Hole lotta fuss

Some hungry customers began queueing outside the pastry shop about 3.30am. Others managed to keep their taste buds at bay for a few more hours, arriving at the patisserie about 6am.

They were all united by a desire to sample the food craze that has gripped New York since its debut a month ago. Half doughnut, half croissant, the ''cronut'' has left the Big Apple's gourmets in a frenzy.

By the time the Dominique Ansel Bakery in the heart of trendy Soho opened its doors to the public at 8am, the slavering customers were at breaking point. Within the hour, every cronut available had been sold.

The bakery's owner, Dominique Ansel, says the crowd reflected the typical pattern since the May 18 launch of the the cronut, a food sensation powered by social media. On the first day, 50 were sold. The next day 100 flew off the shelves, within 20 minutes.

Since then the bemused pastry chef has become accustomed to queues of 150 to 200 people winding down the street before the bakery has opened.

Ansel settled upon the idea of the cronut after deciding he wanted to create a hybrid pastry that would be instantly recognisable as a marriage of French and American food cultures.

His revolutionary confection offers the delicate puff pastry of a traditional croissant shaped into a round doughnut, which is then deep-fried, filled with cream, rolled in maple sugar and coated with a light glaze.

It's soft yet crunchy, light and delicious, say the cronut's devotees.

Ansel, regarded as one of the most talented pastry chefs in New York, says settling upon the cronut recipe was a painstaking process. ''It took me about two months to perfect the recipe,'' he says.

It is so perfect that Jessica Amaral, 30, thought nothing of leaving home at 3am to get in line. The two cronuts she is buying are a treat for her husband to mark the couple's eighth wedding anniversary.

''I am the idiot,'' she says. ''I read online that people were arriving at three … The others started to arrive at five. It's my eighth-year anniversary, I thought it would be nice for my husband.''

Just behind Amaral in the queue stands Steven Go, a chef who arrived from his home in Staten Island shortly after 5am, at the behest of his wife. Justin Gorder, a 30-year-old salesman, travelled an hour from New Jersey.

Irvin, a trader, bashfully admits he should already be at work. Meanwhile, Gina arrives in a taxi at 6.30am, clutching her four-month-old baby.

To satisfy the largest possible number of customers, patrons are restricted to two cronuts each. At first, customers could snaffle six at a time, but Ansel restricted it to two after discovering the cronuts he sold for $5 each were changing hands on the internet at up to $50 a piece.

At 8am, the wait is over. Ansel flings open the doors and welcomes his first customers. By 8.56am, almost all of the roughly 250 to 300 cronuts available have been sold. A bakery employee distributed madeleine pastries, advising people who arrived at 7am they had a ''40 per cent'' chance of satisfying their craving.

By 9am, Ansel breaks the bad news to those outside his shop who have missed out. ''We are sold out for today,'' he says.

Inside, about 20 people wait anxiously to snap up the final cronuts on sale. A crafty customer offers to sell his place in the queue for $100. His offer is accepted by two friends who delightedly come away with two cronuts each.

Immediately behind stands Jessica McCord. She is furious, but consoles herself by opting for a kouign amann, the Breton cake that is a house specialty.

Meanwhile, Irvin, late for work, hungrily devours his cronuts. A young woman prepares to take her prized pastries, nestling in a golden case, to share with work colleagues.

McCord is disappointed to have missed out, but the experience will not deter her. ''We'll be back,'' she sighs.