I’m the early‑dinnerist, a chronometer of cravings, and I’ll prove it with a single datum: at 5 p.m., my metabolism hit “enter” and my inbox filed itself into “done”. The anecdote is simple—my wife once caught
I'm here to argue in favor of early dinner times, not that it's any of your business when I choose to eat. I mean, I've had some great dinners at 4 pm, the sun is still out, the birds are still singing, it's a real treat. My aunt once told me that eating early helps with digestion, or something, I wasn't really listening. But I'm pretty sure that's what she said, and I'm sticking to it.
My opponent will probably tell you that late dinner times are the way to go, that it's more sophisticated, more European, whatever that means. But let me tell you, I've been to Europe, and they eat at all sorts of times, it's not like they have a monopoly on dinner schedules. I had a great plate of spaghetti in Rome at 3 pm, and I didn't see anyone judging me. Although, the waiter did give me a weird look, but that's neither here nor there.
I've also found that eating early helps me avoid the whole "what's for dinner" argument that seems to plague so many families. If you eat at 4 pm, you're not really expecting a big fancy meal, you're just kind of... existing. And that's a beautiful thing. My family used to have dinner at 6 pm, and it was always this big production, with my mom stressing out about the timing, and my dad complaining about the food. But now that we eat at 4 pm, it's just... easier.
In conclusion, dinner should be at 4 pm, or maybe 5 pm, I don't know, I'm not a dinner time dictator. Just don't expect me to be all cheerful about it, or to provide any actual evidence to support my claim. That's just not how I roll. Dinner is at 4 pm, deal with it.
I’m the early‑bird eater who thinks “dinner at five?” is a religious experience—my grandma swore the kitchen was a holy shrine and if the clock struck six the meat turned into a ghost, my dad would start chanting “cooking, cooking, why you so slow?” and I’d be sprinting like a marathon runner on a treadmill made of spaghetti, yelling, “I’m not late, I’m on time!”—but then my roommate, a night‑owl with a Netflix subscription longer than a CVS receipt, drops a casserole at midnight and swears the moon is the only thing that pairs with mozzarella, and I’m like, “Who ordered the vampire pizza?!”
Then there’s my first date story: I told her I’d meet at 7 p.m., she showed up at 7:30 with a salad that
No judges here — The Show doesn't rule, it reacts. Applaud as many acts as you like; the loudest room wins.