Review: Cheval Blanc Seychelles

Here’s a philosophical question for you: how great does a property have to be to make up for a bad location?  Can you be a beach resort without a usable beach?  And if I close my eyes, cover my ears, and ignore the stock market, does it even exist?

Cheval Blanc Seychelles opened in December 2024 to much fanfare—and even more expectation.  It has been a long time in the making.  Plenty of time for the excitement to build due to the immense reputation Cheval Blanc has managed to build up with such a small portfolio.  A reputation that includes Cheval Blanc Randheli, one of the finest resorts in the Maldives, and the world.

But this wasn’t a shiny new build.  This was a major refurbishment of the old Banyan Tree.  Which immediately gave it a whiff of St. Barths, easily Cheval’s worst property and a cautionary tale of what happens when you polish a turd.  You can wrap it in Dior linen and douse it in Guerlain, but eventually, someone’s still going to smell it.

Getting there

Seychelles remains a pain in the arse to get to, especially since direct flights from Europe disappeared post-Covid.  That leaves you with two choices: terrible flight times on excellent airlines (Qatar or Emirates), or excellent flight times on a terrible airline (Ethiopian).  Last year, we flew Qatar and endured the brain-melting 1 am departure from Doha.  This year, I chose Ethiopian—partly because I’ve flown them to Nosy Be and Kilimanjaro recently and they didn’t make me hate them more than I already did.  If Qatar or Emirates ever fix their schedules, I’d switch back, but we arrived, all limbs intact.  Five stars.

And at least one person was happy that we flew Ethiopian.  In the lounge in Addis Ababa my daughter was losing her shit after seeing someone with a cup of coffee and I found myself saying “You can have a babychino when we get to the Seychelles”.  They overheard me and burst out laughing.  I’m going to end up as a meme, aren’t I?

We opted for the VIP service on arrival in Mahe.  Not because it’s necessary (Seychelles airport is surprisingly efficient), but because I was curious.  Someone met us at the plane with our name on a sign, put us in a buggy that took longer to board than it did to reach the lounge, and from there, they handled everything: passports, bags, forms, the lot.  Civilised.  The lounge itself is not being mistaken for the Sistine Chapel.  A few drinks, desperately slow Wi-Fi, but not a single other human being.  Someone wandered off to collect our luggage, and in no time we were outta there on the 45-minute journey to Cheval Blanc Seychelles.

The roads in the Seychelles can be rather windy.  So much so that my youngest threw up approximately twelve seconds before we arrived.  My eldest, never one to be outdone, announced, “Alia being sick made me sick,” and promptly vomited too.  You can try to ignore us, but you cannot forget us.

Setting

It is the Seychelles, so yes, it’s astonishingly beautiful.  The beach is soft, white sand (not the best I’ve ever been on, but your toes ain’t gonna sue you), the water is that perfect turquoise, and the dramatic rock formations and wetlands give the whole place a cinematic quality.  It’s textbook paradise.  Until you actually try to interact with it.

This is where I have to be careful in how I describe it.  The location is stunning.  Truly.  But how it translates to a functioning resort is where things start to unravel.  I’ve baptised the beach Ebola Beach, because it’s clearly trying to kill you.  The ocean isn’t swimmable unless you’re either a Navy SEAL or an actual seal.  Even in this so-called calm season, it’s rough.  Loud.  Chaotic.  The kind of ocean that drowns out conversation, and a kid or two.  The kind that leads to moments where your wife tries to confess she’s been seeing Pablo the suspiciously flexible yoga instructor, and you mishear it as her asking how much to tip the waiter, who you assume is named Pablo.

The current is so strong that even when it looks tame, it’ll yank you off your feet.  We verified this using our child as bait—scientific method and all—and promptly struggled to hold onto her.  No need to thank us for our research.

We were told this was one of the best times of year, with the calmest ocean, when the beach is at its widest.  During other months, there’s barely any sand at all.  And with the strength of the waves, in certain spots, the water comes nearly all the way up to the vegetation.  Romantic, if you’ve ever dreamed of a holiday where the beach tries to drown you before breakfast.

