'Just old money, new money, showbiz money and me' – the Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc returns from lockdown to welcome back the rich and famous
The place was purring once again to the rhythms of the rich. It had been doing so for 150 years. It had form. This was the Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc, for heaven’s sake – the most exclusive hotel in Europe, top five most expensive. Everyone you have ever heard of, from George Bernard Shaw to Nicole Kidman, has been embraced by this Riviera outpost of opulence – Kidman, it must be said, looking a great deal more suitable than the skinny, bearded and be-trunked Shaw.
As it reopened after lockdown last week, the Cap-Eden-Roc picked up the purring seamlessly. From the guy on the gate (shades, earpiece, only momentarily fazed by the approach of a clapped-out, 12-year-old Peugeot) to general manager Philippe Perd (“Lovely to see you again,” he said, doubtless mistaking me for Matt Damon), from the sandy-suited concierges, their politeness polished to a sheen, to the wry, dry bar manager toting Bellini cocktails, the creation of a plush and well-ordered world appeared complete.
It was quite a performance, for these had been harrowing months even (perhaps especially) for those serving the super-loaded. Earlier this year, the Cap-Eden-Roc had been coasting towards its 150th anniversary as hub to high-rollers, the sparkly sorts who have long coated the Côte-d’Azur in luxury, licence and legend. Then the pandemic struck. The place shut. Spring was cancelled, including the Cannes Film Festival, the zenith among the hotel’s annual high-spots. Thus was the Cap-Eden-Roc deprived of the likes of Will Smith, Dustin Hoffman, Eva Longoria and John Travolta, who had all passed through the previous year. “The lift doors opened, and out walked Leonardo DiCaprio,” recalled one staff member of happier times in 2019.
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The hotel was quiet, borne through the bad moments by its owner, the German multinational group Oetker, of cake mix and first-rate frozen pizza renown. Now it was back and, if the show was almost immaculate (the vast rose garden could use some deadheading), backstage worries persisted. Almost half the Cap-Eden-Roc’s usual clientele is American, some 25 per cent is from Britain. When I was there a day or two ago, these people were not yet rushing back. Bookings were, though, looking better for August.
Of course they were. Few other places on earth guarantee such serenity for those – old money, new money, showbiz money – who can afford a minimum of £1,200 a night in summer (sailing above £5,000 for a junior suite) and £18 for a standard glass of Provençal rosé. I inadvertently had three for £54, or more than my last flight from Carcassonne to Manchester. I didn’t much care, partly because I wasn’t paying and partly because, if you worry about, or even notice, the odd 18 quid, you’re in the wrong place. Cap-Eden-Roc’s buildings are flanked by 22 acres of park and woodland right on the Mediterranean coast. Twenty-two acres! You can so easily lose yourself and other guests in the alleys, gardens and trees. (Social distancing truly isn’t a problem.) You’d need to sell Berkshire to buy a similar spread. Civilisation at this level assumes you have taken vows of wealth. The associated discretion has notables rolling in. First time I was there, years ago, George Bush Sr and Clint Eastwood had just left, so they missed me. Earlier, Marlene Dietrich had embarked on an affair with the priapic Joe Kennedy right here. Earlier still, F Scott Fitzgerald, a Cap regular, wrote the hotel into Tender Is the Night as the Hotel-des-Etrangers. But you don’t have to be a Name to be known. After I had strolled across the lobby’s acreage of marble, under the chandeliers and wall-filling paintings, the receptionist said: “Welcome, Mr Peregrine” without consulting notes.
Crikey. The truth is that the Cap-Eden-Roc’s opulence isn’t about pomp or ostentation. It’s about co-opting everyone into a continuum of the famous, noble and sleek where everyone pretends you are exceptional. The main building, the Villa Soleil, has the white neoclassical splendour of a Med-side manor house. I stood on the grand front steps looking over lawns, trees and the carriage-wide central allée sweeping down to the matt-blue sea. I realised that, if I’d had a small dog, a double-breasted jacket and a skinny American wife, I could have been the Duke of Windsor.
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At the bottom of the allée, the Eden Roc Pavillon – the 1914 art deco annexe on rocks above the sea – hosted restaurants, the pool, tanning areas, a bar and a rooftop champagne bar.
The echoes are of the Lost Generation finding one another. Upper floors had junior suites. Mine was on a corridor punctuated by framed encomia from Hugh Grant, the Clooneys, Julia Roberts, Bruce Springsteen and Robert Redford (“longer next time”, he had written). The suite was huge, in tones of cream and mild yellow. On the lounge table were 14 pink roses and a bowl of dried fruit. There were further flowers in the bathroom, plus six towels. I thought this five too many. “We have a couple of regular guests who demand 32 towels a day,” general manager Perd mentioned later.
Saving the planet and servicing the super-rich can, quite evidently, go in opposite directions. That said, the natural world – Med sea, Lérins islands, mountains – seen from my enormous terrace looked in reasonable enough nick for me to take a £13 beer from the minibar, sit down and worry about other things. Like whether I would need a jacket for dinner. No, I wouldn’t. The Cap-Eden-Roc has, this year, renewed its restaurants. The gastronomic eatery, the Louroc, has been lightened delightfully. On my visit, it wasn’t yet open, though it has been since July 10. I ate downstairs, at the Grill, no jacket required. It was like dining on the deck of a particularly posh boat. The views were startling, the young woman on the next table a descendant of Leonid Brezhnev and the vitello tonnato terrific, as it damned well should have been for £38 a plateful.
Éric Fréchon – three-Michelin-star chef at the Cap-Eden-Roc’s Parisian sister establishment, the Bristol – had been overseeing the kitchen revamp. Of which new dish was he particularly proud? He thought a moment: “Bresse chicken in verbena,” he said. It’s on the Louroc menu at £198 for two. Not that everyone sticks by the menu. As the hotel’s recipe book indicates, Tom Cruise favours vegetable salad and ewe’s milk, Cameron Diaz gazpacho, Eddie Murphy turkey burgers, and Madonna – apparently not universally appreciated at the Eden-Roc – strawberries and cappuccino. Staff (a workforce of 500 for 118 rooms and suites) will bring you almost anything.
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Throughout, they wear light-handed courtesy as a second skin, not least head doorman Michael Babin de Lignac. He has been there 44 years. He told my colleague Jonny Whiley, of Mayfair Times, that he had once cleared up after Tennessee Williams’s dog, had ribbon-wrapped a Mercedes so that a husband might surprise his wife with it (“What is it, dear? Earrings?”) and considered both Roger Moore and Robert De Niro to be fine fellows… this despite De Niro’s alleged 1990s on-site punch-up with Gérard Depardieu over a birthday invitation. Alleged. Alleged. Big-name myths swirl around this place. They have Rita Hayworth and Aly Khan falling in love and Bruce Willis and Demi Moore falling out.
The hotel, perforce, tolerates much, except rudeness to the staff. For that, you will be asked to leave. It happened last summer. “Who?” I asked. “You want the name, address and age?” asked general manager Perd. “Forget the address and the age,” I said. “I’ll settle for the name.” That went nowhere, so we had more wine and, later, I walked out into the night. Aromas of pine suffused the warmth. Light was thrown just far enough across the sea to suggest both intimacy and infinity.
I was there under false pretences, of course. Tomorrow I would drive back into my real life – which, by many standards, is pretty good. But it doesn’t place me among the elect. All I’d need is a billion.
Read the full review: Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc
