It's time to drop tomato and onion from your guacamole, America

By Daniel Hernandez

Food Editor

Photography by

Myung J. Chun

Feb. 5, 2025 3 AM PT

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Avocado, tomato, onion and lime juice are the core ingredients of guacamole in the U.S.
Because tomatoes and onion are almost entirely water, I propose subtracting them from guacamole.
Let’s lean into unapologetic, assertive flavors. Totemic taste notes. Heat.

Food editor Daniel Hernandez in the kitchen.

Like many in Southern California, I grew up eating guacamole the way it is made almost everywhere in the United States, from Tex-Mex joints to West Coast margarita houses. The basic ingredients of avocado, tomato, onion and lime juice have defined the Mexican American style. Chile and garlic are also present in most cases but (in an often spice-sensitive culture) not always.

These are the core ingredients familiar to millions of people who eat guacamole from chains like Taco Bell and El Pollo Loco, or at American classics like the Original El Cholo on Western Avenue, which uses a recipe dating to 1955.

With such a universal standard ingrained in our minds, it shouldn’t be surprising that this food can get people really riled up. At the same time, we’ve been altering and experimenting with guacamole almost since the beginning, and definitely in trail-blazing California.

U.S. home cooks have such an affectionate view of guacamole that they go ahead and indulge their most ridiculous whims with it. The great peas-in-guacamole controversy of 2015 that drew in President Obama is part of a chain of rage-fueled social media incidents sparked when an unusual ingredient goes viral and is declared sacrilegious. I am not anti-innovation in general, but sometimes it feels like audacity and chaos are the primary goals.

Today, Mexican or Alta California fine-dining chefs have made guacamole a canvas for experimentation. And that’s good for L.A. There’s celery in chef Josef Centeno’s guacamole at Bar Amá, though it’s barely perceptible, and Mexican furikake in the “Smashed Avocado” at chef Josh Gil’s 惭í谤补迟别 in Los Feliz, which overall is nice. At Damian, chef Chuy Cervantes offers a deep bowl of guacamole with serrano chile and olive oil that’s hidden below a layer of airy herbs.

All of these expressions are effective in their own ways, part of the pops of surprise we expect when dining out. But at home, and for this weekend’s Super Bowl, I’m proposing another route for your guacamole: subtraction. If we remove two ingredients that are considered holy to guacamole’s base, we may chart a course toward another state of ancient avocado nirvana.

It’s time to drop the tomatoes and onion from the guac, people.

Ingredients for Daniel Hernandez' spicy guacamole.

Why subtract these seemingly core ingredients? It’s because tomato and onion are almost all water, about 90% to 95%. When in contact with the avocado, tomato and onion start turning a bit sad and soggy in a matter of minutes. Once I realized this on observation, a lightbulb went off in my head that I’ve never turned off.

I get it that the ingredients equal “festive,” introducing the red and white needed to invoke Mexico’s tricolor national flag. But it’s 2025 and Donald Trump is back in power, declaring a trade war against our closest allies and economic neighbors — the vibe has definitely shifted from Cinco de Mayo dorkiness. Let’s focus on the avocado as much as we can; the cost of avocados from south of the border could actually skyrocket if Trumpian tariffs go into effect to punish imports.

No, for the next four years, let’s lean into unapologetic, assertive flavors. Totemic taste notes. Heat.

Intensify the chile and lime, dial up the garlic, get liberal with the sea salt and make a guacamole that will have people’s eyes popping at any game or gathering. Use a volcanic-rock molcajete or mortar and pestle to smash the fruit and serve, perhaps with a pinch of cilantro chopped on top.

The metropolitan influence

I picked up this way of making guacamole years ago, via my closest friends during the chunk of my life I spent in downtown Mexico City. I’d be hanging out on lazy weekend afternoons, on someone’s rooftop or patio, or at home in Colonia Juarez, listening to the symphony of the streets.

We’d grill meat and nopal paddles and make an easy, super-spicy guacamole — practically with a beer in one hand the whole time. On many occasions, it was the go-to hangover snack. Sunday scaries haunted less.

Each time I’ve shared this guacamole since moving back to Los Angeles, the gathered go a little nuts about it.

Why serrano and not japale?o, the preferred pepper in mainstream guacamole? Jalape?o is a bit too dark in color for this guacamole, and too meaty in texture. Plus, serrano seeds have a more aggressive heat profile, and the chile’s smallish size makes it ideal to slice into penny-size discs for a final bit of garnish. Why garlic? With its inherent bite, garlic for me is key, clearing the nostrils and complementing the pepper.

Serrano peppers being sprinkled into a bowl of guacamole.

There’s a folk custom I picked up from friends to help prevent the oxidizing of the avocado, which causes browning, passed down from grandmas even if science doesn’t support it — place the first pit of the fruit that you halve inside the smashing bowl and keep it there throughout serving and storing. This guacamole tightly stored may keep two or three days with a pit in it. When in doubt, add more lime. Or add lime after opening a stored portion of this guac to wake it up after a day or so.

Accompany best with baked tostadas like botaneras, as is custom in central Mexico, or with homemade tortilla chips that are hilariously easy to flash-fry and somehow make any guacamole taste 10 times better.

Whatever you do, consider weaning off mass-produced tortilla chips. The invariable staleness of manufactured chips that are not just-made will clash with the freshness of your guacamole’s flavors. Tortilla chips made in-house at Mexican supermarket delis may also suffice.

You can make warm, salted cantina-style tortilla chips by quickly frying a batch using any tortillas hidden in the back of your fridge. Once you do, you’ll never skip this step again. Fresh-fried tortilla chips are a worthy accompaniment to the new centerpiece of your party: a hot, limey guacamole fit for an Aztec holiday — or a semi-barbaric professional sporting event 500 years into the future.