The lobby of the otherwise staid Majestic Hotel is veritable chaos between
6 and 7 P.M. on the opening night of the Cannes Film Festival. Many of
cinema's biggest names or the esteemed jury members stay here during their
Cannes visit. Devoted star-watchers linger in the hotel's opulent lobby
waiting for the telltale bell dinging, which signals the opening of yet
another elevator door. Avoiding the crowds in front of the Palais across
the street, where one can see little but the backs of thousands of heads,
the Majestic lobby allows one to observe the rich and/or famous on equal
footing. That's if you pass muster with the security guards.
Look there's Vanessa Redgrave exiting the elevator and strolling casually
out the front door. Sophie Marceau? Mais ouis. That's Mike Leigh, not
Spike Lee. Mike is on the jury this year after having won the Palme d'Or
last year for "Secrets And Lies." An official car pulls up out
front, flags waving. Luc Besson the director of "The Fifth Element,"
tonight's opening film, bustles into the lobby. He heads straight for the
Majestic head, takes a quick whiz, and returns to his car. Even an honored
director needs a pit stop, now and then.
Still no Jeanne Moreau, no Catherine Deneuve, no Isabelle Adjani. But wait.
A crowd forms around the elevator bank. Who is left? No one seems to
know. Ding. Out come Bruce Willis and Demi Moore who are quickly hustled
into a car waiting at the Majestic's back door. This is certainly more
fun than attending the opening ceremony itself.
Anyone hungry? Why not hit the Villa des Lys just past the hotel's bar,
after having worked up tremendous appetites watching for celebs? The deluxe
Majestic Hotel has finally gotten a chef that can compete with the competition
down the Croisette at the Carlton and the Martinez. Bruno Oger was trained
under Georges Blanc and as stated by Gault-Millau "knows a thing or
two about mixing and matching flavors." The Michelin Guide has honored
the Villa des Lys with one * star for the very first time this year.
The dining room is elegant and gracious. Why doesn't someone tone down
the lighting, however? No one is planning to do brain surgery here. The
crowd is an interesting mix. From formal dress to jeans, all is accepted.
A lavishly-gowned matron almost loses her floor length Chinchilla wrap,
which gets caught on a chair at our table as she passes. Diamonds are obviously
her best friend as she is sporting major jewels at her throat, on her ears,
around her wrists and fingers. The man at the next table wears a bright
yellow polo shirt. There are uptight producer types sitting alongside the
swingers who are letting the cleavage hang out tonight. Andie McDowell,
getting ready for the paparazzi, is having her lips applied by a make-up
artist at a corner table. No one stares. Service is done with a smile
and with little attitude.
We opt for the prix-fixe menu "Festival" at 300 FF. A small cup
of the-best-cold-tomato-soup-you-have-ever-tasted is set before us. Cucumbers
are in there too, but this is the most sophisticated gazpacho I've encountered.
Another little dish follows which contains a potato puree with crab. Yum.
I want more of this one or at least to lick the bowl.
The first course is a stunning terrine with alternating layers of eggplant
and lotte. There is a hint of red pepper, too, adding a dash of color.
Olive oil is drizzled here and there. Use some of the superb olive bread
to clean your plate of excess oil. The main course is a simple, unadorned
piece of veal served glowing pink. Tender and delicious. Another ingenious
French version of mashed potatoes is the accompaniment. More olive bread
to soak up the gravy? Certainment. Another swallow of the Domaine de Ott
rose, and we are happy festival-goers indeed.
Desserts are on the luscious side. A chocolate soufflè sits astride
some caramelized bananas and a dash of chocolate sauce binds it all. Another
features a creamy slice surrounded by various orange sections all swimming
in a tart, citrusy sauce. Petites fours follow. The chocolate truffles
are even embossed with a gold Palme d'Or. How thoughtful.
No doubt the ceremony and the screening have finished by now. We join the
throngs of formally clad strollers on the glittery Croisette. Deciding on
an after-dinner drink at the Carlton, we must brave the crowds at the hotel's
entrance chanting "Michael, Michael, Michael." They must surely
mean "Jackson," not "Ondaatje" or "Eisner."
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