Bar des Oiseaux, our undisputed favourite in Nice, does old-school Niçois classics with a wink: brandade, bourride, handmade pasta from the storied Barale house, all inside a corner spot on Rue Saint-Vincent dressed head to toe in pop art. Chef Armand Crespo, also behind some of the city's best-loved bistros, keeps prices gentle and the room loud in the best way. This is Vieux Nice hungry, not polished.

Bar des Oiseaux, our undisputed favourite in Nice, does old-school Niçois classics with a wink: brandade, bourride, handmade pasta from the storied Barale house, all inside a corner spot on Rue Saint-Vincent dressed head to toe in pop art. Chef Armand Crespo, also behind some of the city's best-loved bistros, keeps prices gentle and the room loud in the best way. This is Vieux Nice hungry, not polished.

Maison Barale isn't a restaurant, it's Nice's ravioli headquarters: great-grandfather Matteo Barale set up shop here in 1892, and five generations later, his descendants are still selling daube-stuffed ravioli by the dozen. The current heir, Thomas, trained at Alain Passard's Arpège in Paris before coming home to make pasta instead. Locals line up for gnocchi, panisses and ravioli to cook at home, no polish required, just genuine know-how passed down since the 19th century.

Since 1956, Pizza Cresci has been turning out half-moon pizzas from the same wood-fired oven, a Nice institution that's drawn its share of big show business names over the decades, several of them still framed on the wall. Niçois families, tourists and the occasional legend have all sat at the same tables for close to seventy years. Colourful room, busy terrace, that oven smell the second you walk in, old-school in the best sense.

Since 1956, Pizza Cresci has been turning out half-moon pizzas from the same wood-fired oven, a Nice institution that's drawn its share of big show business names over the decades, several of them still framed on the wall. Niçois families, tourists and the occasional legend have all sat at the same tables for close to seventy years. Colourful room, busy terrace, that oven smell the second you walk in, old-school in the best sense.

Chez Acchiardo has been run by the same family on Rue Droite since 1927, four generations deep, and it shows: the beef dish is still named "Madalin" after the great-grandmother who started it all, her photo framed on the wall. It closes weekends and all of August, a polite way of saying tourists aren't really the point. Order the "merda di can", green gnocchi with chard and basil, whose Niçois name translates to something you'd never guess from how good it tastes.

Since 1966, Fenocchio has been quietly proving that 90-plus flavours, tomato-basil and black olive included, doesn't have to mean gimmick over substance. It's my favourite ice cream shop in the city, hands down, precisely because every flavour tastes exactly like what it says on the tin, fruit sorbets that taste like actual fruit, chocolate that's rich without tipping into heavy. Other places in Nice do good ice cream. This is the one I keep coming back to.

Since 1966, Fenocchio has been quietly proving that 90-plus flavours, tomato-basil and black olive included, doesn't have to mean gimmick over substance. It's my favourite ice cream shop in the city, hands down, precisely because every flavour tastes exactly like what it says on the tin, fruit sorbets that taste like actual fruit, chocolate that's rich without tipping into heavy. Other places in Nice do good ice cream. This is the one I keep coming back to.

Lavomatique used to be an actual laundromat, and brothers Hugo and Grégoire Loubert kept enough of the old signage and fittings to remind you of it, "the victory of man over machine" as their unofficial motto. What comes out of that former laundry room now is small plates built for sharing, generous enough to comfort, sharp enough to keep you guessing. It's tiny, always packed, and booking ahead isn't optional, it's the price of admission.

Lavomatique used to be an actual laundromat, and brothers Hugo and Grégoire Loubert kept enough of the old signage and fittings to remind you of it, "the victory of man over machine" as their unofficial motto. What comes out of that former laundry room now is small plates built for sharing, generous enough to comfort, sharp enough to keep you guessing. It's tiny, always packed, and booking ahead isn't optional, it's the price of admission.

Two high school friends, one shared plan: at the edge of turning 30, chef Émilien Catherinet and his buddy Léonard Hubert-Meynier opened Salette on Rue Bonaparte, calling it simply a "bistrot gourmand." That modesty holds up on the plate, homemade dishes, honest technique, nothing overthought, served with the kind of warmth that only comes from people who actually like doing this together. It's the place to book when you want a proper dinner without the ceremony.

At Le Panier, you don't order, you get told: chef Aurélien Martin, a mountain guy from the Hautes-Alpes who somehow ended up obsessed with Mediterranean market produce, runs the kitchen on a pure carte blanche system, no menu, just "stops" revealed one plate at a time. Lunch is four courses, dinner stretches to five or seven, built daily around whatever looked best at Cours Saleya that morning. Go in with zero expectations, that's the whole point.

