The humorous noun fartichoke, which denotes the Jerusalem artichoke, is a blend of fart, denoting a flatus expelled through the anus, and artichoke in Jerusalem artichoke, denoting the edible tuber of a species of sunflower, Helianthus tuberosus, native to North America.

The noun fartichoke refers to the flatulence caused by eating Jerusalem artichokes.

The earliest occurrences of the noun fartichoke that I have found are as follows, in chronological order:

1-: From Ubu Rex, published The Ubu Plays (London: Methuen & Co. Ltd, 1968), by the French author Alfred Jarry (1873-1907)—translated by Cyril Connolly and Simon Watson Taylor:

CAPTAIN MACNURE. Well, Mistress Ubu, what succulent dishes have you prepared for us today?
MA UBU. Here’s the menu.
PA UBU. That’s right up my street.
MA UBU. Polish broth, spare ribs of Polish bison, veal, chicken and hound pie, parsons’ noses from the royal Polish turkeys, charlotte russe . . .
PA UBU. That’s enough, I should think. Is there any more?
MA UBU. Ice-pudding, salad, fruit, cheese, boiled beef, Jerusalem fartichokes ¹, cauliflower à la pschitt.
PA UBU. Hey, do you think I’m an oriental potentate, shelling out all that money?

¹ In the original French text, Ubu Roi ou les Polonais (Paris: Édition du Mercure de France, 1896), Alfred Jarry simply used the plural noun topinambours, translating literally as Jerusalem artichokes.

2-: From the column Bad Housekeeping, by ‘Dulcie Domum’ ², published in The Guardian (London and Manchester, England) of Saturday 14^th March 1992:

It seems that Fanny, destined to arrive in Auchtereekie this afternoon, will be delayed in Berpsover. Wonder if I have been a little too harsh on her. Perhaps I shall give Gertrude food-poisoning. Too many truffles and fartichokes in the shade of the cedar tree. Serve her right.

² ‘Dulcie Domum’ was the pseudonym used by the British author Sue Limb (born 1946) in her column Bad Housekeeping.

3-: From The Arizona Game (London: Chatto & Windus Limited, 1996), by the British author Georgina Hammick (née Heyman – 1939-2023):

Someone who introduced himself as Brian put his bald head round the door and said supper was ready. Diarmid’s flatmate. I’d not been warned about Brian.
We ate the supper in the kitchen-diner, where there were chairs to sit on. We had artichoke soup, which Brian called fartichoke, with croutons and cream; afterwards lamb chops with a shiny, sharp sauce, baked aubergines, and potatoes boiled in their skins; then Brian’s home-made ice cream.
Over the soup, Brian told me he was a freelance cook, and he described the pricks he had to cook for and the dreary, pretentious menus he was always being asked to provide for boardroom lunches.

4-: From In praise of prunes, by Maureen Tatlow, published in The Sunday Tribune (Dublin, County Dublin, Ireland) of Sunday 17^th January 1999:

PRUNE … The word alone is guaranteed to raise a snigger, especially if said in an arch tone and with a raised eyebrow. And if they had ever got around to making Carry on Cooking, you can be sure that Prruuunes would have lingered on Kenneth Williams’ lips time and time again. Poor little prune. What did it ever do to deserve the ignominy of being a sure-fire trigger for lavatorial humour? You’d have thought Jerusalem Artichokes would have been a better candidate—not for nothing do some people (in only the most polite circles you understand) refer to those roots fondly as Jerusalem Fartichokes.

5-: From Simply Divine (London: Headline Book Publishing, 1999), by the British author Wendy Holden (born 1965):

Amanda placed the daube on the table, along with a bowl of what looked like grey mashed potato. Jane’s heart sank. Oh no. Of all things in the world she could never digest.
‘Artichoke, Jane?’ asked Amanda, digging into, and lifting, a huge chunk of the mixture and dolloping it in a heap in front of her. Fartichoke, thought Jane. They never had agreed with her. She looked warily at the grey pile on her plate. It had all-night stomach problems written all over it.

6-: From a story that the Canadian chef Nathan Fong (1959-2020) told about the U.S. cooking teacher and author Julia Child (née McWilliams – 1912-2004), published in The Vancouver Sun (Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada) of Wednesday 14^th August 2002:

She’s known for her wit and sharp humour, and when someone asked her about Jerusalem artichokes that were on display, she said she liked them, except that they gave her gas. After stunned silence all round, she added: “Perhaps they should rename them ‘fartichokes.’” Everyone broke up.

7-: From The Guardian (London and Manchester, England) of Saturday 24^th May 2003:

The Pedant in the Kitchen
French snootiness about root vegetables can be explained through etymology, says Julian Barnes ³
How beetroot got itself out of a pickle
[…]
The French have always had an unbalanced, indeed snooty relationship with root vegetables. They find exaggerated virtue in the turnip; on the other hand, I have yet to meet anyone in France who has knowingly consumed a parsnip. A Frenchwoman recently told me that she had never eaten a Jerusalem artichoke, let alone a swede, but had heard of wretched people being reduced to gnawing on them during the war. This is confirmed by Richard Olney’s Simple French Food, which has a couple of recipes for turnip, but none at all for parsnip, Jerusalem artichoke, swede—or, for that matter, beetroot. Elizabeth David, in French Provincial Cooking, notes fleetingly that parsnip is “used in very small quantities as a flavouring vegetable for the pot-au-feu or for soups.”
Maybe it’s something to do with the words themselves. “Swede” sounds more edible, sort of half-mashed already—in English; whereas le rutabaga is a chewily indigestible mouthful of phonemes. Ditto le topinambour, whose outsides happen to contain the word tambour, drum, thus seeming to hint at the timpani-bursts of colonic venting that a really forceful Jerusalem artichoke gives rise to. The “Jerusalem” part—while we’re on the subject of misleading etymologies—doesn’t refer to any supposed place of origin, but is a mishearing of the French girasole ⁴, sunflower, which is generically related to the fartichoke.

³ Julian Barnes (born 1946) is a British author.
⁴ In fact, the French noun is girasol, from Italian girasole, sunflower, from the Italian verb girare, to turn, and the Italian noun sole, the sun.