The Red Onion

This is part of a monthly series I do over on Medium.

The first thing I remember about driving to Palos Verdes from our home as a child was that my ears would pop. It sits 1000 feet above sea level, and to get there, we would climb Crenshaw Boulevard. This north-south thoroughfare runs nearly 23 miles near the legendary University of Southern California and terminates at the Palos Verdes Peninsula. Our family outings would see our parents traversing the City of Angels - destinations near and far, in search of food and experience, which my mother deemed necessary to feed our souls.

Among the four cities comprising the Palos Verdes Peninsula, all have horses and trails, but Rolling Hills Estates (the one without gates) felt most like horse country back then. We would ogle at the horses and their riders on our way up the hill to the Original Red Onion restaurant, or the “RO,” as the entrance canopy indicates when you walk in.

The RO is one of those places covered in memorabilia, an assortment of bric-a-brac, and art, including an oil painting depicting its early days, with horses tied up in front of the restaurant. The horses aren’t in front of the restaurant now. But not much else has changed.

They call it Sonora-style Mexican food, after the Arizona desert where family matriarch hailed from. I call it “old-school” Mexican food, which is American-Mexican food. Whatever the dining landscape looked like in 1949, this cheesy goodness has won over the hearts and stomachs of Californians, as a red sauce enchilada or a fried taco with meat and cheese are damned near ubiquitous in Los Angeles. Save your authenticity argument for your food-snob friends. LA is a diverse place; if you want to find someone replicating food from one of the seven regions of Mexico, you can find it somewhere in our city.

That family matriarch was the current owner, Jeff Earle’s great-grandmother, Catalina Castillo, “who ran a dining counter for the miners and cowhands of the Sonora-Arizona border at the turn of the 20th century.” The first Red Onion Restaurant was opened in Inglewood in 1949 by Jeff's grandfather with his father, Bart, and his uncle, Don. Jeff’s father, Bart, opened the current and only remaining location in Rolling Hills Estates in 1963.

Today, the Red Onion is a busy place. It's like crazy busy. Go anyway. Park in the back and use the rear entrance to feel like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. Sit in the “cantina,” otherwise known as the bar. I prefer the communal table, which is first come, first served. This is where the good people-watching happens. Small booths surround the communal table and are adjacent to the bar, with a dozen or so stools. Octogenarians look amused, and parents in athleisurewear are irritated with the volume, which rises demonstrably between 6 and 8 PM. The ceiling is tall and open in the bar, and its walls are covered with sports memorabilia and a few televisions showing sports.

The head bartender is a gentleman named Jerry, who remains unflappable as he pours his popular version of a margarita. Even though it makes me sound like a Real Housewife, I prefer a skinny margarita, Blanco tequila, lime juice, and a shot of agave. I also have it with salt because it's probably bad for me, and I figure if you’re gonna go, go all the way. I also order it in a bucket glass (that is to say, rocks or old-fashioned glass) because I find a stemmed glass ridiculous, and I don’t prefer the tip of my Roman nose to hit the rim of those slight Margarita glasses.

The menu is filled with traditional favorites. I am a simple man, a taco and enchilada guy, but I have tried many of the dishes over the years, and all are solid. I even sat through a long day drinking session where one of my mates made us all order Chimichangas (deep-fried burritos) because they are the funniest Mexican food. You can forgo the Chimichanga and order the Mexican Pizza as a starter. It’s a nacho alternative and addicting.

If I have a complaint with the Red Onion, it’s the same one I have with most American-Mexican restaurants - the damned fajitas. I’ve sat in the RO bar and watched six or seven orders of fajitas fly past me, with their narcissistic smoke and self-aggrandizing showmanship.

Pro-tip for the backbenchers: They pour water on a hot and oil skillet to make smoke and parade it through the dining room. This is not meat from a grill so hot it's still smoking. It’s a party trick like when your Uncle Bob used to pull a quarter from your ear. That’s right, if you order fajitas, you’re a child.

In this age of zealous environmental regulation, I am confounded that these mutated dishes continue to be served to an ill-informed public. I can’t smoke a cigarette or a cigar, but I can smoke meat in the dining room? With this push for electric vehicles, why not smokeless fajitas? Do fajita lovers not care about Mother Earth? I plan to survey Tesla drivers who also order fajitas and publicly shame them.

The restaurant itself is a sprawling place. It’s dark and perfectly dated, and they just installed a new carpet (somewhat of an anomaly in today’s world). There are multiple distinct dining areas, some quieter than others. The dining area next to the bar is still lively and has a bit of a lounge feeling.

I remember sitting in that room at a table near the rear entrance with my friend Bill (RIP) when we were about 17 years old. We ordered Mexican beers, lowering our voices as we presented the fake IDs we had just procured from a shady store near 4th and Alvardo around Macarthur Park. These IDs were extremely high quality. They were laminated, so they felt stiff and about three inches thick. The waiter looked at us incredulously and took our IDs with him to go talk to the boss. Bill looked at me and said, “Run”. We hightailed it to the car and took off like felons. I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to Mr. Earle. Miss you, Billy.

Palos Verdes isn’t always the most hospitable of places. The roads are winding and the hills are steep. The Earth moves here, often. Sometimes the land buckles, and sometimes it just returns to the sea. The entire place on a peninsula, jetting out into the Pacific Ocean, daring nature to wash it away. Because it’s surrounded by water on three sides, yet the sun still sets in the West, over the ocean, no one here has any sense of direction. It’s insular and perhaps a bit intentionally unwelcoming.

But stepping into the Red Onion, is to make your way into the cloistered living rooms and backyards of some of the good people who live there. In its timeless and dimly lit corners, you can defying the fickle nature of trends and fads.

The Red Onion is so busy that it doesn’t need you. But if you want to connect with people and the past, if you want to ride that through line from the Sonoran desert to the Ranchos that became Los Angeles and on into the modern world, and find history and soul in a margarita, you just might just need The Red Onion.

The Red Onion

736 Bart Earle Way

Rolling Hills Estates, CA 90274

11AM-9PM Most Days

(310) 377-5660