The resort town of Juan le Pins sits in a pine forest; the jazz of Cole Porter used to fill the air while swells like Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald cavorted on the sandy beaches and in the casinos. The Art Deco-style Hotel Juana with its birdcage elevator, is the perfect location. My modern room has an elegant bath and a view of a park where old men are playing bocci ball; in the distance are the Mediterranean and the Lérins islands, which you can sail to with a call to the hotel’s young, energetic staff. A former fisherman’s house, Les Pêcheurs, the hotel’s top dining spot, is a sleek, contemporary eatery that hosts royalty and celebrities especially during the Cannes Film Festival. The interiors evoke the feel of a sailboat—albeit one with Baccarat crystal—while Chef Francis Chauveau’s gastronomic offerings and accompanying wines are divine.

In case you are wondering, the people of Southern France are less disdainful of travelers than their Parisian counterparts. And the local temperament is warm and laid-back like in other parts of the Mediterranean. “France and the U.S. are like old married couple,” says Hotel Juana’s general manager. “Sometimes we need to make up over champagne and dinner.”

On my first full day, I visit the nicely sized Picasso Museum (the painter spent three months here in 1946 when it was the Grimaldi Castle), the Sailors Chapel and Cap d’Antibes, where intermittent waves batter the rocky coast while I pick my way across the trail. I reward myself with a languorous lunch at La Taverne du Safranier: rosé wine (nothing like the sickly sweet U.S. version; rather a dry, crisp, salmon-colored Grenache), shellfish, mussels and crabs, and fish cooked in parchment with saffron sauce. At Balade en Provence, a cavernous absinthe bar, I sample the stateside-banned, green, licorice-flavored drink.

After a suitable catnap, dinner is at the charming waterfront Le Vieux Murs, where a stool is provided for my purse! The tasting menu includes briny anchovy paste with toasted bread, grilled red mullet, poached turbot with spring peas and fennel and black olives, ravioli with langoustines, beef with truffles, banana with passion fruit gelato and mango and lemon sorbet with chocolate mouse, along with several perfectly paired wines. Even my purse was loath to leave.

Just an hour away is Grasse, the perfume-making capital of the world, where I create my own scent using gray amber, almond, grapefruit and mimosa at Molinard’s Villa Habinita overlooking the Bay of Cannes. For over two hours, Celine has me smell fruits, woods, herbs, flowers, seeds and roots in brown glass bottles and though my nose tires, my stomach growls. The next stop, a Provencal food shop called Espace Terroirs, is heaven for a foodie. The owner explains that the specialties of the region depend on the soil, just as wine does. The attractive shop features such temptations as jasmine sirop, crystallized roses, olives, pates, nougat, truffle wine, tapenade, eucalyptus-infused honey, bitter orange jam, sausage, chocolate almonds and honey bread. I buy a number of jars to take home, but I save my appetite for dinner.

The restaurant of Chef Jacques Chibois is called La Bastide Saint-Antoine and the Michelin two-starred chef makes the most of the region’s bounty. In the softly lit formal room, I gasp over such culinary feats as mushrooms and truffles with foie gras, monkfish with peas and truffles, caviar pate with truffle and chestnuts, baby duck with beets and parsnips and wine-spiced strawberries. And yes, there is superb wine to complement each course.

The following day, I’m off to Château de la Messardìere, a fairytale-like castle perched on a hill above St. Tropez. The mistral wind from the Alps is blowing in; from my bed I can see the leaves move in the sheltering parasol pines in the surrounding vineyards. The rust and butter yellow interiors are a supremely attractive and comfortable blend of Moorish and Provencal décor. I take the hotel’s 24-hour shuttle into town to visit the Saturday market. Brightly decorated stalls sell soaps, flowers, quiche, clothing, cheese, jewelry and lavender products. I buy two sweaters and lunch, and I eat the latter on a nearby bench.

Soft rain falls from a cornflower blue sky. I while away a couple of hours at the hotel, reading and napping. I naturally grow hungry. At the hotel’s restaurant, Les Trois Saisons, I enjoy another inspired, two and a half hour meal, before soaking in the deep marble tub back in my room.

The next morning, I explore Gassin, the quietest, most preserved town on the peninsula, with a labyrinth of streets, a few napping cats and a couple of enticing storefronts. From here out, any activity, save eating or planning to eat, drops. I’m officially in a food coma. I don’t remember how I spent the afternoon, but I know dinner at Villa Belrose (Chef Thierry Thiercelin has a Michelin star) included impeccably cooked young vegetables, red snapper and creamy polenta, warm octopus salad and goat rolled in grapes and ewe gruyere.

My next dinner was at the intimate Le Bastide de St. Tropez, most memorable for the singsong speech of the waiter as his charming lapse in English resulted in the translation “chicken oysters” for an appetizer. They were, in fact, chicken livers and morels topped with a single, gossamer ravioli filled with raw egg yolk and they were utter bliss. The rest of the meal was equally stellar.

My final culinary stop is the belle époque Hotel Negresco in Nice. Smack on the city’s main waterfront boulevard, this is the kind of hotel that doesn’t exist in the U.S. Think of your favorite uncle who wears stripes and plaids with whimsy. This hotel, with its pink dome, resident ginger-colored cat, exuberant art by Dali, Léger and Cocteau, glossy red elevators with automatic doors and heavy doses of velvet, is kitschy in just the right over-the-top way. My room has cotton candy pink sheets, a Juliet balcony and a gold metallic sink and bathtub.

With great coordinated flourishes, the waiters at the one star Michelin restaurant Le Chantecler, remove the domed lids on our plates in unison. It’s the same dance I have come to love over the past days: a talented chef (the Negresco’s Bruno Turbot) and an equally talented sommelier create an impeccable dining symphony. Tonight, it is stuffed morels and crunchy raw ham, broad bean puree and beetroot mousse, duck foie gras and red wine ice, grilled john dory with stuffed local vegetables, lavender cheese, macaroons, rose petals and red fruits and roasted pineapple. It’s getting increasingly difficult to discreetly loosen my belt.

Before I retire to my room, I admire the rubenesque work called “Nana” by Niki de St. Phalle. She pirouettes on a rotating platform in the ballroom, 24 hours a day. I fear if I keep eating like this, I will resemble her. She’s got a big smile. So do I. And it’s not even swimsuit weather.