Adi looked at the woman, taken aback. She had just about ordered everything on the menu. “You sure? That’s a whole lot of food, ma’am.”
“Quite sure. Thank you.” She flicked the menu back to Adi with a quick turn of wrist. The man followed suit. Adi looked at Bertie and T. Bertie’s eyebrows had all but disappeared into her hairline, and T’s mouth was standing open. He snapped it closed like a fish gulping air.
“I’ll pull another table over for you folks. Adi, be sure you bring each dish out as it’s ready. No reason to let it get cold.”
Shaking her head at the vagaries of strangers, Adi elbowed the kitchen door open and started preparing the meal.
Bertie followed hot on her heels. “So, Dink, what should I do to help you out?”
“Grab the greens and get them going, Bert. I’d just like to know where they think they’re going to put all this food. This is going to be enough to feed the road crew after a hard day on the highway.”
“Can’t figure what some people can eat, though, Adi. You know that’s the truth.”
“That I do. We best get going.”
They worked in quiet synchronicity, the usual atmosphere in their kitchen. As each dish was ready, Adi calmly carried it to the table. It wasn’t easy to hide her disgust at the plates she returned with, barely sampled. “Well, I sure don’t get ordering to feed a herd of cattle then eating like a little bird. Just don’t make sense to me.”
“Maybe they just don’t know what they ordered, so they’s having a hard time deciding what to dig into.”
“Maybe. I’ll just be glad to see the door swinging closed behind ’em.”
“T’Claude sure is having a good ole time chatting them up though. Think he’s going to be downright sorry to see them leave.”
“Too bad for him. This cake is the last of it. I sure hate seeing all that food go to waste. Durn foolish folks.” She made the last trip from kitchen to table, waving at Jacques Fontenot and his family arriving for their customary Sunday dinner. At least Jacques’s family would appreciate the cooking enough to clean their plates. Adi remembered the burning ache of hunger in her belly before Bertie found her. She knew how precious food was. Waste made her stomach turn.
Settling the final dish in front of the woman, Adi said, “There you are, ma’am. That’s the last dish. I sure hope y’all enjoyed it.” She had turned back toward the kitchen when the woman called out to her.
“Excuse me? Would you mind if we take a second of your time?”
Adi looked longingly at the kitchen door. If only she’d sent Bertie out with the final dish. She was going to be hard-pressed to stay civil with these people. “Sure thing. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering who the chef is here. Would you mind asking them to come to our table please?”
“You’re looking at the cook. So what can I do for you?”
“Oh.” The woman seemed startled. “I was expecting someone more mature.”
“Age doesn’t make you mature, ma’am, only experience. I’m plenty old enough to handle my job here at the Pot, and take any complaints headed my way. So go ahead and say your piece. I have other folks to cook for.”
The woman held out a pale, slender hand. “My name is Dawn Chapman. I work for Epicuriosity. Have you heard of us?”
“Can’t say that I have, ma’am.”
“Please call me Dawn. We’re a national food magazine. We feature foods from different regions that might be unknown to our readers. Our goal is to broaden the palate of folks across the country and interest them in the cuisines that most strongly represent the featured state. Louisiana is our state of focus for our January issue.”
Adi wasn’t sure what response the woman was looking for. She had no idea or desire to know about any magazine. She just wanted this Dawn and tweed jacket to pay their bill and hit the door.
“Listen, we were looking for a chef to feature from South Louisiana. Our plan was to dine at a restaurant in Carencro, but as you see, we didn’t make it there. I have to say though, the experience we have had here has been exceptional! You’re an accomplished chef, Ms…?”
“Adi, Addison Bergeron.”
“Ms. Bergeron. We would like to feature you as our south Louisiana chef. Would that interest you?”
Adi felt a knot of dread settle inside her. “No. Thanks very much, but I’m not—”
“Of course she’s interested!” T’Claude practically shouted. “The Boiling Pot would love being featured in your article.” He eyed Adi. “Let me handle the arrangements. Adi, go on back and take care of dinner service.”
