St. Tropez is known for many things—Brigitte Bardot, four-hour lunches at Le Club 55, pétanque on the Place des Lices—but its proudest creation may well be a thick slab of pastry cream sandwiched between two domes of sweet brioche and sprinkled liberally with sugar. The lush tarte tropézienne is all over the place, and yet, during the month I recently spent in the town, I never once saw someone eat it. Local lore has it that a pastry chef served it on the set of …And God Created Woman, prompting Bardot herself to christen it the tarte de St. Tropez. It’s a delicious image, the two of them together, voluptuous, bouncy, and tempting.
In a place with its own brand of pastry and celebrated suntan—you know the lyrics, “Bain de Soleil, for the St. Tropez tan”—wellness may not be the first thing that springs to mind. But if you navigate it just so, dodging the sprays of Ruinart, St. Tropez could almost be considered a spa town. Not in the Austrian tradition of chewing raw beets 30 times at every meal. Please. We’re talking the South of France, where wine and cheese are essential to civilization.
