You’ll wander Cannes’ old town with a local guide, tasting Provençal wine and classic dishes like pissaladière straight from the market. Expect laughter over mispronounced words, chef’s specials you won’t find on menus, and sweet bites that linger long after you leave. This tour is as much about meeting people as it is about food—come hungry for both.
The walking food tour lasts approximately 3 hours.
Yes, all tastings add up to a full meal across at least 4 stops and are included in the price.
At least one alcoholic drink (for guests over 18) is included; non-alcoholic options are available too.
Vegetarian options are available—contact before booking for restrictions or allergies.
The tour takes place around Cannes’ old town area near Forville Market and La Croisette Boulevard.
Yes, infants and small children can ride in prams or strollers; specialized infant seats are available.
The guide may speak both English and French during your tour.
No hotel pickup is included; you meet your guide near Forville Market in central Cannes.
Your day includes a guided walk through Cannes’ historic center with an English-speaking local guide, all tastings adding up to a full meal across four stops (including cheese, charcuterie or terrines, pissaladière by Forville Market, chef’s dish of the day near La Croisette Boulevard), at least one alcoholic drink if you’re over 18 (non-alcoholic options too), water throughout—and dessert to finish things off before you wander back into town on your own.
I didn’t expect the first bite in Cannes to be so… homey. We’d just met our guide, Camille, near the Forville Market—she greeted us like she’d known us forever, waving off my clumsy bonjour with a smile. The air was thick with the smell of tomatoes and something sweet I couldn’t place. She handed us little glasses of local rosé (I’m not usually a midday drinker, but when in France…) and slices of cheese that tasted sharper than anything I’ve had back home.
Walking through the narrow lanes behind La Croisette Boulevard, we stopped every few minutes for Camille to chat with someone—her fishmonger friend, a baker who winked at us as he slid pissaladière from the oven. That onion tart was salty and soft at once; I tried to say “pissaladière” right but just made everyone laugh. There’s something about eating food where it’s made that makes it stick in your memory. The market buzzed with voices and the clatter of crates; I could’ve watched people haggle over olives all day.
Lunch was whatever the chef felt like making—Camille said it changes daily depending on what’s fresh. Ours was fish, flaky under a thin lemon sauce, served in a tiny restaurant tucked off the main drag. I still think about that view out the window: sunlight bouncing off stone walls, some old man reading Le Monde at the next table. Dessert turned out to be macarons in colors I didn’t know existed (the lavender one actually tasted like flowers). By then my French was no better but I’d stopped caring.

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