THE
ONION MANIFESTO
By Jim Szantor
Some
people do not cry when onions are peeled, chopped sliced or diced. Others cry when they are merely mentioned or even
implied. What is it about the allium
cepa that causes it to be de rigueur in recipes, seemingly mandatory
at McDonald’s and compulsory in casseroles?
What
magical properties accrue to this vile vegetable of the hollow, tubular leaves
and edible, rounded bulb? What culinary clout does it hold? Do onions cure
cancer, prevent baldness or remove unsightly age spots? Are they a surefire
Covid killer?
Were
onions served at the Last Supper? Does Taylor
Swift eat them?
Some
answers, assertions and affirmations in a moment. First, though, a position
paper of sorts on the plight of one who must make his way as a consumer in an
onion-obsessed world.
If the
onion does to you all the things it does to someone who cannot stand, bear,
countenance, abide or otherwise tolerate its taste, you know what it is:
--To sit
down to a meal anywhere and find the main dish (not to mention the appetizer, soup
or salad) loaded with the loathsome ingredient.
How to negotiate this culinary minefield politely if not furtively
without offending the hostess? How to
suppress the whimpering and retching attendant to the ordeal?
--To wait
endlessly—punitively—at fast-food establishments that package the item with
other, more respectable and comestible condiments. Kudos to the franchises that make the onion
an option; a pox on those that operate under the assumption that those little
white, chopped interlopers will be loved and consumed with relish by all.
--To grab
eagerly for a new entrée in the supermarket’s frozen food section, only to
recoil when it is discovered that onions--dehydrated, flaked, powdered or
fuel-injected--are part of the bargain, take it or leave it. (In the finest of
print, of course.)
It is a
mystery why the onions are so omnipresent in the gustatory scheme of things,
when to some they are slimy if boiled, repugnant if raw and palatable only if
fried to a crisp—to such a crisp, that is, that only the crisp, and not the actual
onion essence, is tasted. (Full
disclosure: I recall quite fondly the Onion Straws served by a New Orleans
eatery, a close encounter I have yet to live down, there being is a living
witness.)
The true
enemy of the onion feels not only persecuted but also triumphant when able to
detect the faintest evidence of its flavoring.
Cook a beef stew with boiled onions in a mesh bag and remove them prior
to serving? The congenital onion-hater can tell. That’s because the onion has little
subtlety, is totally devoid of finesse.
It always lingers near the scene of the crime, fouling the breath and
otherwise making its ingestion hard to forget.
But this seasoned onion adversary survives each close encounter, his
palate and olfactory glands able to detect its unpleasant properties
everywhere.
It could
be argued that eating a hamburger with onions is—dare I say it?—an antisocial
act. My hamburger with tomato and
pickles flies under the radar, even in close quarters. Someone eating one loaded with onions in
whatever form? He or she is, in effect,
broadcasting with appallingly broad bandwidth, callously indifferent to the
consequences!
The
onion’s raison d’etre?
According
to noted chef Jean Banchet of Le Francaise in the Chicago suburb of Wheeling’s fabled
Restaurant Row, “Onions add a lot of flavor, a unique flavor, to soups, sauces
and salads.” He prefers cooked over raw,
though, and opts for the shallot, an onion cousin, for fish and bordelaise
sauce.
The onion,
in the allium giganteum genus, is a real attention-getter, both in the
garden and in cut flower arrangements. It
is one, however, that even Mr. Anti-Onion can appreciate, for this flowery
version is not to be eaten.
But the
more common garden variety is one that a former colleague, Chicago Tribune food
editor Joanne Will, says “is worth crying over.”
“Onions
not only enrich other flavors but they make a statement of their own. Just think of some of the things onionophiles
would have to give up: deeply browned and caramelized sweet onion soup, boiled
baby onions saturated with cream sauce (a must with Thanksgiving turkey),
crisply delicious, battered onion rings.”
To a
close and cherished associate (one who has prepared this author’s meals for
53-plus years), the onion is an ingredient both pleasurable and problematic. To cater to her husband’s unfathomable oddity,
meal preparation is fraught with strategies, dodges, reluctant omissions and,
sometimes, downright deceit. In short, to keep peace in the family, she has to
keep the onions out of the crock pot.
There are
untold hardships for one who was born unequal in that his tase buds are out of
step with the rest of humanity’s. The
onion, in its ubiquity, has made coping more cumbersome, ordering more odious
and tasting more tentative for the afflicted.
Unquestionably, the onion is an affront, an imposition, equally
detestable, whether served by gracious hostesses, celebrated chefs or sullen
countermen.
But if
you are among the majority who cannot live without onions, by all means indulge
and enjoy. This is only an open admission
of an aberration, a venting of a lifelong loathing, not a produce section
polemic. Some of my best friends buy,
cook eat and even grow them. But they’ve never grown on me.
Until the
onion makes the headlines (remember the Great Potato Famine, the cranberry
scare of 1959, Red Dye No. 2 and other periodic pantry-related panics), it will
be the same old story for those who can’t stand them, those who dream of the
day when restaurant signs and menus everywhere will contain these words:
No smoking, no substitutions, no onions.
