Bitter Root (5 page)

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 the 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.”

“Found you? In what way?”

“Oh, she was a runaway. Bertie found her curled up by the
Dumpster some years back, looking like a little raggedy kitten pushed from the
gutter. All she had with her was a rusty old bike and the clothes on her back.
She must have had a hard life before then. Won’t say a word about where she
comes from, though. At least not to me. Bertie may know, but hey, you girls
talk to each other more than to us guys.”

“So she’s been here since then? No one ever came looking for
her?”

“Nah. You know how it is with some folks. They think their kid
running off is the best thing that ever happened. It’s a shame some folks are
allowed to have kids. Bertie’s raised her up from fourteen. She’s a fine young
woman now, and an excellent cook.”

Griffith thought about the runaway angle. Hard luck stories with
happy endings always sold well. She could turn this into a real human interest
story and sell the article to the
Times
or a news mag.
Please
give me more to work with.

“I plan to make her the focus of the article. Maybe she’ll open
up a bit.”

“You can try. I’ve already told her I expect her to answer any of
your questions. She knows it’s important. For now though, what can I tell you
about our little slice of heaven?”

Griffith pulled out her recorder and proceeded with her original
interview plan, which was to get background first, then talk to the chef and
whoever else could fill in the cracks later. The history of the Michaud family
was colorful, and she was pleased with the interview. She asked her final set
of questions.

“So, T, who are the people behind the Boiling Pot’s success? Who
makes things run smoothly here in your restaurant?”

“There’s Adi, of course. And Bertie Durall, our first cook, and
Jose, who is basically the busman and dishwasher. They make it smooth as glass.
On Sundays and special days, I have little Ellen Robichaux come over to help
with seating and taking orders. She’s fifteen, so she only works on weekends.”

“Great. Thank you. Would you be willing to sit down with me again
if I need clarification on anything?”

“Sure I would. Am I going to get a preview of the story? You
know, like to approve it or something?”

“Well, we don’t generally ask for approval, but you’ll be more
than welcome to read the article before publication.”

“All right, then. Fantastic. Can I get you a drink or anything?”

“No, I think I’m going to find my room at the hotel and rest a
bit before I start working our interview into notes. I’d like to get contact
information for your staff, though.”

“You got it. I’ll be right back. Do you need a ride to your
hotel?”

“That would be nice, thanks.”

He left the room briefly and returned with a paper in hand.

“Here you are. Adi’s going to drop you off at the hotel on her
way to the market. Now, don’t worry if she clams up. She’s really nervous about
being interviewed.”

Griffith nodded. “I understand. No worries.”

A few minutes later, Adi came out of the back room. Gone was the
open friendliness of earlier, replaced by guarded curtness. “Come on. Let’s go.
I have to get the chicory and get back here after I drop you off.”

“Fine by me. Lead the way.” Griffith followed her out to a rusty
old Ford pickup, probably from the sixties. She wondered if she was better off
walking, but when Adi turned the key, it started right up with no hesitation.
Adi must have picked up on her concern. She rubbed a gentle hand across the
worn dashboard.

“No worries with Pete. He’s totally dependable. Me and Jose just
finished giving him a full tune-up.”

“Good to know. So, I hear you aren’t so sure you want to talk
with me. Is that right?”

Adi dropped the truck into drive and started onto the highway.
Griffith wondered if she was going to ignore the question.

“I guess. I’m just not that interesting is all. Bertie and T are
who you should write about. They both have amazing stories to tell.”

“And I will. I want to talk to all of you, Jose too. I want
people to know how you guys work together to make the Boiling Pot so wonderful.
I’m not here to hurt anyone, Adi. Just to do my job.”

Adi didn’t answer right away. She just stared straight ahead. “If
it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you just talk to them.”

What is she
so afraid of?
“I wish I could do that, but we both know who cooks
the food at the Pot. You are a focal point in the success of that place. People
are going to want to know about you. I can promise you’ll be happy with the
article I write.” Adi grunted in reply as they pulled into the hotel driveway.
“Thanks for the ride. I’ll be calling to set up a time to talk.”