The property clearly knows the beach isn’t its strongest asset.  There are only a handful of loungers scattered along the sand, and the resort itself isn’t built around the beach in any meaningful way.  Which is pretty unusual for a beach resort.  Because while the beach looks beautiful—classic Seychelles, postcard-perfect—the reality is that for large parts of the day, you wouldn’t actually want to be on it.  The ocean makes sure of that, with its loud, aggressive, and hostile personality.  It’s the Gordon Ramsay of beaches.

Just away from the beach, there’s a lagoon-like feel of the wetlands winding through the property, though I was told some of them dry out seasonally.  But where there’s still water, there are mosquitos.  Oh, there are mosquitos.

Facilities

When Cheval Blanc took over the site, they were bound to the existing Banyan Tree footprint, which left them heavily restricted.  It explains why the spa has nothing going for it.  Or the beach villa’s aren’t that amazing.  Or why the main area just feels a bit soulless with its vast empty space.  Jean-Michel Gathy is one of the finest hotel architects out there, and if this is the best he could do, I hate to see what the competition pitched.  There’s no denying it’s beautiful—it’s just missing something.  The entrance to the main area, for example, feels more like a waiting room for a cognitive exam than a place one’d ever want to spend time in.  It’s elegant, but oddly hollow.  Which is how the doctor also described my brain.

The property’s footprint isn’t huge—you can easily walk the whole thing if you’re staying in a beach villa—but they’ve packed a surprising amount into the available space.  They’re not idiots; they know the ocean’s not your friend, which explains the four swimming pools, including one tucked beside the gym.  There’s a very small, shaded pool near the beach, the main “flagship” pool in front of Vivamento, and another one down a few steps that feels suspiciously like it might’ve been built by accident.

The gym is solid: high ceilings, spacious layout, and fully kitted out with TechnoGym equipment.  It actually reminded me a bit of Joali Being, albeit not as impressive, with that single large room layout, though here they’ve also got a separate space for spinning and Pilates.  There are separate male and female changing rooms, beautifully done, each with their own sauna and almost-finished steam room, which is extremely generous for gym facilities.

You can tell they’re still settling in: we were apparently the first guests ever to show up for an organised morning class.  Lucie and I joined a HIIT session, during which I confidently set a new resort record for most visibly distressed human to have ever taken that class.

As with most new builds, the landscaping still needs time to grow in, but it’s mostly minor stuff.  Except around the gym, as it’s directly opposite the kids club, and is rather weird to have some fat, sweaty men (or women, I don’t want to discriminate) staring at your children as they’re heavily breathing.  The juxtaposition is brilliant.  Who wouldn’t want to follow a relaxing 15-minute sauna with the soothing soundtrack of screaming children?  Maybe it’s intentional.  At least it’s different.  Better than yet another person trying to convince me that a plunge pool is a good idea.

Nearby, there are both tennis and padel courts, and the same surfing machine as Randheli.

The spa, on the other hand, feels oddly isolated—tucked away in a completely different section of the property, past the main area and en route to the hillside, but with none of the views.  It’s beautifully designed, of course—this is Cheval Blanc—but strangely sparse.  There’s a dedicated manicure/pedicure room and not much else.  Apparently, sauna and steam rooms are on the way but weren’t finished during our visit.  The overall offering feels underbaked, especially given the brand.

As far as I could tell, the only other thing not up and running was their Concept Store, which I think is a posh term for selling you LVMH swag.  Which based on their current share price plunge, they need to get up and running as soon as possible.

Room

Cheval Blanc Seychelles comprises 52 villas.  There are 24 beachfront villas and 28 hillside villas, all featuring private pools and offering views of the beachfront, hillside, or tropical jungle.  The jungle is reserved for those who spend 16 hours travelling to stare at a tree.  Although the same could be said for those in a beach villa too.  We stayed in Beach Villa #19.

