Onions Without Tears (Sep, 1947)
Onions Without Tears
WEEP no more, my lady. That greatest of all tear-jerkers, the onion, is now under control.
Ever since the first bold botanist gave the potent vegetable to the world, the imperious onion has remained unconquered. One jab with a knife and stinging tears would brim the eyes of the strongest man, the most careful housewife. Nothing was done for centuries. Mankind accepted the dictatorship of the onion, kept on peeling, and kept on crying.
Then came Harold Ganz and Lester Evans, courageous ex-dogfaces. They have finally made the onion cry uncle.
They have it all down to a neat science now in their plant in Brooklyn, N.Y. Bermuda type onions are first topped, cored, peeled and sliced. The rings are separated, dipped in evaporated milk, dusted with flour and fried in huge vats. When they reach a nice golden tint, they’re salted, wrapped in windowed packages, then frozen.
Huge fans keep the onion air at a distance, but, if a strong man does, somehow, get to weeping—that’s just an occupational hazard.
Maybe they suffer, but you don’t. All you’ve got to do is reheat the onions and stick ’em on a steak. There’s not a tear in a bushel.—Lester David.