The latest episode of Eat This Podcast explores why the tomato, first recorded in England in the 1590s, took more than a century to become an important food. The explanation offered was that it took a combination of factors: a somewhat warmer climate, the movement of people and culinary traditions caused by the Spanish Inquisition, and its connection with another New World crop, the chile pepper. Do listen to the episode, it’s a fascinating story.
What struck me most about it was how little of the tomato’s eventual success depended on technology. Sure, glasshouses and fermenting horse dung helped, but so did luck and recipes.
Today, discussions about agricultural diversification often emphasize research, breeding, seed systems and value chains. The recent paper on the Vision for Adapted Crops and Soils (VACS), for example, lays out an ambitious roadmap to transform Africa’s Cinderella “opportunity crops” through investment in breeding, seed delivery, agronomy, markets and policy support.
There is much to admire in that vision. Many neglected crops undoubtedly suffer from decades of underinvestment. Better varieties, better seed systems and better market access could surely make a substantial difference.
Yet the tomato’s history offers an interesting counterpoint.
The tomato did not become a success in England back in the early 1700s because somebody developed an improved variety. It did not require a major breeding programme. It was not the product of a coordinated development initiative. Rather, its rise seems to have depended largely on changes in climate, cuisine and culture. People learned how to use it. They incorporated it into recipes. It found a place within evolving food traditions.
In other words, the tomato became important because food systems adapted to it, not because the crop itself was somehow transformed.
This is not an argument against VACS. Rather, it is a reminder that technological interventions are only part of the reason why crops become successful. History suggests something else is needed too.
The tomato spread because it became embedded in dishes that people wanted to eat. The chile pepper may have played a role in that process, helping to create new flavour combinations and culinary traditions in which tomatoes made sense.
For some of Africa’s opportunity crops, the principal constraint may well be genetic improvement. For others, however, the limiting factor may lie elsewhere. Middle-class consumers may not know how to prepare them. Urban markets may not value them. Food processors may not see commercial opportunities in them. In such cases, the most effective intervention may not be a breeding programme but a chef, an entrepreneur, a recipe book or a social media campaign.
The VACS paper rightly argues that there should be “no romance” about opportunity crops. But perhaps there should also be no assumption that technological tweaking is always the decisive factor.
The history of the tomato suggests that crops can sometimes become important without being substantially “improved” at all. What matters is whether societies discover compelling reasons to grow, sell, cook and eat them.
That is a useful reminder that agricultural diversification is ultimately as much a cultural process as a technological one. Though we could probably do without the Spanish Inquisition.