Indian Weed and Buttered Radishes

Bring on the fried chicken gizzards, the Southern Film Festival has begun.

For opening night, the VMFA was screening "Jamestown," a 1923 silent movie with the St. Charles String Quartet providing the score.

The theme for this years festival is "Screening Southern Freedom," ostensibly because it's the sesquicentennial of the Emancipation Proclamation.

But when is freedom ever an inappropriate theme?

To put the film in context, we heard from Channel 8 film critic Morgan Dean, who gave us prices for items in 1923 (a car was $285, a house $7,500) and tidbits like that 1923 was the year that the Attorney General ruled that it was okay for women to wear trousers anywhere.

And while I appreciate the effort, I'd still rather wear a dress or skirt any day.

"Jamestown" was part of a series on America done by Yale University to educate the public.

For this festival, they got a copy of this rarely-seen film from the Library of Congress, meaning we are among the few who have seen it.

So now I've got bragging rights, although finding someone to brag to may be the challenge.

The film was directed by Edwin Hollywood, a fact notable in and of itself.

It was also a very '20s movie, with Pocahontas looking like every "it" girl of the time, with dramatically lined eyes and a Cupid's bow mouth.

So much for historical accuracy.

The film completely eschewed Captain John Smith to focus on John Rolfe, who, we learned, was "interested in the Indian weed called tobacco."

Yea, him and the queen of England.

Naturally, the film looked at 1607 Jamestown through the lens of the 1920s, so it played loose with details.

Mercifully, the native Americans were not shown living in teepees, but the houses of the settlers had far too many finished elements to seem real.

Did the colonists really have such elaborate windows, such smooth-hewn wood plank floors and such delicate furniture?

Maybe they did and maybe it just seemed unlikely to me.

At one point, a colonist is seen scaling a pointed stockade fence and someone behind me said, "Ow!" in empathy.

For some reason, the film showed the marriage between Pocahontas and John Rolfe as one arranged to secure peace with the natives, causing Rolfe to revolt.

"I refuse to be rushed into an unconsidered marriage," he whines, all but stamping his foot.

Ye gods, get over yourself and do it for posterity, man.

The film was nominally based on a 1918 book by Mary Johnston called, "Pioneers of the Old South," so I have to assume the director chose to portray the marriage like that since we were told the book made no mention of him fighting it.

As we learned at the panel discussion afterwards, it was a 250-page book and only about ten pages of it were used.

Then again, it was only a 40-minute movie.

While VCU had gotten the film from the Library of Congress, they'd had no score or information about the score, but maybe that's because only 16% of movies from 1923 survive.

Fortunately, the St. Charles string quartet did a fine job using Mozart string quartet pieces to soundtrack the film.

Several on the panel said the movie had been far less compelling when viewed silently, hardly a surprise since it was never meant to be seen without music.

Because, really, what is life without music?

But I digress.

Food was the next order of business, or maybe I should say the ongoing order of business, so I made the three-block trek to Belmont Food Shop.

I try to time it so I arrive right around the time they start offering their cook's plate because I am obsessed with it.

Tonight, I arrived to a full dining room, necessitating enjoying a glass of Negroamaro 2009 Cantele Salice Salentino to keep me occupied until things died down enough to feel justified in ordering what I wanted.

The couple next to me was waiting for French silk pie to come out and when it did, they handed the bartender their credit card, pounced on it and the pie was gone in about 90 seconds.

My kind of dessert enthusiasts.

Luckily the servers were gregarious, so with one I continued our discussion of Green Chartreuse from my last visit and with the other, discussed bourbon sampling and days closed.

As in, Belmont is now closed on Wednesdays, a perfect day, if you ask me, because it means they're open on Sunday and Monday, the most difficult days to find places open in this town.

We agreed that the best days off are the ones spent eating and drinking.

Gradually, tables began to pay and clear out, so I put my order in and waited patiently, watching people walk down Belmont and peer in the big front window.

When the piece of slate arrived, it was all but groaning with the feast on it.

A slice of cucumber with citrus-cured smoked salmon atop it.

Two freshly cooked chicken gizzards.

A warm arancini.

Two slices of head cheese, which my barkeep tried to tell me were "fromage de tete" until I stopped him and insisted we call a spade a spade.

Buttered radishes.

A square of pork belly.

Two brandade balls, each with a house-made potato chip.

Pork rilletes with grilled bread.

Pickled Brussels sprouts hearts. When I was told what they were, I exclaimed that I didn't know sprouts had hearts.

"They do and we rip 'em out," he said enthusiastically. "And pickle 'em."

So, basically, it was a heart attack on a plate and I did my best to eat every bite.

Several nicely dressed couples came in as I was chowing down and the one who chose the bar immediately asked for two of what I was eating.

Moments later, the kitchen sent out warm cheese puffs for them and me.

Personally, I think we were being rewarded for having the sense to order what we did.

I know some people might be put off by things like gizzards and head parts (last time it was blood sausage and lamb hearts), but for those of us who aren't, it's hard to find a more reliable place to get them six nights a week.

You only have to be willing to come in just as most people are leaving.

Of course, that also makes it easier to hear the vintage '20s music that goes unheard when it's busy.

Because, really, what are chicken gizzards without music?

Unacceptable in the dirty South, that's what.