The woman tasted the gumbo, approved and then she wanted to know who cooked it.

That man over there, she was told. She looked him over and said, no way. No way he cooked that gumbo.

Yes, the man told her, he cooked the gumbo.

No sir, she insisted. No way a guy from Tennessee could make gumbo that good.

The scene played out recently at the Civic Coliseum. The woman was from New Orleans, an evacuee from Hurricane Katrina.

The cook was Andy Cantillo. And, yes, he cooks gumbo so genuine it could only come from a Louisianan, born and bred.

"She would not believe I cooked that gumbo,'' Cantillo said. "That's a compliment, that she thought it was that good I couldn't have cooked it.''

Cantillo is a Louisianan, transplanted for 14 years to Seymour, just down Chapman Highway from his Bayou Bay Seafood House.

He's not alone in his migration. East Tennessee was populated with former Louisianans long before Katrina spawned a new exodus north.

And Monday night's football game in Baton Rouge between Tennessee and LSU provides a festive excuse to celebrate for a group that needs little excuse to celebrate anyway.

Nancy Gross, who grew up in New Orleans, has been in Oak Ridge 12 years, married to a diehard Vols fan.

"I'll be wearing an LSU shirt and he'll be in a UT shirt and we'll be on opposite sides of the room,'' Gross said.

She is a member of the Lost Cajuns of East Tennessee Social Club. The group was formed last November. The only qualification is being a native of Louisiana.

They get together once a month at - naturally - Bayou Bay Seafood House.

Technically, a Cajun is of French-Canadian ancestry, a descendant of the exiles chased out of Nova Scotia by the British in the 1700s.

Jules Fontenot, a retired TVA employee who has lived in Knoxville since 1958, is the real deal. He hails from Cameron Parish, south of Lake Charles.

"I grew up on the other side of the tracks when Cajuns were looked down upon by what we referred to as, 'les Americaines,' '' Fontenot said.

"All of a sudden, being a Cajun is the thing to be. That's kind of a sore point with me.''

After more than four decades of being battered by Category 5 Big Orange hoopla in Knoxville, his football loyalties have not eroded one bit.

"I bleed purple,'' Fontenot said, "and when I've got a cold, it comes out gold-colored.''

He's still mad about the Vols "taking Billy Cannon's two points away from him'' in 1958. He also carries a grudge against his daughter for scheduling her wedding on Sept. 17, 1988. Thus, he had to miss witnessing LSU hammer UT 34-9 in Neyland Stadium.

"I've never really forgiven her,'' Fontenot said.

Some of the Lost Cajuns will be traveling to Baton Rouge for the game. Most will settle for their living room.

At least they have a living room.

If watching Katrina's devastation on TV was moving for us non-Louisianans, imagine what it was like for the folks who grew up and still have extended family there.

"I try not to think about it,'' said Gross. "I guess you want to call it denial.''

Her parents, who live in Kenner, outside New Orleans, have been staying with her in Oak Ridge. They go home next week to face the mess.

Her diabetic aunt was plucked from the third floor of a flooded assisted-living center by a Coast Guard pilot. The pilot's wife had spotted an online plea for help from Gross' brother in Detroit and forwarded the address to her husband.

"It took about two days but they got her,'' Gross said. "I don't know how, but hers was the only phone that worked in that building so we kept in contact with her.

"She was drinking the juice out of a pineapple can to keep her sugar up. If you don't believe in God after this, something's wrong with you.''

LSU folks hope the football game will help the healing. Cantillo has mixed emotions.

A lifelong LSU fan, he also got on the Big Orange bandwagon when he moved to Tennessee. One of his most loyal customers is UT defensive line coach Dan Brooks.

"I went to the game in 2000 wearing a purple hat and an orange shirt,'' Cantillo said.

Cantillo and his wife Cindy decided this week to cancel their trip to Baton Rouge.

"She said she didn't want to go down there,'' Cantillo said, "to have fun in the middle of all that misery.''

Mike Strange may be reached at 864-342-6276.