Slice of Life

NoVA Chefs Carve Out Singular Career Paths

By Elizabeth Stevenson and Warren Rojas / Photography by Kate Bohler

Ever wonder what goes on behind the scenes at your favorite restaurants?

Us too.

So we tapped the always epicurious Elizabeth Stevenson to accompany a handful of local chefs—cheflebrity and Bayou Bakery founder David Guas, BRABO chef de cuisine Chris Watson and fledgling food truckers Danna Andrews and Camille Dierksheide, founders of Solar Crepes—through their daily grind. Stevenson peeled onions (LOTS of’em), sweated in kitchens and sampled dishes she claims she would never have dreamed of eating.

Stevenson found the journey to be long and exhausting. And it only lasted one week.

Meanwhile, these chefs keep at it—every single day.

Bayou Bakery (Photography by Kate Bohler)

Break? Fast!
I arrive at Bayou Bakery at 6:45 a.m. on a windy and blustery Saturday morning. There is fresh snow on the ground, and it is still dark outside. I approach the bakery, which is already lit up from the inside, and notice that most of the other shops and buildings on the street are still deep in slumber.

I slip in the side door, following an employee who is also reporting for duty. The dining room is empty, and one of my favorite Green Day songs is playing overhead.

I head to the kitchen and find Guas, already elbow-deep in flour. It is barely 7 a.m., and he is well into his day, preparing biscuits to get him through the morning rush.

Bayou Bakery chef/founder David Guas

He sips on coffee while effortlessly adding buttermilk to the dry ingredients of the biscuit base. I notice that he doesn’t use any measuring cups; and as he adds the buttermilk, he talks to me, makes the biscuits, helps his staff and tends to the oven simultaneously.

Guas is fast and precise. And although I love to make biscuits myself at home, I feel like a mere mortal among this biscuit-making god. I watch in amazement as he turns out tray after tray of biscuits. He later declares that he took too long, and he needs to get faster at making the biscuits.

I don’t see how that would be humanly possible.

It is getting close to opening time and Guas shows me some last-minute modifications, such as switching the music to a jazzy New Orleans mix, turning the TV to the Food Network, and arranging the chairs to make for a comfortable, homey atmosphere.

The doors are thrown open, and people flow in immediately.

Within a half hour, the still-warm biscuits are selling quickly, and I see a line to the door.

Guas is fast, and he amazingly seems to be everywhere. One minute he is in the front of the house calling out orders, and the next he is in the back making an order of 70 mini biscuits for a woman’s dinner party. He doesn’t pause for even a second.

The place is hopping, and I wonder when the lull will come.

I figure that breakfast is busy and that everyone will be able to take a breather around lunch time. Amid the chaos, Guas asks me if I would like to try a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit, and I am more than happy to test it out for him. He serves it to me himself along with a fresh cup of coffee without missing a beat in the kitchen.

The lull never comes.

It’s a little after 10 a.m., and the place hasn’t slowed a bit.

Guas cooks, instructs his employees, calls orders and even works the register with ease. He is literally involved in every single aspect of the place.

The line seems never-ending. At one point, I peek around the corner and discover it has subsequently snaked out the door.

Guas remains calm, cheerful, and continues to be everywhere at once. I wonder how much coffee he had, as I am already fading.

And it’s not even noon yet.

I realize that this easily is a place that once you visit, you never forget. One taste of Guas’ creations, and you are hooked.

I watch as beignets, heavenly hash, croissants and hot coffee are passed to the customers. One girl happily dispatches her breakfast and then rushes back in line for a second round. I hear a father ask his little girl if she wants to order a cupcake or a beignet. She excitedly asks for the beignet, and I am happily surprised.

Guas could easily have a different attitude; after all, he has his own cookbook (“Dam Good Sweet”), has made appearances on Food Network and is well known in the culinary world. However, Guas is down-to-earth and one of the nicest people you will ever meet. He greets customers as if they are neighbors coming into his home and thanks each and every one of them for their patronage.

Now it is early evening, and I am exhausted. Guas seems just as alert as when I first arrived.

He offers me a turkey sandwich called the Creole Pilgrim, which I happily eat along with sweet tea that I could drink by the gallon. I pack up and, although I am stuffed, I buy some treats to take home: PorKorn (a bacon and caramel popcorn) and heavenly hash (a fudgy confection with marshmallows and pecans), both which I saw being made that morning. I tell him I am going to head out and ask when he will get home. He says probably around 11 p.m. or later.

I get home and collapse onto my bed, thinking that Guas is still at Bayou with at least another 8 hours to go. I wonder how he will manage.

Then I think about all the smiling faces I saw, the sandwiches and biscuits being devoured, the children studying the cards announcing the Louisiana parishes, and the family reading a book in the corner of Bayou together while listening to jazz music—all of them immersed in the culture of Louisiana. I suddenly have the urge to grab a book and head back for a beignet and chicory coffee. Then I realize that for Guas, this must be what it’s all about.

This is what makes it all worth it.

Solar Crepes (Photography by Kate Bohler)

Lunch. Rushed.
Danna Andrews and Camille Dierksheide aren’t new to the food world.

Both are graduates of L’Academie de Cuisine’s prestigious pastry program. And Dierksheide operated a boutique catering company called The Beehive prior to joining the food truck fracas.

Both are also very artistic, Andrews as a graphic designer and painter, while Dierksheide’s passion for music and singing has earned her the nickname “The Singing Chef.”

