Rapscallions

My father was an onion eater. Raw onions on sandwiches, on hamburgers, on salads. Diced and piled on the side with a plate of franks and beans. On dark bread, with chicken livers. Folded into a peculiar lunch dish he made for himself, sour cream and vegetables, which was what it sounded like: a bowl of chopped onion, carrots, celery, green peppers, cucumbers, mixed with lots of sour cream, preferably Breakstone’s, and eaten with a fork. Even then it seemed to me, young as I was but alert to any signs of otherness, to be a deeply rooted taste that he’d carried with him from the Bronx. Something of the Old Testament, of “we remember the fish, which we did eat in Egypt freely; the cucumbers, and the melons, and the leeks, and the onions…”

Scallions, on the other hand, were an onion of a different sort, acceptable, not ethnic, permissible raw. I particularly remember the relish plate, that soon-to-be-passe restaurant amuse of trimmed radishes, celery sticks, a few canned black olives and whole scallion stalks, served in a puddle of water on an icy cold glass dish. I emulated my father, who shook out a little pile of salt onto his bread plate, then dipped the tip of the raw scallion into it. The scallion tasted sharp, hot, salty and green, with a hint of a sulfurous aftertaste that caused you to burp. It tasted grown up, not wholly pleasant but intriguing.

And so I too became an onion eater, and it started with scallions—the gateway onion. They were great in tuna salad; my first seasoning. They wilted beautifully in butter for a simple, delicious omelet; my first aromatic. And they were my first garnish, too, adding a savory, piquant crunch when cut into little rings, white and green, and sprinkled over a bowl of Hormel chili. My father, who never really cooked, stuck with his onions, preferably Bermuda, the Vidalia of its day, but scallions got me going.

One by one other alliums took over. First shallots, then leeks, red onions for salad, the new varieties of sweet onions, so mild and juicy. Pain-in-the-ass pearl onions and the sexy ramp. Scallions became as old-fashioned as that relish plate. In markets, they had all the personality of a vegetable commodity, like celery or iceberg lettuce, dependable but boring, and outside of the occasional stir-fry I almost never used them.

But recently a few things converged, and scallions became, well, really interesting again. First, scallions are perfect in guacamole. After years of not finding the right oniony component—the white onions used in Mexican cooking are hard to come by, basic yellow storage onions are too strong, garlic in guacamole is foul—scallions are it, just sharp enough, just crunchy enough, and always available. Second, scallions on the grill—say no more: the fire makes them sweet and delicious, plus they look great with char marks. And third, encountering David Chang’s over-the-top enthusiasm for noodles with scallion-ginger sauce, which he calls the “mother sauce.” More of a condiment than a sauce, it packs a huge flavor—almost like eating a mouthful of raw onions with every bite. My father would have loved it:

Ginger-Scallion Noodles

Put a big pot of water on to cook your noodles—6 to 8 oz of ramen noodles if you can find them, or lo mein, rice noodles, linguine, whatever. In the meantime, chop two to four cleaned bunches of scallions—you want two-and-a-half cups—then a large knob of ginger, for a half-cup, and mix together in a bowl with a quarter-cup of neutral oil, one-and-a-half teaspoons of soy sauce, up to a teaspoon of sherry vinegar, and 3/4 teaspoon of salt. In my experience, the quantities of everything are flexible, so adjust to find the flavor you want. Let the sauce sit while the water boils, then cook your noodles, drain, mix, and serve. Garnishes are good here—chopped cilantro, a few pickles if you have them, any bits of roasted vegetables, more sliced scallions, a sheet of nori in classic Momofuku fashion. Slurping is encouraged.