Bitter Root Read Online Free PDF

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,