As summer turns into fall, one place remains evergreen. At the Rochambeau Club, members wear white throughout the seasons as they make their way from the majestic neoclassical clubhouse to the manicured courts, where the pock-pock of tennis balls sounds year-round, and the smell of cut grass is always in the air. The Panoramic Sorbet Lounge is perpetually busy, the Snorkelling Jetty never closes, and the Orangery remains the perfect place to while away an hour with a glass of the house rosé.
The Rochambeau is a storied institution, which brags of having sent three ball boys to Roland-Garros. Admittedly, the club’s location, “in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur region of the French Riviera,” is somewhat vague. But its discernment is beyond reproach. After all, nothing is more exclusive than something that doesn’t exist.
