This year it is the turn of property tycoons, retailing giants and Russian oligarchs to hog the best villas, prime berths and top tables.
(Russians have always felt a certain entitlement to be here, the ex-stomping ground of their pre-revolutionary forebears.) Lately the Côte has become even more cosmopolitan as lotus eaters, sun seekers, ersatz playboys and wannabees easy Jet in. Luck, charm, looks and perhaps a history-encrusted title will still get you far.
The classic Côte d'Azur lunch consists of salade niçoise and loup de mer or - if you're eating at the Eden Roc hotel - homard à la neige steamed in bouillon and rinsed down with rosé. " The deal is: I won't ask after your past if you don't ask after mine. Local residents are incentivised to denounce foreign interlopers who overshoot their allotted 90 nights, after which they have to pay tax." People are less shy about their yachts.
and Mme Sasse and son Sammy lavish care on regulars and play the same music as they did 10 years ago.
Nor is there any escape from the siren-like myth of the Côte d'Azur.
At around this time of year, reinsurance brokers in Canary Wharf stare out of their windows at vistas of glass and concrete, and all they see are the pine-scented Alpes Maritimes plummeting into a sea of the deepest azure, gleaming yachts rocking gently in the lee of a cap, a topless nymph lolling by the pool of a colonnaded villa, endless parties and a lot of showing off, dressing up and dressing down.
The arrival of the hideous dark blue mega-yacht aptly named No Escape heralds the beginning of the summer season in the iconic Côte d'Azur fishing village of St Tropez.
The Côte's heaving crowds and hell-on-wheels traffic - never more hellish than here - mean there is literally "no escape".