Roller Derby

I experienced my first roller derby last week, at the Jackson Convention Center, Jackson, MS. There were about 350 people in attendance, sitting on convention center chairs around a taped-in ring on the floor. The Magnolia Roller Vixens and the Belles n' Bombshells (all female) duked it out in helmets, knee-pads, and hand guards. Aesthetically, this sport owes as much to suburban mall goths as it does burlesque shows of the wild west. There were leggings in a fantasy of baroque patterns, and frilly or embroidered underwear seemed to be the norm.

There were some righteous crashes, but on the whole the competition was pretty amateur. The teams spent some time at the beginning explaining to the audience the rules of competition; I got the feeling some of the competitors were learning as much as I was.

I loved reading the players' names and numbers. Both are selected by the player, evoking the "Pistol" Pete Maravich era of the NBA. Most women chose off-color puns and threatening-sounding circus names, like "Princess Sledge Rammer" or "Lisbeth Von Lush." But more creative players dipped into literary sources, like "Zelda Fistgerald." And one woman ignored the raunchy spirit entirely with the name "Judicious." The numbers too were wide-ranging in their inspiration. My favorite was H1N1.

Possible roller derby names for myself, in keeping with the southern literary tradition:

Eudora Welts

William Fucker

Saltie

This place has been on my mind for months, ever since I first nipped on a Spanish Armada there back in November. Saltie is a tiny sandwich shop in Williamsburg - a few stools and a counter only maybe 10 inches deep - with a calming, oceanic decor. A lot of whites and blues and natural wood, like a Martha Stewart beach house foyer. But that daintiness is cut by the food itself - messy, exuberant, and relentlessly creative. Everything is made in house, from the focaccia and naan that the sandwiches are served on, to the ice cream, to the baked goods in the glass cabinet. Baked goods like a brioche bun filled with chocolate and topped with sugar crystals, and olive shortbread.

The real hook for me here though is what they do with vegetables. So much is made of pork as the food fad of the moment; for all its revelatory pleasures of texture and flavor, I find weaker chefs using it as a crutch, propping up mediocre dishes with its fat and salt. Not so at Saltie, where meat is available occasionally, but never missed. Sandwiches like the Scuttlebutt, with roasted beets and winter squash, and the Captain's Daughter, which features sardines and capers, both flourish without meat. I had a curried lentil soup once that had fennel, onions, cabbage, carrots, and celery, and was delicious with a honey corn muffin. You can only eat so many vegetable dishes studded with pork nuggets before you begin to long for a certain freshness that vegetables have when they're allowed to breathe.

But these dishes wouldn't be as compelling if they were presented as a part of a dogmatic vegetarian agenda, as is so common in vegetable-heavy restaurants. It feels so rare to find a place that puts vegetarian dishes on its marquee without a staunch dose of tie-dye, one earth, "health food" ideology. How about vegetables that are exciting and delicious, truthful and yet unexpected? A place where meat can exist in the food, but doesn't always have to?

From Per Se to McDonalds, most restaurants rely on meat to anchor so many of their dishes. At this time, with the current dismal state of American nutrition, I am excited by an example of American (Nouveau?) cuisine that provides a different model for eating. A cuisine that is so restless and satisfying, but one that I wouldn't be ashamed to universalize. Saltie makes meat an option not a requirement, or rather a condiment and not a foundation for the food. And they do it because it's delicious. It's defensible aesthetically, but at the same time manages to be defensible ethically. It feels so radical. I'm inspired.

We're Back!

This formally represents the reintroduction of "The Party Platter" to the general internet dialogue. Think of the break as something like a two-year sabbatical wherein I pursued some pretty wild side projects, career dabblings, etc, but now I'm back to my calling. Right here where I belong.

Mourning the Loss of One Man's Style

A few days ago the NFL went public with the news that the single-bar face mask would no longer be legal in game play. Not a big deal for most players and a decision that ensures a little more safety, you might say. In fact only one current player in the NFL will be affected by this ruling: Scott Player. But look what the world will be losing. That signature blond mustache, the oft-noted "crime against humanity" will have no clear counterpoint - and it looks tough enough to protect his upper lip already. He'll be lost amidst his teammates on the field, like his mustache among the many bars of his new helmet. At 38, his potency is already waning. The NFL should know that his roguish style needs to be nurtured, like a bird in captivity. Just grandfather him in and let the rest of the league choose for themselves whether or not they want the singleton - no one in their right mind should.