By Joel Denker

Once dubbed the “stinking herbe,” coriander has fallen into and out of favor. Native to the Mediterranean, the herb, both its tangy leaves and earthy, citric seeds, has attracted flavor seekers from Asia to Latin America.

Coriander, whose seeds were unearthed in the tomb of the Egyptian King Tut-ankh-Amon’s tomb (perhaps an offering), is an ancient herb belonging to the carrot family, a group that includes parsley, anise, dill, fennel, and cumin. These plants have a common characteristic, a cluster of flowers that looks like a “parasol,” food expert Harold McKee observes. Pinkish flowers bloom in umbels on the plant, which can shoot up to two feet. Coriander, which thrives in warm, dry weather, also has the distinctive feathery greens of its species.

“The best coriander, as is generally agreed, is the Egyptian,” wrote Pliny, the Roman botanist. The plant, which grew wild along the Nile, perked up many dishes. Recipes from Alexandria call for squash to be spiced with pepper, coriander seed, and cumin and for grilled fish to be prepared in a sauce made from wine, pepper, raisins, and the herb. The Egyptians also infused wine with garlic and coriander to enhance its potency.

Coriander was an invaluable medicine and tonic. The feverish in Egypt, scholar Lisa Manniche points out, were advised to add it to a lukewarm bath to cool their brows. Coriander, Pliny said, worked as “an antidote for the poison of the two-headed serpent both taken in drink and applied…. Spreading sores are also healed by coriander with honey or raisins…. [I]t is also taken in drink with rue for cholera. Intestinal parasites are expelled by coriander seed.”

Egypt’s neighbors, the Israelites, were familiar with the herb. The Book of Exodus in the Bible likened coriander to manna: “And the House of Israel called the name thereof Manna; and it was like coriander seed, white.” In Biblical times, the herb was commonly placed on the Passover table.

The Romans warmed to the Egyptian spice. Coriander seeds were already being sold in Pompeii’s shops in the first century A.D. Egypt’s conquerors baked bread fragrant with coriander seeds and prepared a piquant sauce from the herb to go with oysters.

Coriander was also thought to promote health and energy. Roman statesman Cato urged the ill to eat the green leaves to awaken their appetite.

Another ancient empire, the Persian, was a heartland for coriander. The Persians, who revere herbs, invigorate rice dishes and stews with its leaves. A verdant omelet, a “kookoo,” is filled with the aromatic leaves. It is one of the festive dishes of the Persian New Year.

The Chinese borrowed coriander from an old trading partner, the Persians. Yuan cai, or “fragrant vegetable,” was esteemed for its spiritual powers. Eating the seeds with a pure heart was a path to immortality. Anticipating the views of many modern health experts, the Chinese believed that coriander could soothe a turbulent stomach or intestine. It was also used as a remedy for ptomaine poisoning.

In the East, other civilizations were also captivated by coriander. In India, the 19th century English botanist George Watt observed, “the leaves are eaten by natives like a vegetable.” The ground seeds are an essential ingredient in the masalas, the Indian spice blends that add fragrance and heat to chicken, lamb, lentil, and vegetable dishes. Aromatic leaves decorate curries and are blended into chutneys.

Thai cooking would also be unimaginable without coriander. In Thailand, where the herb may have arrived from China, soups and salads are redolent with its leaves. Aurai, the chef at Sala Thai Georgia Avenue, explained to me that coriander seeds are ground into Thai curry pastes. Coriander roots also add their aroma to these spice mixes. Her restaurant, Aurai lamented, must make do with “Chinese coriander” rather than the Thai variety. She misses the superior herb of her homeland.

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Coriander arrived with the Roman armies that invaded Britain. English cooks adopted the spice, seasoning steak, kidney, and oyster pie with it. Bakers made bread fragrant with coriander seeds.

The English and other Europeans sought new ways to capture the alluring aroma. After banquets, hosts offered their guests confits, sugar-coated coriander seeds and other spices, as digestifs. The French extracted oil from the seeds to make Eau de Carnes, which served both as liqueur and cologne.

Medieval Europe had fallen in love with coriander, cumin, saffron, cloves, and other Oriental spices. Chefs imitated the spice-laden recipes recorded in the cooking manuals of the Arab empire, whose leaders ruled from Baghdad between 750 and 1250 A.D. “Put the meat in the oil . . . with fine-milled dry coriander, and fry lightly until browned,” one recipe read. “Then cover with water, adding green coriander leaves, cinnamon bark.”

By the end of the 17th century Europe started to sour on spices. Coriander, once so revered, was now the object of disdain. In 1597, the English herbalist John Gerard called it a “very stinking herbe” with leaves of “venomous qualities.” Writing about the same time, the French writer Olivier de Serres was similarly dismissive: “[I]ts leaves, rubbed between the hands, smelled like stink bugs.”

Commentators, anthropologist Helen Leach argues, seized on the origin of the herb’s name to disparage it. Coriandrum, its Latin name, came from the Greek word for bug, koris. A 19th century vegetable manual made the connection between the offensive odor of the spice and its etymology explicit: “Some writers say the leaves are used for seasoning but this statement seems odd, as all the green parts of the plant exhale a very strong odour of the wood-bug, whence the Greek name of the plant.” But was this the reason the Greeks and Romans used the word. More likely, anthropologist Leach contends, those who already disliked the spice were looking for a justification.

Modern cookery authors have gone even further, likening the smell of coriander to that of the bedbug. Margaret Visser notes that “the green leaves of coriander are said to smell like squashed bed-bugs.” Herbalist Allen Patterson was struck by how similar the two fragrances were: “. . . the herb’s sweet, cloying smell is as close as one is likely to get to that traditionally distinctive odour.”

In a television interview in 2002, author Julia Child added her voice to the chorus of disgust. She told Larry King: “Cilantro and arugula I don’t like at all. They’re both green herbs, they have kind of a dead taste to me.” Asked if she would ever order it, Child responded: “Never. I would pick it out if I saw it and throw it on the floor.”

In a recent article, food science expert Harold McGee contends that the coriander revulsion may not be so irrational after all. Molecules responsible for the plant’s scent, he points out, are also found in bugs and in soaps and lotions.

A new generation of cooks and diners has rediscovered the delights of coriander, or should I say, cilantro, its now-popular name. Cilantro evokes the inimitable fragrances of Thai and Mexican food, not the unpleasant stench the older name conjured up.

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To learn more about herbs like coriander, see The Carrot Purple and Other Curious Stories of the Food We Eat, Rowman & Littlefield: https://rowman.com/ISBN/9781442248861/The-Carrot-Purple-and-Other-Curious-Stories-of-the-Food-We-Eat.