ts worthy of the name, the best
being Isnard's (Hotel des Phoceens), Rue Thubaneau, and another good one
that of the Hotel d'Orleans, Rue Vacon, where the proprietor and the
cook are brothers and charming people.

Those adventurous souls who wish to eat the fry of sea-urchins and other
highly savoury dishes, with strange shell-fish and other extraordinary
denizens of the deep as their foundation, should go to Bregaillon's at
the Vieux Port. It is necessary to have a liking for garlic and a nose
that fears no smells for this adventure; but if you bring your courage
to the sticking point, order a dozen _oursins_, a _petit poelon_, which
is a _tournedos_ in a _casserole_, and a _grive_. Cassis is the white
wine of the house; and it has some good Chateau Neuf de Pape.

Cannes

Cannes is the first important town of the Riviera that the gourmet
flying south comes to, and at Cannes he will find a typical Riviera
restaurant. The Reserve at Cannes consists of one glassed-in shelter and
another smaller building on the rocks, which juts out into the sea from
the elbow of the Promenade de la Croisette. The spray of the wavelets
set up by the breeze splash up against the glass, and to one side are
the Iles des Lerins, St-Marguerite, and St-Honorat, where the liqueur
Lerina is made, shining on the deep blue sea, and to the other the
purple Montagnes de l'Esterel stand up with a wonderful jagged edge
against the sky. Amongst the rocks on which the building of the
restaurant stand are tanks, and in these swim fish, large and small, the
fine lazy _dorades_ and the lively little sea-gudgeon. One of the
amusements of the place is that the breakfasters fish out with a net the
little fishes which are to form a _friture_, or point out the bigger
victim which they will presently eat for their meal. The cooking is
simple and good, and with fish that thirty minutes before were swimming
in the green water, an omelette, a simple dish of meat, and a pint of
Cerons, or other white wine, a man may breakfast in the highest content
looking at some of the sunniest scenes in the world. There is always
some little band of Italian musicians playing and singing at the
Reserve, and though in London one would vote them a nuisance, at Cannes
the music seems to fit in with the lazy pleasure of breakfasting almost
upon the waves, and the throaty tenor who has been singing of Santa
Lucia gets a lining of francs to his hat. Most of the crowned heads who
make