At Le Panier, you don't order, you get told: chef Aurélien Martin, a mountain guy from the Hautes-Alpes who somehow ended up obsessed with Mediterranean market produce, runs the kitchen on a pure carte blanche system, no menu, just "stops" revealed one plate at a time. Lunch is four courses, dinner stretches to five or seven, built daily around whatever looked best at Cours Saleya that morning. Go in with zero expectations, that's the whole point.

Despite the name, La Cantine de Mémé didn't start with anyone's actual grandmother, it started in Paris in 2018, then moved down to the Carré d'Or in 2022 with the same "welcomed like you're at Mémé's" concept intact. The kitchen plays it far less nostalgic than the name suggests, seasonal menus swapping out every two weeks, veal tartare with smoked herring, mustard ice cream and a buckwheat crisp among the surprises. Warm room, playful plates, imagination running from starter to dessert.

Same blind-tasting idea as Le Panier near Cours Saleya, but Nuances runs it on Port-side energy instead: chef Allan Lalevée, a self-declared hedonist, flips the entire menu every two weeks and keeps every dish a secret until it lands. Set on Rue Cassini, the room stays relaxed rather than stiff, ambitious without the usual fine-dining tension. Come hungry, come curious, and leave the choosing to him.

Same blind-tasting idea as Le Panier near Cours Saleya, but Nuances runs it on Port-side energy instead: chef Allan Lalevée, a self-declared hedonist, flips the entire menu every two weeks and keeps every dish a secret until it lands. Set on Rue Cassini, the room stays relaxed rather than stiff, ambitious without the usual fine-dining tension. Come hungry, come curious, and leave the choosing to him.

Les Agitateurs is the most serious table in this selection, but thankfully not the most solemn. Chefs Samuel Victori and Juliette Busetto built this one-Michelin-star spot near the Port around the idea of constant reinvention, its dishes carrying names like "What the sea gave us" for a delicate sea bass in dashi beurre blanc. Local suppliers, exacting technique, and a chef who'll cross the room to tell you why the plate looks the way it does. It's fine dining with a pulse.

There's a reason a 12th-century church down the street once asked Marinette to cater its brunch, lemon cake, chouquettes and homemade granola served under centuries-old vaults instead of Marinette's own glazed roof. That's the level of trust this little café has earned in Vieux Nice, pancakes, tartines and proper coffee on a normal day, no miracle required. Bright, generous, and exactly the kind of morning ritual worth building a day around.

There's a reason a 12th-century church down the street once asked Marinette to cater its brunch, lemon cake, chouquettes and homemade granola served under centuries-old vaults instead of Marinette's own glazed roof. That's the level of trust this little café has earned in Vieux Nice, pancakes, tartines and proper coffee on a normal day, no miracle required. Bright, generous, and exactly the kind of morning ritual worth building a day around.

Rouge exists because Gautier spent five years in Paris working alongside chef Yves Camdeborde before deciding Nice needed its own version. The wine wall alone holds close to a thousand bottles, natural and biodynamic, and if you're torn on one, they'll pour you a taste before you commit. Real small plates, not an afterthought to the bottle list, arrive steadily while the port buzzes below. Built for a night that starts at apéro and just keeps going.

Rouge exists because Gautier spent five years in Paris working alongside chef Yves Camdeborde before deciding Nice needed its own version. The wine wall alone holds close to a thousand bottles, natural and biodynamic, and if you're torn on one, they'll pour you a taste before you commit. Real small plates, not an afterthought to the bottle list, arrive steadily while the port buzzes below. Built for a night that starts at apéro and just keeps going.

Hidden just off the main streets of Vieux Nice, La Treille sits under a canopy of grapevines old enough to have been painted by Raoul Dufy in the 1950s, the same vines still swallowing the terrace whole every summer. The wines are natural, the chalkboard runs through pissaladière, pan con tomate and octopus salad, and nobody's in a hurry. Less polished than Rouge, more cave à manger than restaurant, this is where "just one glass" turns into the whole evening.

Di Più is built for scale: floor-to-ceiling windows chasing the light, a sea view straight over the Baie des Anges, and a terrace on Quai des États-Unis big enough to seat 180 on its own. The pasta arrives with the same generosity, portions built for people who are actually hungry and not interested in pretending otherwise. Bright, busy, and unapologetically Riviera.

Di Più is built for scale: floor-to-ceiling windows chasing the light, a sea view straight over the Baie des Anges, and a terrace on Quai des États-Unis big enough to seat 180 on its own. The pasta arrives with the same generosity, portions built for people who are actually hungry and not interested in pretending otherwise. Bright, busy, and unapologetically Riviera.