La Ponche

Push open the door and you understand immediately why Françoise Sagan came here to write. Ochre walls, cement tiles, light falling across the bay through the back window, nothing has shifted since the 1950s, and thank God for that. The kitchen moves with the morning catch: line-caught sea bass, rock mullet, baked bream with a thread of oil from the Baux valley. Come at noon. Ask for the table by the stone wall, the one where Romy Schneider used to sit. Order the plat du jour and a glass of rosé from Pampelonne, Thomas, the sommelier, will steer you toward whichever domaine is singing that season.