Bitter Root (4 page)

“Here you are, folks. Y’all figure out what you’d like for
dinner?”

“Thank you. I’ll have an oyster gumbo, a crawfish étouffée, some
collard greens with ham hocks, and the cornbread dressing please. He’ll have
the shrimp creole, the garlic stuffed pork roast, the maque choux, and the
stuffed crab. Please add the bread pudding, the mud pie, the crème brulee, and
the sock-it-to-me cake for dessert.”

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 find 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.”

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.