One Ring to Rule Them All

Onion rings in the Twin Ports

Robert Lillegard

It’s hard to start an essay about onion rings. It’s not that everything has been said already, that the cognoscenti have wearied of this overplayed hors d’oeuvre. Quite the opposite. Far from being a tired topic, the sweet golden ring seems a stranger to the literary world. Plato didn’t argue it on the steps of the Academy. Marx didn’t cast it in terms of class struggle. Even the illustrious Dickens, who penned more than a dozen novels, had no room for the noble snack. In the shadow of the guillotine, Charles Darnay wasn’t allowed a fried onion; of the things Oliver Twist was deprived of, onion rings surely stand out. It’s true, the ring wasn’t invented until around 1910. The point is that hundreds of generations never tried the crispy ring, never knew its melting delights.

And so, the problem is not that too much has been said. The problem, rather, is that so much remains to be told. Who am I, to sing its praises? Who am I, to speak of bright, soft onion, of the crispy richness of fried dough? And yet, I must speak out. All it takes for bad food to triumph is for good men to do nothing. I speak, then, the voice of revolution: give me onion rings, or give me death. As long as you don’t eat them for breakfast.

In fact, you may wish to avoid them for lunch and dinner as well. For among all the many virtues that the onion ring has, healthiness is not to be found. A single serving of rings can have hundreds of calories, most of them from fat. Mustard is a zesty dipping sauce, and ketchup is a sweet delight. But the glory of a king is his crown, and the glory of an onion ring is its blue cheese dipping sauce. Thus enrobed, the ring is majestic—proud and fat, the Lord of the Calorie.

Consider Fitger’s Brewhouse, that sanctuary by the lake. Light plays with shadow over low tables, while patrons murmur appreciatively over their burgers and beers. Chili is an old friend, and milkshakes are a cheery surprise, but the best sits before you. Your mouth waters at the sight—perfectly-formed rings, a deep golden brown, the sweet smell of grease. With soft onion, light notes of oily cornmeal, and the tangy zip of beer, this is crispy perfection.

Or look to Grandma’s Restaurant. In the kitchen, large, sweet onion slices wait nervously. Like victims of a bizarre hazing ritual, they are dunked into tub after tub of egg wash, flour, and beer batter. But with the strength of true survivors, they emerge stronger than ever. A crunchy shield of panko breadcrumbs is as light as it is rich-tasting, and the onion beneath is coy and melting.

From Aces on 29th to Gronk’s, there are plenty of places to go for onion rings in Duluth~Superior. But the best place is the Pickwick, a restaurant as old as the onion ring itself. These rings are massive, heavy in the hand and substantial in the mouth. The onion itself is soft and sweet, and the batter is a singular delight. The crumbly dusting of grain is like a thin, crackling crust of Saltines, and the occasional gooey pocket tastes like a Hush Puppy.

The last time I had onion rings at the Pickwick, winter was dragging towards its end. It was a restless season. Thousands were losing their jobs, soldiers were falling in Afghanistan, and outside, the sky was a bitter shade of blue.

But at the bar, things were safe. Glass chinked with glass amid the low rumble of speech, and warm smells drifted from the grill. I bumped into my friend’s sister, and a guy I knew from high school walked up. They told me they were dating. We babbled happy nothings at each other—so wonderful for you two! Say hello to your sister! It was oddly moving, a happy moment of recognition in an anonymous world.