A night in Cannes: from tartare to rock’n’roll
We had booked a table at The Bistrot Marceau, lured in by promises of being “jazzy” with live music. Turns out the only live performance that night was us flipping through the menu.
The restaurant’s menu was no easy read. Imagine Ulysses by James Joyce, only with mussels, oysters, duck breast and seven different tartares. It took teamwork just to make sense of it. Debates bounced across the table: brunch or dinner menu, mussels with cod, beef tartare versus scallops… even the starters became a negotiation. “This menu is like reading Joyce,” Helge sighed. “It demands effort, but there’s gold in here.”
Eventually we agreed to share the maxi board – a generous spread of charcuteries and cheese; carpaccio, burrata, and more. It was almost a meal on its own, especially with the bread basket constantly calling for attention. But this was only the beginning.
For mains, the table went in two directions. I believe the winner was the beef tartare. Large, fresh, and full of surprises: little cubes of pear bringing bursts of sweetness, Roquefort cheese adding spice and depth, and hazelnuts popping up like tiny moments of happiness between the molars. “An instant of joy,” Thomas called it – and it was. It may not win beauty contests, but this tartare had character.
Helge and Jon landed on entrecôte – medium rare, with a classic pepper sauce. Simple, honest, and exactly what you want after so many detours on the menu. The wine debate nearly turned into its own act of theater: rosé versus red. After some back and forth (and a bit of teasing), the table united around red wine. A sensible, and very French, decision. “It’s not better than back home, but solid,” was Jons verdict, with a nod of approval from Helge.
By dessert time, choices leaned towards playful: lime sorbet with vodka, an espresso martini, or simply skipping sweets for one more glass. We smiled, sipped, and admitted the evening had already given us more than enough.
The bill came to 320 euros, tip included. Worth every cent. The most impressive part? The entire restaurant seemed to run on the shoulders of a single man – waiter, barman, perhaps even the owner – who carried the whole performance with effortless charm. A true one-man show.
But the night didn’t end there. We drifted into the nearby Morrisons Irish Pub, greeted by the hum of live music and the comfort of Guinness in Helge’s hands. What began as background tunes slowly shifted gears, until the band leaned into rock’n’roll and the place turned into a party. Same pub, two different moods, like a bonus act after dinner.
We left full, happy, and more than a little amused at how the evening unfolded. No jazz after all – but between tartare, steak, red wine, and a dose of live music, Cannes gave us exactly the night we didn’t know we wanted.
Four men went out together that night. Only three of us made it home. Tomorrow, we’ll find out what happened to the last one.