Adi’s shoulders ached and her stomach roiled with the buildup of tension. She had to think about the movement required to get back into the kitchen. National magazine. Not at all something Adi wanted to be a part of. She not only liked her life just fine as it was, she needed it that way. She needed the security of Bertie’s house and the peaceful obscurity of her simple life at the Boiling Pot. National magazine meant possible recognition. That would never do. She had to figure a way out of this, and she had to figure it out fast. T’Claude was like a dog with a bone though, and she knew changing his mind would be difficult to say the least. She didn’t have long to wait. By the time she’d finished serving the Fontenot family, T was in the kitchen, practically bouncing.
“Adi, listen here. I got all the information from those magazine folks. They’ll be sending the reporter next week. I wrote the name down somewhere…just a sec…Oh. Here it is, Griffith McNaulty. Ms. Chapman said she’s the best in the business. I can’t tell you how important this could be for the Pot. This is going to give us national exposure, hon. We’ll be drawing folks down from all over to taste your cooking! Aren’t you excited?”
How can I tell him? There simply wasn’t any way she could have her face pasted on some flashy magazine cover. She’d never heard of Epicuriosity, but that didn’t mean much, since she avoided places such magazines might be. If J.B. Nerbass happened upon anything that led him to her, her life was over. She had done her best to forget the cabin in Dulac and what her life there had been. She wasn’t that girl anymore, and no way was she giving J.B. any chance at finding her. She had to make T’Claude understand.
“T’Claude, you know I’m not the reason folks come to the Boiling Pot. I just cook the way Bertie taught me. She’s the great secret here. Those folks need to feature her, not me. I’m just a simple cook, and you know it.”
“Simple cook? Bertie taught you? Heck, Dinky, Bertie sure enough cooks good, but what you do to that food is like some kind of magic, girl. She gave you a start, but no, you’re the chef here. You’re the one they’re coming to see, so get used to it.”
“I’m not doing it, T. I just can’t. Forget it. It’s Bertie or it’s nothing. I mean it.” Adi’s voice rose as she spoke, drawing Bertie out of the kitchen.
“What in tarnation is going on out here? Why y’all shouting at each other?”
“Bertie, talk some sense into this girl. You hear me? She’s going on about not doing this interview. You and I both know she’s the reason folks come back for more once they’ve tasted her cooking. She needs to snap out of it and get with the program. I’m going for a smoke. You settle this.” He stomped outside.
“Dink?”
Adi studied her shoes, avoiding Bertie’s gaze. “I can’t do it, Bertie. You know I can’t. Just explain it so T can understand. I can’t do this.”
Bertie wrapped her arms around Adi, holding her close. “It’s going to be okay, baby, you hear me? We aren’t going to let nothing or nobody do you any harm. If you can’t do this thing, you can’t. But before you decide for sure, in one way or the other, let’s just think on it a while. Maybe you aren’t clearly seeing as how this could be to your advantage. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Huh?”
Adi couldn’t stop the hot tears rolling down her cheeks. “You know, Bertie. He could find me, that’s what. You know where and what I came from. You know I can’t let him fin
d me.”
“Let’s see. It’s been eight years since you came here. Seems to me if he was looking for you, he’d have found you by now. Besides that, girl, you’re not the child who rode up here that day. You’re a grown woman. You don’t hardly look at all like that dinky skinny little thing curled up by the Dumpster. This here is a chance for you, Dink. It’s your time to shine, baby, and shine you must. You just need to sit with the idea a bit. Let it fill you up and look good and hard at how it could make your life better. Don’t you dwell on the bad thoughts. They scare you because you was a child then. Ain’t nobody on this earth got the power to make you do or go anywhere you don’t want to go. T and I won’t let that happen. You know this.”
“I’m scared, Bertie.” Adi crumbled into her warm, comforting body. “I’m so scared.”
