Nobody told the Roux family that their petit auberge , with its wonky little rooms and wooden tables, would become the most sought after in the south of France. It just happened. Take Jerry Hall and Rupert Murdoch. They were accompanied by a single, discreet security chap with a little black bag β containing not a gun, suggested some fellow guests, but a defibrillator. Je ne sais quoi slipped away a decade ago anyway when Hotel du Cap, once the epitome of Riviera grand luxe , finally surrendered and began to accept credit cards.
During the Cannes film and television festivals, chauffeurs drop off producers, directors and celebrities for discussion over lunch; by nightfall the terrace is sparkling with fairy lights and diamante.
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Throughout the rest of the year, everyone else comes for the art, which is unique. Upstairs in rustic rooms you can wake up in a four-poster under Chagall, Bompard, Yves Klein, more Calders.
All of it. Three generations ago, Paul Roux, farmer turned innkeeper, encouraged some new customers to mix with his local paysan clientele at the bar. They were artists, congregating in the area to capture the light or escape postwar Paris. He accepted payment from them in cash or on canvas, building a collection of artworks as well as making new friends.
His own enthusiasm for art found expression too β his vibrant still lifes adorn the walls and menus. Word spread: the bar was the place to be. Picasso was here, Matisse, Chagall. It became the hot spot for a postwar jet set. Yves Montand, Truffaut and Jean-Paul Belmondo were soon joined by Sophia Loren and Orson Welles β all relaxing and getting drunk with artists, the demi-monde , the peasantry!
