Linner Time

Family habits come and go, but one tradition remained strong in the Suarez household throughout my childhood: linner. When 3:00 came around on a Sunday afternoon, my parents became restless. The house stirred as they finally hopping in the shower after a noon spent with Time Magazine sipping on a fresh roast. “Get ready, it’s time to eat!” My mom’s voice echoed through the house, shaking the gunk still sticking to the corners of my eyes. My brother, Daniel, would fight for a few more minutes in bed, but my mom’s endured nagging always brought him to a grunting stand. On any mid-afternoon weekend’s end, Hunger struck the Suarez clan hard. 

Most families enjoy special nights out at Olive Garden or Outback once in a while, usually on a Friday or Saturday night. Endless breadsticks and bloomin’ onions become short-lived monuments to the week’s end. Chatter reverberates from salad plates and wine glasses in dining rooms brimming with fork-stuffed faces.  We had a different idea of this sacred suburban tradition: timing is everything. Sunday linner is the product of my dad’s abhorrence for waiting lists and my mom’s questionable eatery manners. So there are rules: 1) Wait out the weekend rush and beat out the dinner rush. Friday nights are good for pizza, but avoid the new Italian food joint. 2) Evade the church-goers. Those shiny-shoed, kaki-sporting smiles still high on halleluiahs clear out by 2:00 pm. And 3) If you aren’t in the car by 3:00, you don’t eat. When mom says its linner time, you better turn off the Xbox, grab the least smelly pair of jeans out of hamper purgatory and dart into the back seat of dad’s CRV.

For most middleclass suburbanites, mid-afternoon on the day of rest is for lazing around the football game or enjoying Scrabble with the folks while the smell of green bean casserole rolls through the sun-mottled rooms of home sweet home. For us, this meant empty restaurants and patient waiters. No running between bistros, spending two hours for a place with a wait time of less than one. No spit in our food when mom sends the prime rib back three times because it isn’t rare enough (true story). We sit in our booth thrones, in an empty dining room talking as loud as we please about the week past. The food is always hasty and hot and the flow of diet coke refills is endless. Our cups never go dry.