Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot: Travels in Cannes, Monaco and St Tropez by Devanshi Mody
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Chateau de la Tour
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The parties worth recounting are, obviously, the star parties.
On the day of Paris Hilton’s party, I am in the party organiser’s office. The secretary receives a call. Paris has run out of shampoo. Get some ASAP. The shops are shut. Commotion. Can’t she use hotel shampoo?! Try the pharmacy. What brand? Preferably a good one – these stars are like that.
“That girl’s a pain!” wails the secretary. “Since her arrival in Cannes, I haven’t had a spare minute – not even for lunch. These stars are such unpleasant, selfish people! They might smile and smile but…”
The evening commences at the South African gala with the yummiest desserts. People have come only to eat and are hitting either the MTV or Paris Hilton party to drink.
The MTV party is usually one of Cannes’ hippest. But this year, it is a washout. Due to rain, tables in the villa gardens are re-located inside. The villa is sensationally decorated, but there is too much crowd, carnage, chaos and no food (this is the biggest complaint). I bump into a friend who has flown from London just for the MTV party and is flying back immediately after. Oh dear, all that effort for this?
I head for the raging Bâoli nightclub. People queue hours to enter because the snooty bouncers favour friends. But the club is breathtaking, music superb and cocktails – nothing like them. I can understand the bouncers’ arrogance.
The Diane Kruger party, in the famous Villa Babylone, is delightful. And Diane herself, sublime. In a princess-like gown, walking around bare-foot, she is a flawless beauty. No wonder she played Helen of Troy.
The Penthouse party, in a tacky villa, is full of the English. The champagne runs out in half an hour and there are but crisps to nibble. Student parties at Oxford were more lavish.
Chopard’s Fête Noire at the Carlton is sheer decadence. Everything is black from décor to tables to dishes to dinner (black truffles on black bread, black risotto, black current fiesta dessert). Sharon Stone is Chief Guest, but Eva Herzigova reigns. Unlike most stars, she is accessible and friendly. The fashion show, fantastic music and energetic dancing makes the Chopard party a veritable bash.
After the Chopard party, people dash to the Star Wars party at Bâoli. The ice sculptures of Star Wars figures leave one cold and dry. But George Lucas is magnificent.
At the Carlton beach is the brief but beautiful Valentino cocktail party with beautiful people in beautiful dresses.
Later that evening is Cannes’ snazziest party: the Grisogono gala at the famous Eden Roc Hotel where the stars stay. After the €250/head sumptuous supper and a dazzling fireworks display, guests and stars waltz, jive, disco, samba until 5.00 am.
Another day, Naomi Campbell celebrates her birthday at the VIP Lounge, Palm Beach Hotel’s stunning disco. She proves elusive. Speculation is that she is with her boyfriend in St Tropez and not coming. But Naomi is not quite classy enough to throw a party and not turn up for it – she’s there briefly and looks stunning.
The rest of the crowd is lousy. A New York celebrity plastic surgeon gives me his card and invites me back to his room. I decline. He asks for his card back. The party is a disaster – as expected. Everyone complains. The complaints are interrupted only during the brief Brazilian dance show.
After the Campbell party, I join the great exodus to Monte Carlo for the Grand Prix and miss the D&G party in Cannes the next day. Hear it was a bash. Shame…But I go to a Monte Carlo party at the hilltop Villa la Viggie overlooking the Bay. This is where Karl Lagerfeld has shoots and parties. 50 exclusive guests preside and Dom Perignon flows nightlong, while London’s best barmen are imported to make exquisite cocktails.
The next day, I am chatting to the director of Graff at the boutique. Her secretary is making table-plans for the Graff banquet. I overhear the guest list: Roger Moore, Ivana Trump, the Duke and Duchess of …the Count and Countess of…
Most invitees are arriving with friends whose numbers usually change at the last moment. How easy to gatecrash and pretend one is some Count’s friend. No wonder an alarming number of gatecrashers systematically infiltrate these parties for free food and champagne using fake invitations, press badges, camera equipment etc. Understandably, people look alarmed when you say you are a journalist.
On the eve of the Grand Prix, Russian oil tycoon Abramovich’s party on the biggest yacht of Monte Carlo Bay is the highlight. The guests are too exclusive to mention, except for the customary gatecrashers, but the champagne and caviar are in superabundance. What a feast.
Grand Prix day one spends at the Hotel de Paris – where else? One lavishes €1000/head on lunch and as much on champagne, watches the cars whiz by and gossips about Naomi’s party. “So over-hyped.” “She only served Moët and some crumbs to eat.”
The jet set is ruthless.
That night, everyone hits Jimmy’s, one of the world’s most expensive nightclubs where Albert of Monaco hangs out. The immense nightclub throbs as Formula One racers who have been abstinent before the race go wild.
The following day, I lunch at Robuchon’s and dine at Ducasse’s. One cannot leave Monte Carlo without that. Robuchon’s restaurant, on the terrace of the newly refurbished Hotel Metropôle, resembles a Florentine villa. Exquisite. The meals are fit for a Medici. The potato puree, Robuchon’s speciality, is memorable. The constantly changing décor this time sports Grand Prix colours, black and white, as do the dishes and delectable desserts.
Le Louis XV at the Hotel de Paris is Alain Ducasse’s first and possibly most famous restaurant. It’s a sumptuous setting, with twelve waiters and eight courses over four hours.
I am advised which type of bread (there are about 12 varieties) with which type of butter best complements the course I am on and the wine I am having with it. That evening I realise that once one has had Ducasse’s asparagus, one cannot eat them elsewhere.
A must-do also is spending a day getting pampered at the sprawling spa of the Hotel de Paris.
After the frenzied festivities of Cannes and Monaco, one must relax in idyllic St Tropez. Byblos is the place to be. Inaugurated by Bridgit Bardot, the legendary hotel is a haven for stars and the jet set. Architecture and décor integrate various Mediterranean styles: Italian, Greek, French, Moroccan, and Lebanese.
This world heritage hotel, with a splendid collection of antiques, is a veritable oasis of luxury and calm, unless you are rocking at Les Caves du Roy – the hotel disco, undoubtedly St Tropez’s best. But the VIP and Papagayo on the port are also happening nightclubs. Indeed, the latter organised Marcio Garcia’s party in Dubai.
It is worth visiting La Mistralée, a charming boutique hotel in the old house of Alexander de Paris, the famous coiffeur of royals and celebrities. Each of its 10 rooms is unique: the Chinese suite, Moroccan room, pretty pink Chanel room etc. The place is very relaxed.
St Tropez has an abundance of restaurants. But lunch must be at its only gastronomic restaurant, Lei Mouscardins. The glass-encased, elevated restaurant on St Tropez Port has a breathtaking view of the Bay. I still fantasise about the starter, a wonderful pea soup with almond cream. And the dessert – rose ice cream with a lychee concoction – impeccable.
M Tarridec (owner and friend of Alain Ducasse) says, “Il faut en demander un autre.” So I do. And yet another. With multiple glasses of Piscine (a large coupe with champagne and ice, the St Tropez speciality). For my appreciation, M Tarridec flies me back to Paris.