Ban on tomatoes

Once upon a time, in the grand halls of European aristocracy and the muddy farms of colonial America, there was a quiet but passionate ban on tomatoes. Yes, the tomato — that luscious red fruit we now merrily toss into our salads, smear across pizzas, and turn into questionable supermarket ketchups — was once the pariah of the produce world.

Imagine the scene: a well-to-do gentleman in 18th-century England sitting stiffly at his heavily adorned dinner table. He eyes the strange, shiny orbs someone had dared to put in the salad bowl. Whispers ripple across the room. Were these not the fruits of the deadly nightshade family? The same clan responsible for witches’ potions, mad kings, and mysterious cases of people keeling over mid-supper? Better safe than sorry. Plates are pushed away. Servants are instructed to remove the offending objects immediately. The ban on tomatoes is in full, paranoid swing.

The tomato’s affiliation with the Solanaceae family was its first big mistake. Nightshades had a bit of a PR problem already — belladonna, for instance, had a long and glamorous career causing hallucinations, paralysis, and death. So by the very scientific principle of guilt by botanical association, tomatoes were lumped into the “probably deadly” category. Logic at its finest.

To make matters worse, the practicalities of 18th-century dining did the tomato no favours. Pewter plates were all the rage back then, not because they were particularly good, but because silver was for kings and porcelain hadn’t gone global yet. Pewter, tragically, contained a hefty amount of lead. When the acidic juice of a tomato hit the plate, a bit of chemical mischief happened: the acid leached the lead out, infusing every juicy bite with a generous serving of slow, excruciating death. People got sick, some died, and the tomato — poor, innocent thing — got all the blame.

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, colonists in North America weren’t doing much better. They saw the tomato’s glossy skin and unnatural vibrancy and immediately decided it looked far too exotic to be safe. After all, anything that red had to be a warning sign. Best stick to good, honest apples, or, if you’re feeling wild, some corn.

Of course, not everyone subscribed to the tomato slander. The Italians, ever the culinary rebels, started warming up to it as early as the late 16th century. Somewhere in Naples, some unsung hero took a risk, sliced up a tomato, threw it on some flatbread, and changed history forever. But even in Italy, acceptance was a slow, suspicious process. It took centuries for the tomato to move from “weird foreign berry” to “national treasure.” If you’ve ever had proper pomodoro sauce, you might agree it was worth the wait.

Back in England and America, the tides began to turn thanks to a curious mix of bravery, ignorance, and culinary desperation. By the early 19th century, a few daring souls decided to live dangerously and actually eat the things. One notable story features Colonel Robert Gibbon Johnson of Salem, New Jersey. Legend has it that in 1820, he staged a public demonstration where he stood on the courthouse steps and gobbled down a basket of tomatoes while the horrified townsfolk clutched their pearls and waited for him to drop dead. When he miraculously didn’t, the tomato’s street cred skyrocketed overnight.

Of course, it wasn’t an instant love affair. Some folks clung stubbornly to their fear, mumbling dark warnings about “tomato fever” and “stomach curses.” But gradually, the allure of that bright red fruit wore them down. Recipes started popping up. Stewed tomatoes, tomato pie, tomato soup — comfort foods born from the ashes of old superstitions.

Meanwhile, science finally showed up to the party, probably a little tipsy and wearing its wig askew, but better late than never. By the mid-19th century, people understood that it wasn’t the tomatoes causing mysterious illnesses; it was the delightful practice of eating lead with every meal. Once pewter plates fell out of favour and hygiene improved, the tomato began its unstoppable march toward culinary world domination.

Even so, the tomato never quite shook off its air of danger. It retained a whiff of rebelliousness, a hint of the forbidden. The Victorians, with their fondness for anything faintly scandalous, adored it. The French, ever quick to embrace things that other people fear, took tomatoes into their kitchens with a flourish and never looked back.

By the 20th century, the tomato was starring in everything from Italian-American spaghetti feasts to Depression-era ketchup sandwiches. It fuelled debates about whether it was a fruit or a vegetable, a question so divisive it made its way to the U.S. Supreme Court. (Fun fact: legally, in America, it’s a vegetable. Botanically, it’s still a fruit. Bureaucracy, everyone.)

Fast forward to today, and the idea of a ban on tomatoes sounds like something out of a dystopian novel. You can hardly find a menu without some variation of “heirloom tomato salad with artisanal goat cheese” or “tomato-infused balsamic reduction.” Supermarkets offer tomatoes in every size, shape, and colour imaginable, from tiny yellow cherries to monstrous beefsteaks. There are entire festivals, like Spain’s La Tomatina, dedicated solely to throwing them at each other with wild, tomato-smeared abandon. Imagine explaining that to an 18th-century English lord. “Good sir, in the future we shall hurl these deadly fruits at one another for merriment and sport!”

The tomato’s journey from feared poison to everyday essential is one of those historical ironies that make you wonder what other “facts” we’re getting spectacularly wrong today. Maybe one day we’ll find out kale is actually plotting our demise from the inside. Or that quinoa was a brilliant joke played by Peruvian farmers on the rest of the world.

One thing is certain: the tomato has well and truly had the last laugh. It has outlived the aristocrats, outshone the naysayers, and become the backbone of cuisines that span the globe. Pizza without tomato sauce? Inconceivable. No tomato in your BLT? Barbaric. A world without marinara? Frankly, not a world worth living in.

In a way, the tomato’s history mirrors humanity’s relationship with change. We eye the unfamiliar with suspicion, we invent wild stories to rationalise our fear, and eventually, with a little bit of courage and a lot of accidental survival, we embrace the new until we can’t imagine life without it. It’s a cycle as old as civilisation itself.

So next time you bite into a juicy tomato, whether it’s perched atop a gourmet burger or peeking cheekily out of a summer salad, spare a thought for its rocky past. Toast to the stubborn cooks, brave colonels, and fearless Italians who defied the ban on tomatoes and paved the way for our modern culinary pleasures. Maybe even stage your own dramatic courthouse demonstration, just for the sheer historical absurdity of it.

After all, it’s not every day you get to honour centuries of botanical scandal with something as simple and glorious as a tomato sandwich. Just make sure your plate isn’t made of lead, yeah?