Why I Hate Onions: A Manifesto
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Why I Hate Onions: A Manifesto
Peeling Back the Layers of My Onion Hatred
I realize the word hate is powerful and should be reserved for people and things that truly deserve such animosity. But saying I dislike onions doesn’t come close to my lifelong allium aversion, as I truly hate onions. This isn’t an allergy, and I never say or pretend that it is, but a personal preference/defense mechanism. As Kryptonite is to Superman, onions are to me and when I encounter one while eating, the mere presence of that potent, pungent, acrid, sulfury vegetable fills me disgust.
And yes, I realize onions are the foundation of so many dishes as well as a favorite topping, and when cooked—whether caramelized in butter, battered and fried, roasted, or pickled—can transform into a pleasingly aromatic, umami-rich experience, but not for me. Two smells that drift through my second-floor apartment windows each morning is the chemical-lemon smell from the porter cleaning the bar downstairs dumping the mop water out onto the sidewalk, and the stench of onions frying on the flat top grill of the corner bodega. I’ll take lemon-scented mop slop any day.
Every time I ask about the onion situation of a particular dish when I’m dining out with friends the same line of questioning takes place and always hits the same familiar beats like an Abbott & Costello routine. Once the server confirms there are no onions involved my dining companion will ask if it’s all alliums and then I’ll explain that’s not the case. Then they’ll ask about exceptions wanting to know about caramelized onions while rhapsodizing on their hypnotic smell and how they couldn’t live without onions. And then they’ll rattle off a list of queries on potential onion preparations like Bubba ticking off the endless options for cooking shrimp in Forrest Gump.
And their undying love of onions affects their long-term memory of my situation as this conversation plays out again and again with many of the same people who just can’t fathom there’s someone out there who doesn’t like onions. I was recently at Leo, the Williamsburg pizzeria, for a friend’s birthday dinner. It was a party of eight and after some shared starters three of their signature large New York pizzas graced the table. The plain cheese pie was at the far end of the table while two pies riddled with onions were placed directly in front of me. I managed to get a plain slice before that disappeared but semi-jokingly asked the birthday boy if he did this as a bit or if he was mad at me but he didn’t quite get what I was implying.
I spent the rest of the evening trying to avoid looking at the eye-level onions mocking me from their heightened pizza trays and just wishing everyone would eat faster so their remnants would be whisked away by our server. After we said our goodbyes I snuck over to the slice shop next door and grabbed two slices of potato pie to take home. My friend texted me the next day and asked about why I wasn’t eating much at dinner and I mentioned the offending onion-covered pizzas and he thought I was doing a bit the whole time.
My onion abhorrence must seem like a quirky affection to friends, and is likely the reason why a dear friend I’ve know more more than 20 years recently included a giant bag of Tim’s Cascade Hawaiian Kettle Style Maui Onion Flavored Potato Chips in an otherwise lovely Seattle care package. What may have seemed like a lovely bag of local potato chips landed like a bag of live snakes.
