The kettle it’s served in resembles a miniature version of something the witches gather around in “Macbeth.” In place of eye of newt and toe of frog, however, you get sizable shrimp, plump and pink, peeking out of a thick tan broth of obvious passion. Diving into it, your spoon is ensnared by strings of cheese both thick and thin on its way to the pearlescent, sedimentary grains below. Grits is the wrong word for something so smoothly textured, nutty flavored and absent all grit. In my case, they tempered the salty broth and enhanced the bite of the shrimp.
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