At our vacation villa on the Côte d'Azur, the sun, the views and the sea breezes created the perfect setting for dining in simply elegant style.

Not long after, we found the stunning location for our dream getaway: a stone villa perched over the blue Mediterranean Sea, midway between the glitzy Côte d'Azur towns of St. Tropez and Cannes. Rather than schlep our belongings from hotel to hotel, we would call the coastal town of St. Aygulf home for two weeks. We'd take our nanny so we could have some quality adult time and invite our mothers for a week to relish a rich, three-generational experience. Despite my affinity for cooking, my husband persuaded me to hire a chef to prepare our dinners. What a luxury — a chef to dazzle our taste buds while we frolic on the Riviera.

That was the idea, anyway.
 

One of the best parts about vacationing in the south of France is the access to farmers' markets loaded with fresh fruits and vegetables as well as local seafood.

Our 3-year-old adjusted surprisingly well to the nine-hour time difference and was happy chasing geckos and eating pain raisin in the morning. The rental house, a property we found through the Just France agency, was a comfortable one-level compound, built around terra-cotta tile terraces and a large swimming pool. The gardens showcased giant cactus, pine trees, pebble paths and bright geraniums. And right off our front door, the guest house nicely held our moms.

The best part, hands down, was the panoramic view of the sea. Each day we watched the sun make its way around us, and each night we tracked the moon's gradual swelling until, near the end of our stay, it rose full, directly in front of us. The infamous mistral teased the sea with a fickle dance. In the morning we woke to the sound of birds and threw open the heavy wooden shutters to let in the cool marine air. A 10-minute stroll to town brought us by numerous patisseries offering pain raisin and pain au chocolat to enjoy back at the house with strong — albeit American-style — drip coffee.

The chef typically arrived around 5:30 p.m. on his blue motorcycle, sporting his tool bag and groceries for the evening's meal. His first day at the villa, he drove a car and brought his own dinnerware and some favorite pots and pans because he found supplies in the home lacking. Wearing a white chef's coat and an imperious attitude, His Majesty dripped sweat as he labored over vanilla-bean-spiked scampi with poached pears in cardamom sauce or lobster asparagus salad and gratin dauphinois. He served his three-course dinners on the terrace, where we sat facing the sea, drinking a Côtes de Provence rosé or white wine. Unfortunately, I couldn't enjoy much of France's great wines — or the pastis — because I was pregnant. Somehow, that wasn't part of my original vision.
 

	Mediterranean sunshine and fresh linens offer the perfect setting for light salads of melon and figs.

Neither was the hassle over money. We spent the first three days of our vacation trying to get enough cash to pay His Majesty. He accepted only cash in euros, and unfortunately, we hadn't brought many. A frenzy of international phone calls and visits to ATM after ATM ensued. Using all four of the credit cards we had, we retrieved the maximum $300 allowed each day. But soon my husband's card was frozen from too many withdrawals, and we were barely keeping ahead of His Majesty's lofty bills. Eventually, we found a solution: My mother in the States agreed to bring us a heap of traveler's checks to cash.

It was indeed a luxury to have someone cooking for us, but frankly the food wasn't mind-blowing enough to be worth either his exorbitant prices or his attitude. Just when we decided to fire him, he fired us. More exactly, he fired me for spouting off one night when I was frustrated after a long day with our overtired son. We'd given our nanny the day off, and I'd finally put him to bed. Dinner was late when I stormed out of the bedroom — pregnancy hormones raging — and barked out that I was surprised the table hadn't been set. His Majesty whirled around to confront me and shouted, "Madame! There were people playing a game at the table and I didn't want to disturb them."

I tried to explain that I was talking more to my family than to him and that he needn't take it as a personal insult. He did anyway, declaring we would settle his bill later that night.

"Fine!" I grumped. "I don't like your attitude." And that was that.

Good riddance, we all agreed, and immediately started planning our next adventures sans chef. We'd visit nearby pizzerias and shop for our own food. My Mom and I have always shared a love of French markets, and we happily went off to procure two fresh sea bass from the local fish man and vegetables from the market vendors. We roasted the fish whole, stuffed with sliced lemon and fennel, and garnished the white, flaky meat with fleur de sel and olive oil. We passed a big platter around family style and everyone loved it.

At the daily marché, we strolled past stands spilling over with olives, cheeses, dried spices and sausages, all calling out to be taken home and savored. Our timing was perfect: In season were the famous Cavaillon melons, juicy cherries and nectarines. More than once we bought lettuce, tomatoes, haricots verts and eggs and came back to the house to make a tasty Niçoise salad. Some of our favorite moments were thanks to the simplicity of a pile of green beans or the perfection of a white peach.

One night, after an early dinner and bedtime for our son, my husband and I were milling about with our mothers, basking in the glow of the sunset. Everything was quiet; a gentle murmur of waves crashing on the rocks drifted in from outside. Time seemed to stand still. Then it called for something sweet.

I had been planning to bake a cherry pie with a kirsch-ricotta filling that I make every summer. But I hadn't gotten around to it, and pitting all those cherries seemed way too time-consuming. So I spotted a container of crème fraîche in the fridge, and spontaneously stirred in some sugar and almond extract. I put the cherries in a bowl on the kitchen table and invited everyone to dip them into the crème fraîche. This, simply, was our dessert. And it was divine.

That night, in those cherries, I realized again that life's simple pleasures often hold more reward than the most extravagant luxuries.