69. The Boy Who Solved Vanilla

“Here Albius fertilized vanilla.” – Tribute to Edmond Albius, Saint Suzanne, Réunion.

We’re back! After a big move, which required the dismantling and relocation of the trusty recording studio (a.k.a. Diana’s closet), I’m excited to record in my new space! 

Next month is the show’s sixth anniversary – I know, right?!! – and I’m asking YOU to submit questions for a special listener Q&A episode. You can contact me right here. Otherwise, send me a question on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter! 

After my last episode about potatoes, I figured I’d follow up with a little dessert. Today, let’s learn about one of the most valuable and mysterious plants on earth, the dizzying journey it made from its native homeland to its most famous outpost, and the unlikely character who unlocked its secrets. This plant’s intoxicating flavor is so widely enjoyed, and so universally incorporated into dishes around the world, that its name has become a byword for the everyday and boring. This is extremely unfair, since we’re talking about one of the world’s most labor-intensive and delicate plants, the only edible orchid on earth. That’s right: this week, we’ll learn about the sultry secrets of vanilla.

Episode 69: “The Boy Who Solved Vanilla”

Edmond Albius, the boy who unlocked vanilla

Watch “Edmond’s gesture” in action in this video of vanilla hand-pollination, still used for the production of essentially all commercial vanilla in the world.

See the humble melipona bee, which naturally fertilizes vanilla plants in Mexico.

