Time in office
April 4, 1841–March 4, 1845 (sworn in after the sudden death of President William Henry Harrison)
Vital Statistics
Born: March 29, 1790, in Charles City, VA
Died: January 18, 1862, in Richmond, VA
Political Affiliation
Elected as a Whig
First Bite
Tyler’s fondness for champagne was well-documented—and on February 28, 1844, it may have saved his life.
THE MAIN COURSE
John Tyler was Virginia planter royalty, through and through.
Born into wealth and raised on a plantation in Charles City County, he grew up on the seasonal cooking of the Southern gentry— corn and wheat, cured pork, local game, oysters, and rich puddings he never once considered growing out of. Woodcock and wild duck were table regulars, champagne flowed freely, and there was a custard pie so beloved it eventually earned the ultimate culinary flex: getting named after him. Tyler wasn’t a fussy host. He cared about good food and good company, not impressing anyone with the silverware.
Tyler’s love of champagne was no secret—he once wrote to his daughter that he was “very fond” of the stuff. And in one of history’s weirder plot twists, that fondness may have literally saved his life.
On February 28, 1844, Tyler boarded the USS Princeton for a celebratory Potomac cruise to watch the ship’s flashy new cannon, the “Peacemaker,” fire off. While everyone else filed up to the deck for one last shot, Tyler lingered below with better company: his food, his champagne, and good conversation. Moments later, the cannon exploded, killing several prominent officials, including Secretary of State Abel Upshur and David Gardiner––father of Julia Gardiner, whom Tyler happened to be quietly courting at the time. Tyler’s decision to linger over food and champagne accidentally put him in the safest place on the ship.
Tyler married Julia four months later, and with only eight months left in office, she gave the White House menu a glow-up. His first wife, Letitia—who died of a stroke during his term—had always kept things simple. Julia did not do simple. She’d picked up a taste for elaborate ceremony in European high society, and the dinners that followed got bigger, richer, and considerably fancier: roast ham, venison, wild duck, cakes, puddings, Madeira, champagne. The wedding breakfast alone read like a barnyard roll call—omelets, spring chicken, pigeon, woodcock, salmon, beefsteak, kidneys, young duck. And somehow, through all the upgrades, Tyler’s beloved custard pudding never lost its seat at the table.
Tyler’s actual food policy was a lot less fun than his dinner parties, but it had its own kind of comedy. He’d spent decades warning that protective tariffs only enriched industrialists while impoverishing farmers, practically building a personal brand around hating tariffs. Then he became president, vetoed tariff bill after tariff bill on principle… and then, with the treasury running on fumes, signed the so-called “Black Tariff” anyway — the exact kind of protectionism he’d spent his whole career roasting. Consistency: optional, apparently. He did get one petty little victory in: He repealed Van Buren’s beloved Independent Treasury, tossing out his predecessor’s pride and joy practically the moment the door closed behind him.
When his term ended, Tyler packed it in and went home to Sherwood Forest Plantation—same crops, same kitchen, same champagne, like the last four years had just been a very eventful field trip. His presidency had delivered grief, scandal, a literal explosion, and a second marriage that briefly made his table the fanciest in Washington. But the story always circled back to Virginia, where Tyler spent his remaining years with Julia and their children, eating the food that shaped him long before he ever set foot in the White House.
Try it at home
Tyler Pudding Pie
With just “two teacups” of sugar, this humble, mildly sweet custard pie turned up in a handwritten family cookbook and for almost two centuries has been tied to Tyler’s name.
