Like a compelling painting, the onion has many layers.
First, there is the obvious. The papery, translucent skin is pure white or coppery, sometimes dusty aubergine. Below the skin and quite accessible are tight, concentric spheres. Slice an onion and the spheres disengage, rolling this way and that like a child's plaything. There is nothing fun, though, about the tears that come from a pungent sliced onion. (Blame the tears on sulfuric compounds.)
Beyond the physicality is the amazing alchemy of the onion. The raw power is quelled and can turn sweet when held to heat.
For all its supposed fire and spice, this aromatic root vegetable can be a subtle partner that blends easily into many cuisines. Paint it with garlic, tomatoes, eggplant, thyme and basil, and create Mediterranean ratatouille. Paired with black beans and cumin, the onion goes Latino. Silky smooth French beurre blanc sauce is created by mixing the deceivingly assertive shallot with white wine, whipping cream and butter.
Probably no other ingredient, with the exception of salt, has such an amiable personality. Onions, though not as flashy as artichokes or as high profile as broccoli, are the kitchen's workhorses, adding flavor, texture and nutrition to dishes.
If we only had a quarter for every time we've read a recipe that began with, "saute chopped onion until soft." Nevertheless, we are rich because we have the onion to call upon in all seasons.
Besides sauteing and stewing in soups, onions can be grilled and caramelized to great satisfaction. Caramelizing onions brings out the sweetness some of us never knew they had. Over medium heat, cook 1/4-inch slices in melted butter and oil for 30 to 40 minutes, stirring regularly. To grill onions, cut in wedges and thread on skewers. Brush with olive oil and grill over medium-hot coals, turning occasionally until tender, 16 to 20 minutes.
Julia Child once said that "it's hard to imagine civilization without onions." Average Americans must agree, because each eats 18.1 pounds of onions a year. The National Onion Association, in Greeley, Colo., keeps track of such numbers, as if this essential ingredient needs a PR agent.
The country has 1,200 onion farmers tending 145,000 acres, most of them in Idaho, Oregon, Washington and California. About 75 percent of the acreage is yellow onions. U.S. onions find their way to Canada, Japan, Mexico and Taiwan, contributing to the annual retail worth of $3-billion to $4-billion.
The darling of the South is the Vidalia of Georgia, with its relatively short spring-summer season. People claim that Vidalias are so sweet, they can be eaten like apples. Maybe, but they are better in smaller bites and sublime when cooked.
Last year's crop was hampered by bad weather, but this year's is more plentiful. The Vidalia is probably the most famous of the sweet onions, which include Walla Walla, Maui and Texas. Sweet onions are a good choice when the onion is the star of the dish, not simply background music.
But day in and day out, the onion is best at playing second fiddle. Raw onions cause stomach upset for some people, and rank breath is a nasty aftereffect of overindulgence. Even when cooked, a large chunk can be a mouthful.
Still, beyond grilled onions on hamburgers or onion tarts laden with cream and subtle cheese, we wanted to find a dish in which the onion would be perfectly cast as the lead.
One of the most famous onion showcase dishes is the cocktail sandwich developed by legendary cookbook author and culinary instructor James Beard in the 1950s when he was a New York City caterer. Paper-thin sweet onion slices are layered on round slices of brioche or challah. Mayonnaise is spread on the edges, which are then rolled in finely chopped parsley. The sandwiches should be chilled three hours or even overnight.
A pale cocktail, such as a gin and tonic or a gin or vodka gibson, a martini dressed with a pearl onion rather than green olive, would be a civilized accompaniment.
England's Jamie Oliver, whose Naked Chef pseudonym reflects his earthy cooking style rather than his sartorial selections, offers a smashing recipe in his lastest cookbook, Happy Days with the Naked Chef (Hyperion, $34.95). He's not shy about extolling the virtues of the dishes, having the guts to name it World's Best Baked Onions.
We don't know about world's best, but they are brilliant, as is his recipe, which calls for a "couple of handfuls of grated Parmesan cheese." His imprecision speaks to his philosophy of cooking as tactile pleasure.
White onions the size of tennis balls are peeled and boiled for about 15 minutes. After they are cooled, about an inch is lopped off the top, chopped and sauteed with garlic in olive oil. Add some cream and the handfuls of grated cheese. More of the onion is scooped out and the filling plopped inside. The killer ingredient? A stole of bacon wrapped around the outside, which sizzles and pops and imparts flavor as the onions bake.
The filling and bacon are for everyone, and the rest of the dish is for onion lovers. The layers go all gushy and translucent, flavored so slightly by the bacon.
