A canelé is a small French pastry flavoured with rum and vanilla with a soft and tender custard centre and a dark, thick caramelized crust. It takes the shape of a small, striated cylinder up to five centimetres in height with a depression at the top.
Well, that is how Wikipedia describes the local delicacy in Bordeaux. I would describe it as a small, slightly sweet, slightly rubbery, nodule. We had the pleasure of a long weekend in the city recently and you could not move for the things, shops selling them seemed to be on every corner, so it looked as though it was more of a challenge not to buy some then to actually get hold of a pack of the things. I’m sorry to say, moreover, that while there is much to enjoy about Bordeaux – not least the wine, but beyond that it is an interesting and pretty city, well worth visiting – eating canelés is not going to be one of my highest recommendations.
I was not really that impressed, and nor was the Lovely Wife, which when it comes to the subject of cake means it really was not doing well when even she did not think much of it.
I’m sure that lots of people love them, and that is just fine. I’m not having a go at anyone’s favourite sweet snack.
However, I do find it funny that quite often local ‘delicacies’ fall a little short of expectations. So much so that I immediately get a little suspicious now if someone insists ‘oh, you must have [Insert name of proposed food nirvana] if you are going to [Insert origin of proposed heavenly morsel]’. Because, it is going to be disappointing. At best. At least that is my experience most of the time. Except possibly eating Leitao (suckling pig, apologies to the non-meat eaters) in Portugal, which was indeed delicious, but maybe the exception proves the rule.
Living up to expectations does seem to be a struggle, but perhaps the problem is that anything that is truly unique to a region or city is almost certainly by definition and acquired taste. If I had grown up with canelés as part of my diet I would probably love them, and even more, miss them terribly when living away. I know that on the occasions I have lived abroad for any length of time what I miss are things I think of as very British; good ale and cider, marmite, prawn cocktail crisps etc.
Or rather perhaps I get nostalgic about such things as actually I always feel like immersing myself in the food culture of anywhere I go so it is more about the idea of things I cannot get rather than salivating at the thought as I’m chomping through my noodles.
Maybe it is an unconscious protective mechanism. After all, if I had fallen in love with the canelé last weekend then it would have been a source of some disruption if the only place I could get the things would be Bordeaux (although I am sure that one of those ubiquitous little shops would have been happy to ship them to feed my new-found addiction to rum flavoured French pastries). So, I’m setting myself up to go ‘yeah, glad a I tried one, but probably never again’. Because I will try anything (food wise) once, having been brought up in the ‘at least try it’ tradition by my dear parents. Well, Mum at least, who was always keen to try new things, while Dad would look on in horror, bless him. His answer when asked what he wanted for dinner would inevitably be ‘steak and chips’ – which might have been a running joke, but he also meant it.
I do not think he would have thought much of the canelé. But I did have some nice duck in Bordeaux too, and at least he would have approved of that.