For now, the duo rent out the kitchen of Trinity Presbyterian Church in Arlington to prepare their dishes for Solar Crepes. It is a very cold morning, and they greet me inside the kitchen fully bundled up in snow hats and scarves. The space is not temperature controlled, and neither is their cart.

Solar Crepes opened on July 27, so this is the first winter they have had to contend with working, effectively, in the outdoors. “It was really hot when we opened, and now we are facing a whole different set of problems,” Andrews admits.

I look around the kitchen and see suitcase-sized tubs of organic flour, organic sugar and buckwheat. The tubs are on wheels to make moving them around easier. Andrews hoists up huge sacks of flour and pours them in.

I help peel onions, probably around 20 pounds, until my eyes are so watery I can barely see. Meanwhile, Andrews and Dierksheide have several pots on the stove, pans in the oven and are each also juggling many other tasks.

Dierksheide is making béchamel sauce and doing the dishes, while Andrews is mixing up a yogurt-Dijon sauce for the ham-and-cheese crepes while baking parsnips.

I marvel for hours as they go at it nonstop—baking, roasting, cleaning and mixing.

Dierksheide chops garlic by hand and pours in olive oil for her homemade hummus. She tells me that it is her special Tuscan hummus and that it is a secret recipe. She offers me a taste, and I immediately understand why. The hummus is garlicky, fresh and worlds away from the typical chickpea spread you might find at your grocery store.

Once their prep work is done, Andrews shows me how she loads up the trailer with the food, and we shuffle from the cold kitchen to the even chillier outside. The trailer is hot pink and small. She shows me where they store all the food and where the register is.

It is freezing, and I wonder how they will last in there all day.

I watch as Andrews and Dierksheide hook up the trailer to their Ford F150 and head out. They are still bundled up as they have been all day, and I can’t wait to try a crepe.

The next time we meet, Dierksheide and Andrews are all set up in Ballston. The trailer is set to go, and their chalkboard already lists the day’s offerings. I have a scarf wrapped around my head and mouth like Ralphie’s younger brother from “The Christmas Story,” but it is so brutally cold that my eyes are watering. The glass partition separating the cart’s occupants from the elements is clamped shut, and Andrews and Dierksheide are huddled inside with gloves, hats and scarves on.

Shivering customers come to the window in search of hot coffee and a hot crepe. They keep the window open, chatting with me and showing me how they make everything. I have never had a crepe in my life, so I am excited to try the roasted chicken buckwheat crepe that Dierksheide says is one of their best sellers. (See: My First Taste of Crepes, page 102).

Finally, it is so cold that I can’t feel my arms or legs, and I head out. As I point my vehicle homeward, I take one last look at the hot pink trailer and notice that the ordering window is once again closed.

I hope they are staying warm.

BRABO (Photography by Kate Bohler)

Dinner, Done.
I arrive at BRABO and am immediately greeted with a cup of hot coffee. Chef Watson warns me that today is going to be very busy. They have a lot going on, including a wine dinner planned for that evening. We make a pact for me to observe and try to stay out of the war path.

Watson has already started on the wine dinner and has several pots going on the stove. I feel feverish and glance up at the four thermostats. All but one proclaim that it is 84 degrees Fahrenheit (one stays stubbornly at 83).

Minutes ago I was freezing. Now I feel like I am baking along with the bread.

Watson offers to give me a quick tour of the entire complex, which includes BRABO, Tasting Room and The Butcher’s Block. We walk through a quaint outdoor courtyard to the other places and spend a few minutes in each one. I wonder about the boiling pots Watson left on the stove and watch in amazement as we get back and he picks up right where we left off, no harm done.

I take a break in the Tasting Room for lunch while Watson continues on. After lunch, I head back and find Watson rolling out brown dough with surgical precision. I ask him what he is making and he tells me it is chocolate pasta with bacon and a chocolate sauce for the wine dinner.

I haven’t seen Watson take a break since I got there, and yet he is still running the show without a hitch. He suggests that I should stay and observe the dinner rush, to which I agree.

Dinner rush comes, and the temperature immediately rises.

I count 10 chefs, not including Watson, in the room, but I think there are actually more. I try to stand in one spot and not interfere. Whenever I spot Watson, my eyes lose him almost immediately. He is fast as lightening and seems to float between the stations. Tickets print up, and Watson is there—relaying each order to his trusty crew, which they immediately repeat back so they all know everyone’s got everything perfectly straight.

Each dish fired out by the kitchen, Watson quickly corrals, alerting his servers to “Pick up. Pick up!”

Throughout the busy night, Watson never loses his sense of humor. He takes time out to show me a picture of his new St. Bernard puppies. Watson’s dry sense of humor pops up through the day, and I find myself laughing nonstop—an occupational hazard in the making after being fed all of his delicious creations and a steady stream of jokes.

Around 9:30 p.m., Watson notices that I am starting to fade. He expresses disappointment at my inability to polish off every last bite of his five-course wine dinner, but I write it off as more gentle ribbing.

I have a full mind and even fuller belly, and I haven’t quite digested what just happened or what I just ate.

Watson informs me that unless I want to help with the nightly clean-up, I am free to go. Unsure of how long that will take, I opt out and battle the bitter cold all the way back to my car. Watson lives close by and tells me he walks most days.

It must be a cold walk home.

But after a long day in the hot kitchen, it is probably a welcome walk.

I finally make it home, fully well knowing that Watson is still at BRABO, cleaning up after the long, busy day. And, no doubt, already preparing for more of the same the next.