Pre-kid, my wife and I road-tripped around France eating “breakfast canelé.” There’s no such thing, it’s just canelé and it’s her favorite French pastry. We bought a huge box of 16 in Bordeaux and we couldn’t let them go to waste. Every morning we savored our daily allotment for breakfast until we had to resort to licking the crumbs (ok, that was just me with the crumbs).
Years earlier, when we started dating we found a bakery in Downtown LA, Bottega Louie, that sold them. She was thrilled. I took one look and thought, that's a weird little pastry. Then I bit into it and I got it.
If you haven't had one, canelé is a small, ridged pastry. Egg yolks, vanilla, a healthy splash of dark rum (the Dominican stamp of approval), baked extra dark and crusty on the outside, soft and custardy on the inside. But the best ones in the world are 3,600 miles away in Bordeaux. They’re tricksy to make and nearly all bakeries that try miss the mark. I can count on four fingers the number of times I’ve found a good one.
A decade after that road trip I bought a French bakery and canelés weren't on the menu or even on my radar.
Then a client asked for them and I thought, why not? Our head baker happened to be from Bordeaux, grew up making them, and had an authentic recipe. He was willing, but he also dropped his voice and issued an ominous warning: "You need real copper molds, and they’re expensive!"
I bought a few molds to experiment. His recipe was incredible. It took time and many ruined batches, but we eventually dialed in the process to make small batches to sell at farmer’s markets.
People who know canelé loved ours. Even at $6 each, they flew off the table. People would buy them six at a time to share with friends. Repeat customers showed up early just to make sure they got theirs before we sold out.
We had a great product for people like my wife who recognized it, but what about people who had no idea what this weird little pastry was? Nobody in New York is out there talking about the best canelé. Nobody, I googled (AI mode) it.
In Elf, Buddy walks past a rundown diner with a neon sign in the window that reads "World's Best Cup of Coffee." He bursts through the doors, claps enthusiastically, and yells, "You did it! Congratulations! World's best cup of coffee! Great job everybody!"
I laugh every time I see that scene. I get the joke, Buddy didn’t. Claiming "World's Best" has no credibility and erodes, not builds, trust. I didn’t want that worthless neon sign under my tent.
When customers came to my farmer’s market table, I made a different claim. "This is our canelé. I'm really proud of it. I think it's the second-best canelé in New York City."
And then I’d shut up.
Of course, everyone asked the exact same question: "Okay, so who's first?"
"I'm not going to tell you," I’d say. "Go find it and report back." One customer tried to corner me: "Which borough?" I leaned in and whispered, "Manhattan." Now she had an entire borough to explore and a conversation to remember.
There’s an undeniable pull to claim the crown of “first.” You think it grants you authority that it simply doesn’t. A sign on a wall is just a sign, it can say anything you want it to. It’s why claiming first doesn’t build anything but a desire to prove you’re wrong.
Everyone in New York searches for the best pizza, the best croissant, the best whatever hyper-specific thing New Yorkers love to argue about. There are countless published and fiercely debated lists for those. But there was no "Best Canelé in NYC" list. I wanted that list to exist. If a definitive list came out and we were number two, or even number ten, we won. Because the list existing meant the category mattered. And when a category grows and I’m in it, I win. I win because I’m in the debate.
Most people want to claim the crown. I’d rather have the courage to build the kingdom and be in the conversation.
What’s your claim?
Disclosure: I write these posts. AI helps me edit them.