“I know you are, baby. I know. But there ain’t no need for that fear no more. You just got to realize that. Okay? We’re going to sit on my porch, you and me, and we’re going to look at all sides of this thing. After that, if you don’t want to do it, well, I suppose you won’t.”
“You got this, Miss Bertie?” T’Claude asked, standing in the doorway.
“I sure do, T, I sure do.”
CHAPTER TWO
Griffith noted the change in light as they left the interstate and entered the two-lane highway. It was silly of Dawn to send a driver. I could’ve found my way here without a problem. Still, it was nice not having to worry about anything. She’d have the driver drop her at the restaurant and either get a cab or a ride to her room. The rental car would be dropped off for her at her hotel in the morning. The road was bordered by centuries old live oaks hung with a curtain of Spanish moss. She appreciated the difference in her surroundings, while remaining skeptical of her current assignment. Her career had taken a nosedive in the past year. Jobs like this one would rebuild her battered credibility, though slowly. The familiar fist of anger squeezed her gut, her throat filled with the bitter taste of bile.
She shook off the memory. There was nothing she could do to rewrite her history. Leave it alone; let it go. She should be thankful she had friends like Dawn Chapman, people who believed in her and turned a deaf ear to the innuendos and rumor. Focus. Give Dawn your best. With a sigh, she thought about her current subject, Michaud’s Boiling Pot and its unknown chef, Adi Bergeron. She had to find a way to make this more than a fluff piece. She needed to get back to hard-edged journalism, and a bit on food in a backwater joint wasn’t going to do it.
Her first glimpse of the Boiling Pot left Griffith wondering what could possibly have brought Dawn to the location. It looked more like a glorified gas station than a restaurant. The parking lot’s pretty full. That’s a good sign. The peeling gray paint wore a fine coating of dust from the dirt of the lot. The neon sign flashed and clicked on its last leg. Shaking her head, she pushed through the glass front door and knew instantly what had caught her foodie friend’s attention. The place smelled like heaven. So many rich scents wafted through the air that Griffith had to swallow as her salivary glands reacted.
“Grab any table and we’ll be right with you,” called a voice from the back area.
Griffith looked around at the other patrons, who were clearly very happy with the fare. She found a table near the window and dropped her bag onto the open seat across from her. She rolled her shoulders to ease the tension of her long journey.
The place was definitely unique. The walls were decorated with vintage advertising signs, some of which looked original. There were all manner of items hung from the ceiling beams. There wasn’t any order to it, more like someone just tacked up whatever odd bits and pieces they came across. The strong south Louisiana accent of her fellow diners was soothing in an odd way, their speech melodious and rolling. Regardless of the story, Griffith was going to enjoy the experience of this culture.
A young woman hurried across the room and stopped in front of her table.
“Hey there. Your first time at the Pot?” She held out a plastic covered menu.
Griffith looked into eyes as deep as night, and nearly as black. The woman’s skin was deep bronze, set off by a fringe of coal black hair. She must have indigenous blood. Gorgeous. She asked me something; what was it? Oh, right.
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat, then. We got all kind of good things for you to eat. What can I get you to drink?”
“Just water, please.”
“You got it. Be right back.”
“Wait, miss? I’m here to meet with someone. The owner, Mr. Michaud? Is he here?”
“Aw, no, ma’am. T’Claude doesn’t usually make it in till around four. You got a good two hours to wait him out. Does he know you’re coming?”
“He knew to expect me today, but I made better time than I thought I would on the drive. Thanks. I’ll give him a call.”
Griffith watched the woman walk away as she pulled out her phone. Something about her commanded attention. She was attractive, sure, but it was more than that. She just had something that set Griffith at ease. Must be the Southern hospitality thing. Whatever. It was nice to feel comfortable in a strange place.
Michaud was happy to hear from her and promised he would be there shortly. He recommended crawfish étouffée for lunch. Griffith looked around for the waitress, but didn’t see her. She stretched her legs out under the table and sipped her water.
