How a 'Perfect' Vegetable Was Killed by Progress

The King's Promise vs. The Peasant's Plant

In 1593, King Henry IV of France made a legendary promise: that "no peasant... so poor that he could not have a chicken in his pot every Sunday." It was a noble pledge of abundance from a monarch to his people. But for 500 years, those peasants hadn't needed the king's promise. Their pots were already full, thanks to a different "Henry"—a perennial plant they called Good King Henry.

From the 12th century until the industrial revolution, this humble plant was a cornerstone of European survival. You planted it once, and it fed you for a lifetime. Why, then, did this incredibly resilient and nutritious plant completely disappear from our food system? The answer reveals that it was destroyed not because it failed, but because it worked too well.

We Traded a Nutritional Powerhouse for Weaker Greens

Nutritionally, it makes modern spinach look like cardboard.

For centuries, Good King Henry was the anchor of the cottage garden, a plant so valued that the Roman historian Pliny the Elder wrote of Emperor Tiberius demanding it as tribute from Germanic tribes. In spring, it sent up thick shoots that tasted like sweet asparagus. From May until the first frost, it produced an abundance of leaves that could be used like spinach, forming the backbone of medieval vegetable soups that sustained communities for much of the year.

Its nutritional profile is just as impressive. A 2022 analysis ranked Good King Henry higher than spinach, kale, and chard across multiple micronutrient categories. It contains more iron than spinach and more calcium than milk. Most remarkably, this superior nutrition came from a plant that required zero annual labor—no tilling the soil, no replanting, and no buying seeds every spring. It simply returned every year, a loyal and life-sustaining presence.

It Wasn't Killed for Failing, But for Working Too Well

Its greatest strengths became fatal flaws in the age of machines and profit.

The disappearance of Good King Henry wasn't a conspiracy; it was a consequence of progress itself. It was pushed aside by the very forces that defined the modern age.

The Machine Problem: Industrial agriculture began with inventions that demanded uniformity. Jethro Tull's seed drill (1701) and John Deere's steel plow (1837) were designed for annual crops planted in perfect, clean-tilled rows. Good King Henry, which grows in clumps and possesses a deep, tough root system that went down three feet, fought against this mechanical efficiency. Its roots held the soil so tightly they broke the plows. In the eyes of the machine, the plant's greatest strength—its resilience—became its fatal flaw.

The Business Model Problem: The second blow came from the rise of the commercial seed industry in the 1920s. Companies like Burpee, Ferry-Morse, and Northrup, King realised a fundamental truth: annual seeds create recurring revenue. A farmer who buys spinach seeds must return the next year for more. A perennial plant like Good King Henry, however, is a one-time sale. You plant it once, and your children could still be eating from it two decades later.

...self-sufficiency is the enemy of profit.

The Final Nail: The Green Revolution of the 1960s cemented this industrial mindset on a global scale. The promise of high-yield annual grains saved millions from starvation, but it came at a cost: total dependence on synthetic fertilisers, mechanisation, and annual replanting. Subsidised by governments and championed by universities, the annual system was no longer just an option; it became the only path forward, locking perennial vegetables out of our fields and our diets. By 1950, seed catalogs had quietly dropped them. They weren't removed for failing to feed people; they were removed because they were a bad business model.

Our Entire Food System Was Built on the Exception, Not the Rule

We bet the entire farm on the 6% of plants that destroy the soil.

The story of Good King Henry reveals a staggering imbalance in modern agriculture. While 94% of all plant species on Earth are perennial, they occupy only 13% of our farmland. Meanwhile, annual crops—the 6% exception—dominate 70% of global cropland.

We chose the exception and made it the rule.

The consequences of this decision define many of modern agriculture's greatest challenges. The constant tillage required for annuals leads to catastrophic soil erosion, exemplified by the American Dust Bowl of the 1930s. This system also leads to massive water loss, as the shallow roots of annuals lose up to five times more water than deep-rooted perennials. Finally, it creates a dependence on chemical fertilisers to replenish depleted soil and pesticides to protect vulnerable monocultures.

The Story Isn't Over—It's a Quiet Rebellion

You can plant this forgotten food today and opt out of the machine.

Good King Henry never truly went extinct. While tractors and commercial catalogs pushed it aside, it survived in the margins—in the gardens of stubborn traditionalists and in wild patches near old monasteries. Today, it is returning.

As we face the compounding crises of climate change, soil degradation, and water scarcity, the traits of perennials are being recognised again. The very qualities that made them "inefficient"—deep roots, permanent ground coverage, self-sufficiency—now look like keys to survival. The development of Kernza, the first commercially viable perennial grain, and a 2022 update to the USDA's conservation programs signal a growing recognition that our annual-based system is not sustainable.

You can be part of this revival. Seeds for Good King Henry are available online today. When you plant them, you will taste something most people have not tasted in a century—food that does not depend on a system. Planting it is more than just gardening; it is a quiet rebellion, a way to eat food that exists outside the industrial timeline.

A Promise Kept in the Roots

In the name of a narrow, mechanical definition of "efficiency," we traded a self-sufficient, soil-building food source for a dependent, destructive one. King Henry IV's promise of a chicken in every pot relied on a functioning economy. When those systems failed, so did the promise.

The other Henry—the plant—made a different kind of promise, one that asked for nothing and simply grew. It was a promise the world had forgotten how to hear, but as we face the consequences of our industrial choices, we are finally starting to listen again.

Some promises are made with words, some are kept in roots that refuse to die.

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