Daniel Marcello
The first thing Daniel says isn’t polite.
It’s honest.
“Most people are in sales to make money,” he tells us, almost annoyed by the idea. “I’m in it to give you a perfect car.”
We’re standing inside his shop in Brooklyn. Parts everywhere. Tools out. Half-finished stories resting on axles and frames. It looks chaotic in the way places do when the work matters more than appearances. Daniel actually apologizes for the mess, then immediately explains why it’s a good sign.
Less polish. More focus.
Daniel has driven hundreds of these things. Two hundred. Maybe four hundred. Different versions. Different eras. Different failures. That experience lives in his hands now. He doesn’t guess. He knows.
He builds one car. Not a category. Not a genre. One car, incredibly well.
People ask him to branch out. Other makes. Other models. New ideas. He says no without hesitation. Not because he can’t, but because he won’t compromise.
“I do one car incredibly well. And I’m fine doing that because it’s perfect.”
Perfect, to Daniel, doesn’t mean flashy. It doesn’t mean loud paint or trendy add-ons. His idea of beauty lives underneath the surface. In the chassis. The motor. The axles. The parts no one sees unless something goes wrong.
“That’s my bling,” he says.
He talks about other builders trying to reinvent what doesn’t need reinventing. Non-engineers engineering. Style over substance. Configuration over function. Daniel watched it all and quietly decided he could do better.
Not cooler. Better.
There’s a reason his cars look similar. Not because he lacks imagination, but because he’s already solved the problem.
“This is the perfect configuration,” he says. “You can change it, but you’re going to have a worse car.”
And Daniel refuses to hand someone something that will disappoint them later. He doesn’t want the phone calls. He doesn’t want the excuses. He wants the car to work. Every day. For families. For real life.
Push it ten to fifteen percent past original. Keep it simple. Keep it honest.
That philosophy runs deeper than the builds. Daniel talks about his future with the same calm confidence. He doesn’t want scale. He doesn’t want to sell the company. He doesn’t want to chase volume.
Even one car a year would be enough.
“This is my retirement plan,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I’ll do this the rest of my life.”
There’s something grounding about hearing someone say that. No exit strategy. No hustle pitch. Just responsibility.
If it fails, it fails on him.
Daniel Marello is the president of Brooklyn Coach Works, where he builds vintage Land Rover Defender restorations with a level of care that borders on obsession. Not because it’s trendy. Not because it sells.
Because in his head, the perfect version already exists.
And every build is his attempt to bring it into the world.