“So you decide what you’d like to eat?” The woman had appeared so quickly Griffith missed her approach.
“Actually, yes. The étouffée, please.”
“Coming right up.” As she said this, she slid a saucer with a pale, steaming sausage link across the table and then placed a basket of saltines beside it. “This is just a little teaser for your taste buds. Have you had boudin before?”
Griffith eyed the strange dish. “No, I don’t think I have.”
“Well, trust me, you’ll love it. Just cut it open and scoop up the filling with a cracker. I’ll be back to see what you think.”
Griffith did as instructed, and though she was prepared to jettison the hot meat and rice mixture, the taste was unbelievable. She quickly helped herself to more. As she took her last bite, the waitress picked up the empty plate and replaced it with a wide shallow bowl filled with a golden brown liquid dotted with bright red and white crawfish tails. In the center was a generous mound of white rice finished with chopped green onions. The aroma billowing up from the plate wrapped around Griffith’s senses like a warm blanket.
“Oh my God, that smells so good.”
“Well, thanks. I think you’ll be happy with it. Go on; dig in. I’ll be back.”
This time Griffith watched her walk across the room and into what she presumed was the kitchen. She wondered what her story was. She was a great server and very friendly, although most people she’d come across in Louisiana had been incredibly friendly so far. Maybe Michaud would have a similar attitude. That would make the interview process so much easier.
She lost herself in the divine taste of her meal, each bite better than the one before. Whoever this Adi Bergeron turned out to be, she sure could cook. The lunch crowd began to thin out as Griffith savored her final spoonful of deliciousness. The sounds of laughter and banging pots echoed from the back room. She glanced at her watch. It had been forty minutes since she had spoken to Michaud. Hopefully, he would make an appearance soon.
The waitress who had served her was coming through the back door again, but this time she was calling to someone over her shoulder.
“Yeah, you’re right, Bertie. I didn’t think he had it in him. Go on, Jose, get on home. I’ll finish up for you.” She turned toward the room and looked right at Griffith. She smiled and Griffith had to smile back. Such a looker, but way too young. Just as well. She had come to get a story and needed to focus on that alone.
“Looks like you didn’t like that étouffée one bit, huh?”
“Nope, not at all.” Griffith ran her spoon across the empty surface of t
he bowl. “Could you just pack this up to go?”
They both laughed. “So what brings you to New Iberia besides meeting T? Are you here to tour the plantations? Avery Island?”
“No, I’m not exactly a tourist. I’m here to write about this restaurant for Epicuriosity magazine.”
Griffith watched as the waitress visibly recoiled from her. What’s that about?
“Oh. Here’s your check. I’ll take these dishes.” She hurried from the table as if she were being chased. Obviously, not everyone at the Boiling Pot was happy about the article.
The door opened and a large man walked in. “Hey there, Adi. I sure hope you took good care of Ms. McNaulty.”
The waitress stopped for a moment and looked back at her, then quickly went into the back area. The man walked toward Griffith with his hand held out.
“Hey there, Ms. McNaulty. I’m T’Claude Michaud. Call me T.”
She shook his hand, expecting a fierce grip, but was surprised by the lightness of his touch. Truly a gentleman, then. “Hello, you can call me Griff.”
“All right, Griff, how was your lunch?”
“It was absolutely delicious. I can see why Dawn was captivated by this place.”
“You’re too kind. We just make simple food for simple folks. Nothing fancy. What did you think of Adi, there?”
“The waitress?”
“Ah, well, I guess. Among other things. She’s our chef, you know.”
Griffith leaned forward, her interest piqued. “Really? She seems so young to be so accomplished.”
“She is young, but she’s been with us since she was fourteen. She learned a lot from Bertie about how to make food that sits right up there in your heart when you eat it. People just love her. We feel real lucky that she found us.”
Bitter Root Page 3
