It seemed like such a simple, noncontroversial idea: Come up with a plump, juicy tomato in the middle of winter rather than being left with those green, flavorless things that have the texture of wet cardboard. What could possibly be wrong with that?
Nothing at all, if it weren't for the fact that we're not talking about your run-of-the-mill tomato. You see, this tomato has been genetically engineered, and if that sci-fi-sounding notion gives you a case of the creeps, you're not alone.Calgene Inc., which plans to test- market its enzyme-altered Flavr Savr tomatoes later this year, has found that years of research and development are child's play compared with the prospect of convincing skeptical consumers that the company's amazing new product is both safe and worth the money.
Ably channeling the skeptics is consumer activist Jeremy Rifkin, whose Pure Food Campaign has raised doubts about the safety and ethicality of genetically altered foods. "We believe there are legitimate concerns that require further review," said Ted Howard, the group's executive director.
While Rifkin's views are a bit extreme (he argues that some day animal genes could be spliced into plants, thus violating natural law and upsetting Jews who keep kosher), he's touched a nerve. So much so that Calgene recently asked the Food and Drug Administration to review its alteration in the way the government would a food additive. The FDA doesn't require biotech food to undergo such a process, but given the hubbub, any official ruling might validate Calgene's claims that their tomato is as safe as the next guy's.
So far, there's little, if any, indication that these are killer tomatoes. In fact, some biotech experts suggest that the genetic alterations are relatively minor and not unlike the more typical breeding methods.
Here's a Mr. Wizard-like primer: All tomatoes have polygalacturonase - or PG - an enzyme that causes them to soften on the vine. Tomatoes are picked when they are green and hard, before PG kicks in, to avoid being ruined during shipment. They are then treated with ethylene, which causes them to turn red but doesn't revive the flavor that's lost by picking them so prematurely.
Calgene essentially prevents the rotting stage to begin by creating a mirror image, or antisense, of the gene that produces PG. Thus, growers can wait until the tomato turns red - and flavorful - without worrying that PG will cause the tomatoes to spoil before they make it to market.
As part of this process - and about the only thing critics have been able to grab on to - Calgene uses another gene that makes the altered cells resistant to the antibiotic kanomycin. There has been some speculation - but no proof - that the gene could make people resistant to the antibiotic.
In the grand scheme of food, this seems like pretty tame stuff. Consider the number of chemicals a typical American eater takes in day after day, especially if the diet is heavily processed. (Perhaps you don't want to consider it.) Even foods like peanuts or mushrooms could cause fatal allergic reactions. Despite these and other risks, it's amazing that most people remain so nonchalant about their eating habits.
But when an item is described in bold headlines as "genetically engineered," you can expect a backlash. That's a scary sounding phrase. Already, some have dubbed Calgene's product, "Frankenfood."
It's not only that scores of prominent chefs, led by Wolfgang Puck, don't want any part of it. "You don't really know what it is," said Puck, who prefers a naturally produced tomato for his glitzy Los Angeles restaurants. (Restaurants around the country are displaying a boycott symbol indicating that genetically engineered foods are not served.)
It's not only that the Campbell Soup Co., which helped fund development of Flavr Savr, has no plans to use the tomato unless there's a clear consumer demand - not a likely prospect. It's not even public opinion surveys that show little enthusiasm for biotech foods, especially among women.
If anything really crushes Flavr Savrs, it will be the bottom-line realities of price and taste. Tomatoes that are 50 to 75 cents a pound more expensive than the old-fashioned kind and only somewhat more flavorful will be a tough sell. (Taste tests have elicited decidedly mixed reviews.)
You can imagine how they're fretting over at based Calgene, which has been a money-losing proposition over each of the last six years, and like so many fledgling biotech companies, desperately needs a successful product. But the stakes here are even higher, for if Calgene's souped-up tomato can't make it, other biotech concerns preparing ever more exotic fare might soon discover an extremely limited market.
Too bad. But perhaps just as well.