La Guérite is a restaurant on the Ile Sainte-Marguerite, just off the coast at Cannes. You reach it by boat. Not having googled it in advance, I made the mistake of judging it by appearances. From the sea, it looks like a tranquil and elegant kind of place. Among the trees, a few dozen tables are laid out beneath a shady canopy, at the foot of a steep bluff. The island’s other claim to fame is that the Man in the Iron Mask was imprisoned here. There’s also a monastery on the neighbouring island. Not the two most promising augurs of conviviality. When I went the other day, I imagined I was in for a civilised South of France lunch, possibly a little staid.
I was wrong. No sooner had we set about our langoustines than a band turned up tableside – complete with a horny saxophonist and little amplifiers hanging off their trousers – and set about a boisterous cover of AC/DC. Then the DJ whacked up the volume and started playing thumping dance music. All of a sudden, we were in a sun-dappled nightclub.
I know what you’re thinking: it sounds like enfer sur terre. Normally I would agree. Enforced jollity in restaurants is usually a disaster, camouflage for other failings. As the bass started to thump, a honeymooning American couple at the next table looked at each other with something like fear in their eyes, coming to terms with the fact that their lunch might not be the Lady and the Tramp-style romance fest they had hoped for.
But there was something infectious about La Guérite’s commitment to its own ludicrousness. Before long, guests were up and dancing in the aisles. One man, who must have been at least 70, and who had possibly enjoyed a glass of rosé for each of those years, clambered on to the table itself. His family waited beneath him with their hands out, like anxious slip fielders.
The meal was a reminder that for all the endless efforts to categorise, rate and rank restaurants, all the agonising over cooking and sourcing and service, only one metric matters: atmosphere. It’s the only thing all good meals have in common. Partly it is a question of expectations. Did the restaurant surpass yours, whatever they might have been? More than that, have the qualities of the place combined to make a room full of contented diners?
The good news is you can find atmosphere anywhere. Recently I’ve found it at a much-hyped, now-Michelin-starred new opening. But I’ve also found it at a pub in Oxfordshire, a raucous Thai in Soho, a garden outside a fish and chip shop in Aldeburgh, and McDonald’s on Oxford Street at two in the morning.
The bad news is that atmosphere can never be measured. The most important quality in restaurants is also the most elusive. You know it when it’s there, but you have to be present. No number of Michelin inspections or broadsheet reviews can guarantee it. It can vanish or reappear from one day to the next. The diners might all be in a bad mood. The maître d’ might have stubbed his toe. The suppliers might have delivered some substandard stuff, making the dishes underwhelming.
When they got over their shock, the American couple next to us were up and dancing, too. Their meal turned out differently from what they had expected, but they embraced the chaos and had a happy time. A good attitude as they embark on married life.
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