There are, of course, two mythic havens of high times on this coast, the other being St-Tropez. Now overrun with the vicarious and the curious, St-Trop is a place where sex, drugs, and temporarily famous suicides have created legends. In contrast, Monte Carlo—at least as far as I'm aware—is what the French call "clean." This can mean, in Franglais, something like under control, healthy. For a rocky place where even goats grazed poorly—and one that became a lodestone for gamblers—clean may seem inapt, but today, gambling is far from the main part of the life of leisure here, contributing less than four percent of the GDP. Comparisons with Las Vegas, that glaring Gomorrah in the desert, fade quickly. "Fear and loathing in Monte Carlo" is not an apt expression: You'll find yourself looked after by one policeman for every ten residents. Not long ago, the sparkle of the innumerable big gems worn in the lobby of the Hôtel de Paris—just at cocktail hour—always seemed about to set the sculpted nymphs overhead swooning. There is still no safer place on earth to go public with your costliest tchotchkes than here, even if the cocktail scene at the hotel has given way to more youthful intruders.

And as for loathing, don't expect it from the natives. Even if they don't own a Rolls that arrived on a cargo plane with Moscow plates, the residents—except for American and French citizens—pay no direct taxes, have extensive social benefits, and enjoy an economy devoid of joblessness. They live off the sums spent by the happy few at play, and off the burgeoning financial, pharmaceutical, and high-tech sectors of the economy. I've never heard the term tourist trap used here. Whether it's the guy who serves you coffee or sells you a newspaper, everyone seems happy to be sharing a good thing with you.

Having checked in to the Hermitage again, the lower-key Belle Epoque sister of the Hôtel de Paris (and a place curiously both rangy and cozy), I headed for dinner at Rampoldi. In Monte Carlo, the same people come back summer after summer, until their children replace them, and Rampoldi is more of an insider's venue than any other place in town. I got a bear hug from Luciano Disaro, the owner. I'm not lovable and hadn't been back for I won't say how long, but bear hugs for the men, cheek kisses for the women, are the standard greeting here for devotees, while strangers get perfect politeness.

Luciano, whom I first knew when he was head waiter at the now fabled Paris discotheque New Jimmy's, is a kind of personification of the town: Informal but always polished, he runs a costly joint with unstated devotion to quality. His vegetables come from an organic farmer in the French hills, but it doesn't say that on the menu. And instead of using commercial truffle oils, Luciano makes the truffle cream for his ravioli in the winter season from fresh truffles and preserves it.