Bitter Root

by Laydin Michaels

  “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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  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.

  “I declare, I don’t know what you mean, Grace La Blanc. She’s right with the Lord. I know it in my heart.”

  “She lays with women. That, my dear, is a sin.”

  “Hush now! You don’t know what you’re talking about. And it’s none of our business.”

  “It’s what my Charlie says. I believe my boy. If he says she’s queer, she is. He asked her to prom and she refused him. Said she wasn’t interested. Hasn’t shown much interest in anyone else, for that matter.”

  “And that makes her a sinner? Just because she doesn’t like your boy? I think not. You go on about your business, hear? This doesn’t concern you anyway.”

  The two women bickered back and forth a while, and Griffith wondered if Adi’s sexuality might be behind her guardedness. Griffith had been an out lesbian all her life, but it was probably much harder in a small town like this, and in the Deep South, than it was for her in LA. She would broach the subject with her later. Maybe this wouldn’t be as hard as she predicted. And that doesn’t make for a headliner story. She swallowed her disappointment and returned to the bickering church ladies.

  *

  Adi tensed as the car rolled to a stop in front of the Boiling Pot. She watched as the reporter slid out from behind the wheel. She flipped her golden curls out of her face and straightened. While not much more than five feet tall, she moved with a confidence Adi envied. After locking her door, she turned and surveyed the restaurant. Adi quickly ducked away from the window. I’m not ready. I can’t do this. She scrambled back into the kitchen, heading for the back door.

  “What you think you’re doing?” Bertie called. “You know you can’t just run off without meeting this gal. You agreed to sit down and talk with her. Just hang on, now.”

  Adi made herself stop, one hand on the screen door. She hung her head. “Well, maybe I made a mistake saying that.”

  “Too late to run now, girl. You got to at least meet with the woman. She ain’t going to eat you, you know.”

  Adi swung back toward Bertie. “I don’t know. That’s the problem, Bertie. I don’t know a darn thing about what I’m supposed to be doing. Why do they want me to do this, anyway? What does anyone care about some Cajun off the bayou? So what? I can cook, throw stuff into a pot that comes out edible? That doesn’t make me news, Bertie.”

  “What you yelling at me for, you big chicken? Get yourself back out there and say hello to that gal, you hear me?”

  Adi choked back another smart comment and inched toward the front door. “I’m going, but I’m not happy about it.” Bertie just shook her head and looked pointedly at the door.

  Adi turned and pushed through. She inhaled sharply as she collided with the reporter. The impact shook her, though she towered above the smaller woman. It was like running into a brick wall. She thrust her arms out defensively and managed to unbalance the reporter, causing her to stumble backward.

  “Oof…hey, slow down there. You’re going to hurt someone rushing around like that.”

  “Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Yeah? That’s odd, because I swear I saw you ogling me from the front window a second ago.”

  Adi felt her face heat and looked away. “Well, um, yeah, but I didn’t realize you’d come inside yet. I was on my way out to meet you.”

  The woman smiled and Adi found herself caught by the play of blue and green in her eyes. Her smile lit her entire face, and Adi felt an answering smile of her own. She’s beautiful. Her nose is all pushed up and small. And those freckles. The warmth of her embarrassment turned into something new, a different kind of heat that confused her. She shook free of the awkward moment and stuck out her hand.

  “No hard feelings?”

  “None taken.”

  “So, Ms. McNaulty, how do we do this?”

  “My mother is Ms. McNaulty. You can call me Griffith, or Griff. Let’s grab a table and go over the ground rules. That sound good?”

  “Okay, Ms—Griff. Can I get you something to drink first?”

  “Coke. No ice.”

  “You got it. Pick any table and I’ll meet you there.”

  When Adi returned, she noticed that Griffith had placed a small recording device on the table and had her tablet computer open in front of her with a flat keyboard attached. The light on the recorder was dark, so she felt comfortable speaking her mind.