“Okay.”

Griffith climbed out of the truck and grabbed her bag. She
watched as the pickup headed out, wondering what was up with Adi. Was she
trying to avoid the interview because she was nervous, or was there more to it?
Just where did she come from? The way she went from warm and friendly to
completely guarded concerned Griffith.
Time
to dig up some background information on the taciturn chef.

Griffith stretched as she moved away from her laptop. She’d
done her best to research Adi Bergeron, but had hit dead ends at every turn.
She hadn’t found a single link to her anywhere. She had no social media pages,
nothing. It was hard to fathom a twenty-two-year-old with no Internet presence.

What’s her
story? There’s no way I’m blindly writing about this woman. I’m not going to
get burned again. I’ll have a full and accurate picture of Adi Bergeron before
my byline gets attached to any story about her. Too bad if she doesn’t like it.
My integrity is nonnegotiable.

She ran her hands through her tangle of curls and leaned back
against the chair. She had to rely on her instincts. Right now, that meant
caution. She would do the interview, and if she didn’t get a sense of candid
integrity from Adi, she’d be on the plane back to Los Angeles in a flash. Her
career couldn’t take another knock, even if it was just about some backwater
chef with a shady history. But first things first, she needed to find out what
the good people of New Iberia thought about the Boiling Pot and its staff.
Sometimes the best angle on a story came from the oblique. In her experience,
people always had an opinion when she said she was writing an article. The best
place to find background would be the local grocery store, the churches, and
the salons and barber shops. It was Sunday, so she would make the rounds at the
churches first. Hopefully, she would get something useful. She pulled up her
maps application and searched for churches near her. There were six to choose
from, and this being South Louisiana, she elected to try Our Lady of Perpetual Help
Catholic Church.

The service was in full force when she arrived, so she slipped
into the back row. The sanctuary was about half full, mostly with older folks.
The rhythm of the priest’s voice and the answering congregation lulled her. She
caught herself nodding and bit the inside of her cheek to stay awake
. I’m so glad my parents didn’t
attend church regularly. I’d have made a poor penitent
. When the
priest finished the Mass, he invited all to the hall for community time.
Perfect
. She wandered
out the big wooden door and drifted to the parish hall with the other
churchgoers.

She found a table and sipped the dreck that was passed off as
coffee. She was patient as she waited for an opportunity to chat.

“Hello, I don’t recognize you. You must be new to the parish. I’m
Ina Dupré.”

Griffith smiled at the elderly lady with bright white teeth and
hair in an old-fashioned bouffant. “Hi, I’m Griffith McNaulty. It’s nice to
meet you.”

“Well, you aren’t from here, that’s for sure. That accent is
distinctly un-Cajun. Where are you from and what brings you here?”

“Actually, I’m a reporter. I’m doing a human interest story on
one of your local restaurants.”

“You don’t say? That’s pretty neat. Which place are you writing
about?”

“The Boiling Pot.”

“Oh, we love the Boiling Pot. They have THE best gumbo, hands
down.”

Griffith laughed. “That’s good to know. I thought their étouffée
was quite remarkable yesterday.”

“Well, nobody can beat my étouffée. Not even Adi Bergeron.”

“Funny you should mention her. She’s going to be the focus of my
article. What do you know about her?”

“Oh, she’s a mystery that girl. Just showed up here a while back.
She sure is a sweetheart, though. Just about the nicest young woman in town.
Always has a kind word and a smile. On your best day you couldn’t find a
friendlier soul, I guarantee.”

“So she’s a kind person and a good cook, huh? Any dark secrets?”

“Well, I don’t know about that. She sure doesn’t talk about her
past much. Never speaks of family and such, but she’s a good girl. That’s all
that matters. Around here, we don’t judge people on what they done, just what
they do.”

“She’s not right with the Lord, and you know it, Ina Dupré.”

A different woman walked over to them, this one with thin lips
pressed into what looked like a perpetual moue of distaste.