BY JIM SZANTOR
The chili could be
malicious and downright unforgiving. The
omelets sometimes look like yellow Play-Doh flecked with foreign bodies. The coffee isn’t strong enough to defend
itself, and the waitress puts the plates down with an offhand finality. Breakfast served any time. Eggs any style. The soup? It’s navy bean.
It’s easy to put down the greasy spoon, that
ubiquitous testament to the tacky and the Tums.
But by whatever name—luncheonette, diner, café, grill, coffee shop,
ptomaine parlor—it used to account for 40-50 percent of the eat-out dollar,
according to industry sources. Now? Not so much, as changing tastes and the sweep
of urban renewal have relegated it into a virtual museum piece--a slow-food
square peg in a round hole of a fast-food, instant-everything, drive-through
and highly hyphenated universe. Some things just sort of happen, with no grand
design or Machiavellian malice aforethought.
But the greasy spoon was a slice of Americana
that clung to the fork with nary a nod to fad or fashion. There were no vegetarian plates, as meat and
potatoes carried the day and the night and the mortgage. The Serv-Naps filed out of their countertop
compartments as the daily duet of eat-and-runs and lingerers played their way
through an unconducted arrangement. The
beef was “govt.-inspected”—but did it pass?
There was a counter-top jukebox selector, with some pop, some country,
some rock but definitely no Rachmaninoff.
You know the
place. Everyone, whether through
happenstance, resignation or momentary indifference has ended up at one of
these Edward Hopper-esque establishments, clutching a greasy knife or fork. How
the spoon, which generally just stirred the coffee, got left holding the bag is
a mysteryforever lost in the mists of time.
Whatever their
culinary merits, one could develop an irrational affection for the emporiums of
this genre. And they were more than
eating places. Sociologically they could
be an over-the-counter salve for the tattered psyches of the urban disenfranchised,
who hoped they wouldn’t close on Christmas and trap them in their cheap hotel
rooms. They were sort of halfway hash
house social clubs, with no membership list but plenty of dues, where the help
was as transient as the trade.
Some of these motley
establishments were actually respectable—sometimes good—and do not deserve to
be painted in such tawdry tones. Almost
always locally owned, they were probably more consistent at their level than
some tonier “destination dining” spots and had a more devoted clientele, who
prided themselves on being regulars, never had to state their orders and were
probably as good as the National Guard should someone get surly with the
waitress. Perhaps the key to their fate
is how many such places are opening these days, not how many are closing.
But while there’s
time, the eyes above the menu survey the scene and laugh and marvel at a few
things:
--The waitress
always looks like she is glad they are out of whatever they are out of.
--The catsup bottle
says “restaurant pack,” whatever that’s supposed to mean.
--The busboy is a
strong man--a bit too strong—but he didn’t shower up with Irish Spring.
--There’s a
fill-up-the-sugar-container fetish that is hard to fathom. Today’s two fingers’ worth on top of yesterday’s
two fingers’ worth. The sugar at the
bottom was refined in 1952.
--The “chef” has
more tattoos than specialties and thinks “Guide Michelin” plays for the
Montreal Canadiens.
--The cream pies and
such are kept at a tongue-numbing 33 degrees.
--The sandwich
plates are larger than they need to be, but the dinner plates. . . .
--The cashier/owner
always seems to be eating ice cream out of a coffee cup on a stool near the
cash register.
--They honor the
“law” that says coleslaw shall be served in flimsy paper or plastic cups and in
minute amounts.
--The spaghetti
always comes with “rich meat sauce.”
--The menu always
has an item or two that no one has ever ordered. Who orders Red Snapper in places like this?
--If you want
something to go, you have to stand in a special place, probably so they won’t
confuse you with people who prefer to eat standing up with their hands in their
pockets.
--The floor is
usually brown-and-yellow tile squares, in accordance with the Seedy Restaurant
Color Scheme Act of 1942.
--Some old guy
always comes in about 10 p.m. and orders a bowl of bran cereal.
---The menu is a
Sargasso Sea of misspelled names and fanciful if not fraudulent
descriptions. From the Broiler. From the Sea.
But never From the Freezer.
--The server never
fills in all those bureaucratic squares at the top of the “guest check” and writes
diagonally across the lined form. What’s
more, she has a Ph.D. in abbreviations.
--One of the
customers always looks like he is doing his income tax at one of the tables.
--Somebody always
walks by the window and waves in just before he disappears.
--You’re the only
one at the counter, and some guy walks in and sits right next to you.
--The french-fried
shrimp comes with enough cocktail sauce to cover about two pieces.
--The table’s wobble
is always half-corrected with a dirty folded napkin or three.
--The clock is
always stopped at something like 2:42.
--The Muzak is
always playing something like “Never on Sunday” or “Nom Domenticar.”
--The cook flip-slides the plates across the high stainless-steel
counter, and they always stop short, as if equipped with disk brakes.
--The cashier always
puts your change down on a spikey rubber thing that looks like an oversized
scalp massager.
