Why ‘the best’ has a grip on us

Photo by Thuong Do

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When I was last in Paris, I passed by Le Chocolat Alain Ducasse, widely considered one of the finest chocolate shops in existence—with a price tag to match. I detoured to Pierre Hermé and Ladurée for macarons and sorbet, picked up loose tea at Mariage Frères, the elegant purveyor of fine leaves since 1854. I consumed crepes at Breizh Café, particularly overjoyed by a dessert crepe drenched in caramel and Bordier butter—the Bordier butter, revered like dairy gold. Naturally, I made a pilgrimage to La Grande Épicerie de Paris to secure a brick of it.

I wasn’t just out to fill my stomach. I had a mission. A scavenger hunt of sort, for the best of flavors and reputations.

When I was in Florence some years ago, I spent an embarrassing amount of time wandering the cobblestones in pursuit of the “best” gelato, bypassing perfectly good (and perfectly empty) shops in favor of one that required a lengthy wait in a lineup that seemed to go on forever. Yes, we’ve all read the same reviews.

Photo by Katie Smetherman on Unsplash

This is a pattern. I’ve always had a tendency to chase down the best: the most unique cosmetics, niche perfumes unspoiled by mass appeal, Marvis toothpaste in exotic flavors, whichever sunscreen is whispered about on obscure corners of the internet as “the best-kept secret,” and so on.

At this point, you might be forgiven for thinking that I’m a snob. But that’s not quite what’s going on here.