I grew up in a small town where the men worked strictly 9-to-5, the commute was never more than 15 minutes from work to home and there was always a woman at the house making dinner. And because of these three factors, the people in my town always ate at 5:15pm – the moment that the dad got out of his truck and into the house and grunted his way to the head of the dinner table at which point the pork chops were lifted from the oven and the apple sauce was finished. (From what I gathered, most of my friends spent their entire youth eating pork chops and apple sauce.)
My house was an exception. My dad worked a bit later – he started around 9:30 and didn't come home 'till 6pm – so we didn't eat until almost a full hour after everybody else in the town. This affected my social life greatly: My friends would often call me around 6:30 on a Friday night to ask me what I was doing but I'd have to tell them I was still eating and hadn't thought that far. My parents were pissed that I had to answer the phone during dinner; my friends were pissed not knowing if I was going to join them or not.
But as late as I thought we ate, I learned early that 6pm for dinner was hardly custom for the cityfolk. Whenever we'd come to Toronto to visit our relatives, I starved. Uncles didn't get back from work until 7 or 7:30pm, which meant dinner could be as late as 8pm. This was an annoyance to me at first, but after a few days, I kinda liked it. It meant one could watch all the sitcom reruns AND the sports highlights of the evening news BEFORE dinner. How cosmopolitan.
After I finished high school, I lived in a couple small towns in France for a year as an exchange student, staying with host families. There, I ate at 7:30pm, but it didn't seem to bother me because I always ate a gigantic and delicious lunch at the cafeteria of my lyceé. (Cafeteria food in France, with its three courses - salad, main and cheese – and limitless baguette was the best part of my day.) Then after France, I lived in a dorm for a year where I regressed a bit to my provincial ways. Dinner service started at 5pm and I would usually line up before the doors to the cafeteria opened. Going at 5pm meant you could get the greatest choice – the more favourite dishes would sell out by 6pm – and make sure you got a warm plate that wasn't sitting on a steam table for too long. Also, it meant beating the post-Simpsons rush (there were twenty dudes who routinely watched the Simpsons at 5pm, thus creating a logjam in the lines at 5:30).
After my freshman year, I then lived on my own, at which point the whole idea of a regimented meal plan went out the window. I'd eat as early as 4:30 and as late as 10pm, depending on when I woke up, how much I snacked and how much I had or planned to be drinking. My dinner life didn't become regimented again until after I graduated and started my first job. I moved to Toronto to work at a magazine and I moved in to my grandparents' place where my grandma ensured I had at least five dishes to choose from – old-school Cantonese – at 7:30pm. I'd eat till I'd burst, go out and meet friends and drink five pints and wonder why I'd feel so bloated that night. Unsurprisingly, I gained ten pounds during my stay chez granny.
A year later, I moved out of her house and lived on my own, and for the following four years, I had to adjust to the dual responsibility of working a job with a long commute and feeding myself – a combination of circumstances that were far more difficult to grasp than I thought. I rarely ate before 8pm and most often around 9pm or later (depending on the number of aperatifs drunk). I'd end up consuming a large amount – I'd be ravenously hungry by that time, not having eaten since lunch. Afterwards, I'd feel sluggish, tired and often fall asleep reading a magazine or watching half a movie. Worst of all, I'd wake up late not feeling too hungry (even if slightly hungover) and skip breakfast. And of course, given my rural roots, I thought I was so urbane and mature for eating so late. Me so cool.
A few years later, my supposed sophitisticate lifestyle changed, though not through any deliberate intent. It happened a bit unintentionally. In 2005, I started working from home, and cooking became a great excuse to quit working or procrastinate. And there's something about being at home all day that makes one hungrier than usual. By the fall of that year, I found myself resorting to the my high school habits. I had, once again, started eating at 6pm. At first, I made fun of myself for doing so but after a few times, I got the hang of it and I liked the routine of it all. Finally, I was eating like a real adult. Or, as others would prefer, like a geriatric.
Of course, there are a few exceptions to this rule: During baseball season, where I co-ordinate my meal with the first pitch of the Jays game, which almost is 7pm most of the time. Also, I realize that it's not very couth or sexy to suggest a dinner date at 6pm, so I will schedule accordingly if entertaining. And, of course, restaurant meals are always made later – eating at 6pm at a nice restaurant almost always means you'll be sitting in a half-empty room populated with seniors and waiters who are anxious to get you out to ensure the reservations at 7:30 will be seated in time.
Still, when eating at home, I adhere to my 6pm routine. Cosmopolitanism be damned: I love eating early. It frees up more time in my evening. It's healthier for me (apparently) and it makes me hungrier in the morning, which means I'll eat breakfast (not always evident in my undergrad and post-grandma years). And it prevents from snacking in the afternoon.
Would I reconsider this routine and shift dinner back a couple of hours? If I lived in France again, sure. If I lived in Spain where tapas is a viable snacking options, absolutely. And what if I got a job with a long commute or late hours? Damn. I dunno. I won't take the job, I guess.
No comments:
Post a Comment