****************************************************************************
In the early morning
lull, after the midnight rush hour subsides, the buzz of the fluorescent now
equals the sizzle of the grill as the beat cop walks in and sinks into the
house booth.
“Say,
where’s Sally? She off tonight?”
“Nah, she quit. Went back with her old man.”
“Oh . . . . Say, you
got any a that meat loaf left. Haven’t
eaten all day.”
“Nah, meat loaf’s
out. All’s I got left is thuringer.”
“Thuringer,
huh. Well . . . gimme a piece of that
blueberry.”
(Illustration: Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks,” 1942)
Forecast Follies (or . . . "Here's Jim with the Weather")
Mark Twain famously said, ”Everyone talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.”
And since reports of Mr. Twain’s death were not highly exaggerated, I’d like to fill in for him and address something we apparently can’t do anything about, either—the nonsensical, downright insulting barrage of verbiage issuing forth daily from what used to be called TV “weathermen” (and they were all of that gender back in the day) but are now known as “meteorologists,” as if space rocks were an omnipresent factor in our lives. As in, “60 percent chance of precipitation by daybreak, with 0.000001 percent chance of meteor collision.” (Meteor showers do occur, but usually are not perilous enough to cancel your picnic plans. They have yet to be seen in the Bus Stop Forecasts or the Car Wash Advisories that “humanize” these bloated segments.)
The weather portions (there are usually two—a fairly brief “teaser” early on and later, the Big Production) of most TV newscasts are, first of all, way too long (and coupled with all those time-wasting teasers about “what’s coming up,” leave precious little time for what we actually tune in for—news). We don’t need to know where the Alberta Clipper fizzled, that an El Nino is in mid-formation or that a front in central Montana caused a “dusting” in northern Iowa. And as for those “pockets of snow” we were supposed to get last night, I looked in mine and, blessedly, found none. But the station has paid serious coin for all of the glitzy graphics and radar capabilities, and by God, they are going to be used, if even just to show us what the rainfall looks like in downtown Racine “right at this very moment.” Gripping.
And then
there is the universal, comically contrived “personalization” factor, apparently
de rigueur on all stations. It’s never “Thursday’s forecast,” it’s (ahem), “the
forecast for your Thursday . . . .”
One can only envision the rapturous glow viewers must feel when luxuriating
in the warmth of that gratuitous pronoun! (As if that forecast applies only to
you, no one else. Ah, exclusivity.)
If one were to awaken from a 30-year coma, he or she would probably be mystified not only by cellphones, laptops and GPS devices but also by the existence of a curious phenomenon known as The Weather Channel: All weather, all the time--a nonstop barrage of jargon, gaudy graphics and arcane factoids. How did we ever exist without it? When it’s a slow weather day (and in this day of acute climate change, there’s always a crisis on the front burner somewhere), footage of past calamities will fill the bill for weather junkies or the aficionados of disaster porn.
Those with (ahem) backgrounds as editors find the nightly weather segments to be cringefests in the extreme. Temps don’t just drop into the 20s, they “drop down,” as if “dropping up” were a physical possibility. Is snow or rain in the forecast? No, we’ll have “snow showers” or “rain showers.” And it’s never just “sun”; it’s “sunshine,” as if that extra syllable ramps up the warmth. These folks never pass up an opportunity to gild the lily, because we’re often told of the possibility of “rain events” or “snow events,” which leads me, at least, to wonder if I will need a ticket, if there will be guest speakers and if refreshments will be served. (Spotty Showers? That was my clown name back in the day, a story to be told when the Vernal Equinox rolls around. Which this year, in the Northern Hemisphere, will be at 10:33 a.m. CST on March 20. Mark your calendar.)
But my pique rises to fever pitch in winter, when we’re often told during our seven-month layered-look season to “bundle up,” as if we lifelong Midwesterners have no prior experience with winter weather--as if we had all just parachuted in from Jamaica in our underwear and had no idea on how to adorn ourselves in these brutal climes. We don’t need to be told how to dress when icicles form—we’ve been there, done that—and resent the insinuation. One of the local weather wordsmiths hails from San Diego, and he’s telling us what to wear? Outrageous. I’d like to send him back to sunny California on his surfboard or his skateboard, preferably when the barometric pressure equals the dew point and, optimally, on a jet stream.
More and more women are seen these days holding forth during TV weather segments, and they have proven themselves every bit the equal of the men—long-winded and grammatically challenged. Positive role models apparently are non-existent; the often-parodied “weather bunnies” are blessedly a thing of the past (their anatomical attributes far outweighed their academic credentials), and the first exemplary female trailblazer with any gravitas has yet to be found.
So please, Mr., Mrs. or Ms. Meteorologist, do us all a favor: Stop behaving as if you are getting paid by the word, spare me the details about weather phenomena that have no bearing on our locale and, most of all, stop insulting our intelligence. Chill out, stick to the weather and let us worry about our wardrobes. Failing that, my fondest wish is that I could take all of you, get you all bundled up and sent to the Sahara. There’s a 99.99 percent chance that you won’t need an umbrella or have to worry about a lake effect, a polar vortex or banal banter with the anchor desk.
And now here’s Al with the Sports.
--Jim Szantor
