LOS ANGELES -- 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 Barack 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 Mírate 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.

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 japaleño, the preferred pepper in mainstream guacamole? Jalapeño 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.

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.

Mexico City-Style Spicy Guacamole

Serves 2 to 4

It’s time to drop the tomatoes and onion from your guacamole, America, for good. This super-simple but spicy recipe is inspired by years of lazy Sunday afternoons spent on friends’ rooftops or patios in Mexico City, grilling meat and cactus paddles, pouring micheladas. Lots of busy urban professionals who nurse hangovers on weekends swear by this style. This isn’t a guacamole to use as a garnish — this is a centerpiece. It calls for nothing more than avocado, mashed garlic, diced serrano peppers, sea salt and lime juice. Maybe a bit of finely chopped cilantro on top. Use a molcajete or a mortar and pestle to better fuse all the flavors.

This guacamole will look deceptively like simple smashed avocado in a bowl, but after one bite, the heat and acid of its bare-bones ingredients might make you never again return to tricolor guacamole (or any of the infuriatingly ridiculous interpretations from social media). Use crumbled tostadas over store-bought tortilla chips or, with any tortillas sitting in your fridge, flash-fry your own and douse with coarse salt while still hot — the crunch of a fresh, warm chip under buttery avocado can’t be equaled.

Guacamole

4 ripe avocados

2 large garlic cloves

1 ½ serrano chiles

1 teaspoon flaky sea salt, or more to taste

Juice of 3 small Mexican limes

½ small bunch of cilantro

Tortilla chips

6 corn tortillas

Canola oil, or other neutral oil for frying

Sea salt

Make the guacamole: Halve each avocado and use a spoon to scoop out the fruit into a mixing bowl. Save the pit of one avocado and drop it into the bowl; I leave it in the guacamole throughout serving and storage to help slow browning.

--Mince the garlic and chile. Remove some or all of the seeds of the chile if you want the guacamole less spicy. Add the garlic and chiles to the bowl.

--Crush the sea salt lightly in a small molcajete or with a mortar and pestle; add to the mixture. Add the lime juice to the guacamole.

--Use a bean or potato masher to lightly press and combine the ingredients, or use a large molcajete.

--Transfer the guacamole to a serving bowl and garnish with roughly chopped cilantro. Serve immediately with baked tostadas or tortilla chips (see below).

Make the tortilla chips: Pour oil into a large skillet until it’s about 1 inch deep. Heat over medium-high heat until the oil is hot (to test, drop a small piece of tortilla into the oil; it should immediately sizzle.)

--Meanwhile, stack the tortillas and cut into wedges like a pizza.

--Reduce the heat to medium and drop the tortilla slices into the oil one by one so that none touch or pile on one another. Turn each chip individually after about 2 minutes. Allow chips to slightly brown on both sides before removing from oil. Place the chips in a colander lined with wax paper and give them a strong dash of sea salt before serving.

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