Before ketchup became America’s favorite fry dip, it was marketed as a miracle drug. In the early 1800s, physicians touted tomato-based concoctions—including ketchup and “tomato pills”—as cures for everything from indigestion to baldness. The story is a reminder that wellness fads have always been, well, saucy.
The tomato’s medicinal reputation began with Dr. John Cook Bennett, an American doctor who declared tomatoes a “panacea” in 1834. Bennett claimed tomatoes could treat diarrhea, cholera, and even “bilious fevers.” He partnered with an entrepreneur named Archibald Miles to create “tomato pills,” compressed extracts sold as cure-alls. Ads promised relief from headaches, rheumatism, and “humors of the blood,” sparking a tomato-mania that swept the U.S.
Ketchup, then a thin, fermented sauce made from fish brine or mushrooms, got a tomato makeover. Pharmacists rebranded it as “Dr. Miles’ Compound Extract of Tomato,” bottling it as a health tonic. The logic? Tomatoes were rich in vitamins (though vitamin science didn’t exist yet) and looked vaguely like hearts, which 19th-century quacks interpreted as a sign they could treat heart disease. Spoiler: they couldn’t.
The craze peaked in the 1840s, with tomato pills sold at pharmacies for 50 cents a jar (about $18 today). But the scam unraveled when customers realized the pills were just dried tomato paste with laxative additives. Bennett and Miles faced lawsuits, and the tomato cure-all bubble burst. Ketchup, however, survived—not as medicine, but as a condiment.
The shift from drug to dinner staple came thanks to entrepreneurs like Henry J. Heinz. In 1876, Heinz added sugar and vinegar to ketchup, masking its bitter medicinal taste. By 1900, it was a kitchen staple, with ads emphasizing flavor over fake health claims. The “tomato pill” era faded into obscurity, though modern ketchup still bears traces of its medical past: early recipes included opium or coal tar for “potency,” because nothing says “healthy” like a side of narcotics.
Today, the idea of prescribing ketchup for scurvy seems laughable, but the tomato’s journey from cure-all to condiment mirrors modern wellness trends. Replace “tomato pills” with “kale supplements” or “celery juice,” and the script feels eerily familiar. As one historian noted, “People have always wanted to eat their way to health—even if it means pretending ketchup is a multivitamin.”
So, next time you squirt ketchup on a burger, remember: you’re enjoying a relic of medical history. It may not cure your ailments, but at least it won’t claim to. Unless, of course, you count curing bland fries as a public service. In that case, Dr. Bennett’s legacy lives on—one squeeze bottle at a time.