  “I’m not really sure what you need from me. Do you want recipes and stuff? How does this work?”

  “Let’s just talk for a bit first. I’d like to get to know you, so I can help the readers feel a connection with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “So, tell me a little about yourself. What kind of things do you spend your off time doing?”

  Adi tried to think of an answer. She felt all tangled up inside, like she used to when her mom was in a mood. She grabbed her soda to hide her discomfort, and in her haste to drink, ended up coughing and choking as it went down the wrong pipe.

  “Are you okay? Here, take this.” Griffith held out her napkin.

  Tears running down her cheeks and still coughing, Adi gratefully took it and wiped her face.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry.” She fell back into a coughing fit.

  “No problem. Let’s start over. My job is to capture who you are and how cooking has influenced your life. We want to draw people in with the human side of you, you know, your backstory. I’m only here to help you tell your story, so relax.”

  Adi nodded, her throat spasms finally clearing. The words were a comfort. She could do this. She just had to avoid talking about anything before landing at the Pot.

  “There isn’t much to tell, really,” Adi said.

  “What? No hobbies? You know, knitting, carpentry? Video gaming?”

  “No. None of that.”

  Adi sensed Griffith’s frustration and knew she needed to get the ball rolling. Glancing around the brightly lit room, she saw the old child’s pedal car hanging from a ceiling beam.

  “See that pedal car? Want to know why it’s hanging there? That’s a good story for sure. You see, the owner of this place is T’Claude Michaud—”

  “T. Claude? What does the T stand for?”

  “Oh no, not like that. T stands for little. You know, petite? T’Claude is for little Claude, since his daddy was Big Claude Michaud.”

  “Got it. So, the car?”

  “Yeah, well as I heard it, when T’Claude’s daddy was a congressman, he bought T’Claude that little car to make up for being away from home so much. When he was in town, Big Claude was out pressing the flesh, always sitting over at the gazebo in the town square. One afternoon as he was about to get a commitment for a campaign donation, up rides little T’Claude. He had pedaled his little car nearly half a mile to find his daddy. They say he climbed out of that car and walked over to his dad and said, “You said you was going to take me fishing. S
o, come on. Get in the car and let’s go.

  “The donor thought that was so funny he ended up giving Big Claude twice as much as he expected. So when he went back to Baton Rouge he took T’s little car and kept it in his office. It stayed there until he died. It was the first thing T’Claude put in the restaurant. He says it’s his daddy’s good luck charm.”

  “That’s a great story. So do you think it’s brought good luck to the Boiling Pot?”

  “I guess. Seems like things have gone well for him.”

  “And how about things for you? Do you feel lucky to be at the Boiling Pot?”

  “I sure do. This place is my home, you know? I feel like myself here. If it weren’t for Bertie and T, I don’t know where I’d be.”

  “How long have you been working here?”

  “I started about eight years ago. Bertie taught me everything she knows about cooking. I learned some from reading old cookbooks too. I love to cook. When I cook, I lose myself. I only connect with what my hands are doing and how everything I put into my dish is going to marry. I love the way one little pinch can change a whole dish. It gives me freedom, you know?”

  “It sounds very spiritual for you. I know that the end result is divine. So when you’re cooking you feel free? How does cooking free you?”

  “Oh, it’s like, I’m there, but I’m not at the same time. I feel free to be all I am and nothing less. When I’m cooking, I don’t have to worry about anything. Well, nothing but the food in front of me. I can let go of everything else, not worry about anything or anyone. I love that.”

  “It sounds amazing. How did you end up here? Does your family like your cooking?”

  Adi went on alert and her breathing tightened. “Bertie is my family. I suppose she likes my cooking, but probably because it’s really her, cooking through me.”

  “Her cooking through you?”

  “Yeah, because she’s the one who taught me to cook. When I cook, I hear her in my head, reminding me of what to add and how much. She’s always a part of my cooking.”

  “So you say Bertie is your family. How are you related? Is she your mother?”