If the PWHL were a holiday dinner, the table would be packed, competitive, and impossible to ignore. Each city shows up with its signature dish, some layered for depth, some fast and flashy, some sweet and deceptively powerful, just like the teams themselves.
If the PWHL were a holiday dinner, the table would be packed, competitive, and impossible to ignore. Each city shows up with its signature dish, some layered for depth, some fast and flashy, some sweet and deceptively powerful, just like the teams themselves. This is a spread where hockey style meets holiday flavour, and every bite tells a story.
Out west, Vancouver arrives first, naturally, carrying something that only makes sense if you know what a Goldeneye really is. The bird leads the way, and inside it? More birds. A turducken hits the table like a roster built for depth, duck at the center, chicken tucked inside, turkey holding it all together. It’s excessive, yes, but intentional. Just like the Goldeneyes, this is a feast that wins by layers, not shortcuts.
Down the coast, Seattle’s Torrent doesn’t knock. It rushes in. There’s no garnish, no distraction, just smoked salmon, cold and powerful, straight from Pacific waters. It’s clean, fast, and relentless, the kind of dish that looks simple until you realize how hard it is to do right. Much like the city itself, Seattle lets the quality speak and the current carry the rest.
In the Nation’s capital, Ottawa shows up fueled and moving fast. The Charge don’t bother with plates, they bring BeaverTails, stretched, sweet, and born on the Rideau Canal. It’s energy food. Grab it, go, don’t look back. Fitting for a team that plays like it’s late for something important.
Then comes the cold. Minnesota doesn’t announce itself; it settles in. The Frost bring frosting, smooth and deceptively gentle until it sets. Try to rush it and you’ll regret it. This is winter discipline in edible form, controlled, patient, and deadly if you underestimate it.
In Toronto, presentation matters. The Sceptres don’t overdo it, they don’t have to. Butter tarts arrive small, polished, and dangerously rich. Power doesn’t always shout; sometimes it waits quietly until you take a bite and realize who’s in control.
Further east, Montreal brings history to the table. The Victoire serve tourtière, warm, spiced, and unmistakably rooted in tradition. This isn’t fast food; it’s a reminder that winning is built over time, folded carefully into every layer. It’s comfort with confidence, victory you can taste.
In Boston, things get sturdy. The Fleet dock a lobster pot pie right in the center, sealed under pastry like a hull against rough seas. It’s heavy, resilient, and built to last, a dish that’s survived winters before and expects a few more.
And finally, New York steals the room the way it always does. The Sirens don’t need reinvention. They bring apple pie, golden and timeless, the kind that draws you in no matter how full you think you are. Classic, confident, and impossible to ignore.
Eight teams. Eight cities. One table that feels a lot like the league itself, different styles, shared traditions, and just enough edge to keep things interesting. Pass the plates carefully. The holiday season is just getting started.