chopping my first onion without the slices running all over the cutting board is practically transformative.

Life in the Cordon Bleu kitchen is sweltering, claustrophobic, urgent. We each have a workspace about 2 feet by 2 feet for our cutting board, bowls, scrap bowl and any food we're dealing with.

The ovens and stovetops run down the centre of the room; when you turn around from your workstation, you're a foot away from the heat. And it's hot. With 10 people working 10 ovens in a poorly ventilated room, I get used to working with sweat running down my back.

We're hustling all the time. An important part of the training is learning to be organized, to plan your mise en place (prep) and cooking strategy in advance and to keep your station neat and tidy. I cannot seem to keep mine free of dirty bowls and sticky bits of chopped parsley.

From the first day, we have to plate within a time limit. The dish must be wiped clean with vinegar, and the presentation has to be elegant. (One time I accidentally lined up a row of carrots that looked like it was smiling. It did not get top marks.) For a hot meal, the plate has to be warm. Not hot. Details matter.

One morning, I see "Assiette de Crudités" on the demo menu. There is much grumbling about such a basic, boring preparation. But when Chef Yann finishes, it is a thing of beauty: a dozen different vegetables cut into different shapes — batons, half moons, circles, ovals — and all the same size! I'm ashamed to recall the vulgar, awkward plate of carelessly chopped vegetables I have served at our annual Christmas drop-in.

There aren't shortcuts at the Cordon Bleu. You are expected to be quick, but you learn the proper way of doing things — the classic technique.

The chefs all have different styles. Chef Yann, the head chef, is originally from France. Once in a while he actually lets out an "oh la la!" if something he's cooking might be going awry. Which it never does.

Chef David is fast and always squeezes an anecdote in between instructions.

And then there is Chef Franck. Chef Franck (or Chef Fr-aaahhh-nk), also French, has a style all his own.

At least one pot boils over per demonstration.

He tells us he does not like to talk when he demonstrates, which makes it a bit difficult to follow which new pot has new ingredients and which new pot has old ones rescued from a previously scorched pan.

One day, the demo stops as Chef Franck looks thoughtfully into a pan of black glazed carrots. "Some people might call these burned, I call them …" he pauses, "highly, highly caramelized."

Chef Franck supervises our first full meal — roast chicken with bread sauce, jus, vegetables and mashed potato.

Sounds easy, but unfortunately, while the chef is yelling that we should have our chickens roasting, I still have mine by the neck trying to pry out the wishbone.

I start to get anxious. Everyone is anxious, because when Chef Franck cooks he uses about 30 pots. Unfortunately, there are not 30 pots per person in the kitchens. So people end up hoarding pans under counters and in fridge drawers.

When I run out of pans halfway through class, I contemplate crawling into a massive stockpot and hiding. Instead, I use the gargantuan vessel to caramelize five pearl onions.

When I finally present my dish to Chef Franck he gives me a look of curiosity as he examines it, watching my jus form into dozens of little grease balls, and simply says: "Interesting. I have never seen something like this." It is extra crushing when said with a French accent. Trust me.

I have managed to make a sauce even the French have never seen before. My dreams of being a culinary protégé disintegrate as fast as the large bag of jelly babies I later scarf down to drown my sorrows.

I glumly check the upcoming schedule. I see the words "Mystery Basket."

Great. A bunch of ingredients and a time limit — Iron Chef for amateurs. Never comfortable whipping something together from "whatever was in the fridge" (honestly, I have a recipe card for a basic vinaigrette), I begin to remember why school is not fun.

And I start to wonder if anyone has ever failed basic cuisine.

Next week, Sue Riedl gets to the heart of French cuisine via many sticks of butter and Chef Franck's unique tutelage.