Transcript

Bienvenue and welcome back to the Land of Desire. I’m your host, Diana, and this is the show’s first episode ever recorded outside of a closet! Just in time for the podcast’s fifth anniversary next month, I’m finally settled into my new apartment, and I’m working out the kinks of recording in a new space. I’ll be ordering some more recording equipment to really set up the space, so I beg your patience if this month’s sound quality is below average. It sounded nicer when I was essentially recording an episode underneath a pile of coats, but it’s a little easier on your host to sit in a chair, you know? Before I jump into today’s episode, a quick announcement: next month is the fifth anniversary of this podcast! I know, right? I’m going to celebrate with a big of a mixup – it’s been a few years since I did a Q and A episode, and there are a LOT more listeners nowadays. Between now and the end of the month, please send me your questions – these can be questions about subjects discussed in previous episodes, questions about the podcast’s production, or even just questions about me. You can send me questions through Facebook or Instagram or Twitter, or use the contact form on the show’s website, thelandofdesire.com. I look forward to answering my favorites in next month’s episode! Okay. On with the show. Perhaps I love a theme, perhaps I’m just hungry, but this month I’m continuing the theme of curious French food history, but we’re moving as far away from the damp, gloomy soil of l’Hexagone and traveling all the way to the balmy shores of the Indian Ocean. We’ll learn about one of the most valuable and mysterious plants on earth, the dizzying journey it made from its native homeland to its most famous outpost, and the unlikely character who unlocked its secrets. This plant’s intoxicating flavor is so widely enjoyed, and so universally incorporated into dishes around the world, that its name has become a byword for boring. This is extremely unfair, since we’re talking about one of the world’s most labor-intensive and delicate plants, the only edible orchid on earth. That’s right: this week, we’ll learn about the sultry secrets of vanilla. In 1519, the Spanish conquistador Hernan Cortes reached the shores of Mexico. After an arduous journey into the interior, that November, Cortes and his straggling band of 250 Spanish soldiers reached the splendor of Tenochtitlan, (Ti-NOSHE-titlan) the glorious capital of the Aztec Empire. A city of gardens, floating out of a great lake, it must have appeared like something out of a dream. The emperor Montezuma allowed these pathetic strays inside his paradise, and walled them in near his zoos and gardens. For nine months, the Spanish fleet were simply another curiosity in the emperor’s collection. Invited to court, one of the Spanish soldiers observed another one of those curiosities: “a drink made from the cocoa plant, in cups of pure gold” which was “frothed up…and served with great reverence.” The xocoatl or “bitter water” was an extraordinary colonial triumph, a testament to the extent of Montezuma’s rule. Throughout the Aztec empire, territories paid tribute in the form of local produce. Xocoatl (SHO-coe-ah-ttle) was a mixture of these tributes: maize, honey, chili peppers, the cacao beans of course, and one ingredient which brought the whole dish together, a tribute from the Totonac people which they called xa’nat (CHA-nat) an orchid which grew wild in their forest-covered mountains. The Aztecs accepted the mysterious orchids and their beans, and used them in great quantities for their special xocoatl, but they had no idea how the Totonac people grew or harvested the plant. Once the Aztec empire fell, and Spain began its long age of colonial exploitation, they continued Montezuma’s practice of simply demanding vanilla beans, without ever acquiring the knowledge of their cultivation. Before long, vanilla made its way to Europe as part of the so-called Columbian exchange and became a favorite of the continental aristocracy. One early fan was the aging Queen Elizabeth I, who learned about the exotic bean from her apothecary. That same apothecary sent a few beans to a French botanist he knew, Charles de l’Ecluse, whose written description of the plant in his book is the first chapter of France’s history with vanilla. While the Totonac continued to refer to their local plant as xa’nat, the Spanish referred to the orchid’s dark fruits as “little pods” or “vainilla” – a word derived from the Latin vagina, and if you’ve ever seen a Georgia O’Keefe painting of an orchid, you’ll understand why. Despite the spicy etymology, “vanilla” didn’t really catch on until the 1650s, and by the end of the century “vanilla” made its debut in French law, as part of an edict saying that all vanilla not grown in France must be sold by specific merchants paying specific fees and bringing their cargo through specific ports. Well, unfortunately for French gourmands on a budget, there was no other kind of vanilla – simply all of the vanilla in the world came from Mexico. Scarcity and competition launched a centuries long quest to break Spain’s monopoly on the mysterious orchid – but she wasn’t giving up her secrets anytime soon. If you’re ever lucky enough you encounter a vanilla orchid in the wild, you probably won’t even realize it. Unlike its showier cousins, the vanilla plant is a rather unassuming vine which likes to drape itself over tree branches in humid mountain valleys. Its flowers are rather small, with whitish yellow petals, and the most identifiable thing about vanilla is utterly absent: a vanilla flower doesn’t smell like vanilla! It’s a nice floral scent, but nothing you’d associate with root beer floats or birthday cake. For the first two hundred years or so, all vanilla plants which made a live crossing of the Atlantic were basically just duds. Europeans were going greenhouse-crazy, and every horticulturist worth his stuff had a steamy shed on his estate where, at least theoretically, conditions ought to produce some beans. But it never worked! Even as the demand for vanilla grew and grew, Europeans simply couldn’t get the plant to do anything. It wasn’t until 1806 that an Englishman announced that his vanilla plant was, in fact, blossoming! The event attracted crowds, and that lucky plant would lay the groundwork for widespread vanilla cultivation. But in 1806, everyone squeezing into that sweltering greenhouse to look at these long-awaited blossoms had only one question on their mind: how do you turn the blossoms into beans? Though the Europeans didn’t realize it for many years, they’d failed to notice the Mexican vanilla plant’s best friend: the extra-tiny orchid bee. These humble heroes of Central America do the delicate work of pollinating vanilla plants in the wild. Bees rootle around inside the delicate orchid, covering their furry bodies with pollen which then shuffles off into the plant’s ovaries. The ovaries swell up into a familiar bean shaped fruit, each one containing thousands and thousands of tiny seeds. Without bees, Europeans were stuck with some pretty white petals and not much else to show for all their gardening. It would take another half century and a journey of 6,000 miles before the mystery was solved once and for all – by a very unlikely person. THE SPICE HUNTERS For three hundred years, spices ruled the world. An insatiable appetite for exotic flavors drove Europeans to every corner of the earth, where they’d go to any lengths to secure a reliable supply of some spice or another. It was high-risk, high reward stuff: spice hunting meant perilous sea journeys, pirates, and indigenous populations who didn’t feel like handing over the goods at the end of a gun. But the most dangerous part of being a spice hunter? Other spice hunters, of course. Competition was fierce, and nations were focused on the