The design language is unmistakably Cheval Blanc, but distinctly different from Randheli. There, everything is lemon yellow.  Here, it’s lush green—bathrobes, accents, even the kid-sized slippers.  The room number carved in stone, the tablets, the intricate detailing, the horse, the free minibar that’s replenished daily, the push-button to open door that always annoys me.  And of course, the daily pastry left in the fridge, which I always eat, and always regret.  It’s beautifully done and familiar.

The aesthetic is superb, the attention to detail is superb, but for a villa built in 2025 it’s suffering a flaw I would not expect to see: being open-plan.  There’s no separation between the living and sleeping areas—just a few steps up to the bed, which faces directly out to the pool through large glass doors.  It’s not ideal, unless you enjoy sitting in the bathroom in the mornings, waiting for others to wake up, wondering where it all went wrong.  I would want the living room to be separate, even if I were here just with my wife.  I don’t wanna throw on trousers to go outside in the morning before everyone else wakes up and to avoid mosquitos.

The privacy between villas is also lame.  On the walk back from the beach to your room, you’re essentially strolling through your neighbour’s garden.  Shared pathways, shared views—awkwardly catching the eye of your neighbour while they’re in their swimming pool, and everyone pretending you didn’t see each other.  It’d make a terrible White Lotus series, everyone would know the murderer/body in the first five seconds, as everyone can see what you’re up to.

The bathroom is expansive: double vanity, huge bathtub, a spacious dressing area, separate toilet and a bonus guest toilet in the kitchenette area.  There are tall ceilings throughout, though not quite as dramatic as the main room.  But better than all that, there are Toto toilets—yes, plural.  God works in mysterious ways.

There are a few things that managed to annoy.  On arrival, I immediately managed to pull the shower handle off the wall.  The iPad controls for the room are more of a pain than a convenience, and there’s no real blackout, as the curtains don’t retract into the wall like they do in newer builds – light leaks in around the edges.

Outside, there’s a covered dining area, similar to the Island Villas at Randheli.  The pool is generous, though not Randheli-sized, and flanked by two loungers.

As for being on the beach… well, technically, you are.  But you won’t see much of it.  The view is mostly blocked by greenery, for privacy reasons, so you can’t see the ocean from inside your room.  Nor outside of it.  This makes the “beachfront” label more theoretical.  What you do hear, however, is the thunder of massive waves crashing day and night.  It sounded like 30 bankers throwing themselves off a building after watching the tariffs hit their portfolios.

On the beach, there aren’t enough loungers anyway, so if you want comfort, you’re largely confined to your own patch.  Even when they do add more loungers, high tide will limit when you can actually use them.  And then there’s the Seychelles classic: the public beach rule.  This means you’re stuck staring at a group of tourists camped out in front of your villa or at a hedge that hides them, along with any trace of the ocean.  A lose-lose.

In hindsight, I should have booked a two-bedroom, which has more space and a separate living area.  But I didn’t want to commit that much money to an untested property.  Naturally, a few weeks before arrival, I changed my mind, by which point, they were all gone.  My fault, not theirs.  But still.

Which room?

If you’re confused about which room category to pick, you can join my exclusive club.  I’ve never stayed at a beach resort where the beach villas are priced roughly the same as the hilltop ones—and yet, after experiencing Ebola Beach, that pricing structure made sudden, violent sense.  The beach villas are not only battling the ocean; they’re also noticeably smaller and have a less practical, more open-plan layout.

For families with older kids, your choice is essentially made for you: only the larger villas are beachfront.  All of the two and three-bedroom villas are beachfront—except for one: Villa Horizon.  Technically a two-bedroom, it’s positioned as the flagship one-bedroom villa (because branding is a state of mind) and sits closer to the main area than most of the hilltop villas.

The beachfront villas are all open-plan, thanks to the space limitations, whereas the hilltop villas go vertical, with separate living rooms and better layout overall.  Personally, I’d rather stay in the hilltop villas—until I remember it will take ten minutes to get a buggy and even longer to explain to someone which villa you’re actually in.  So, no thanks.

They were just putting the finishing touches on their flagship five-bedroom villa, which, ironically, might be in the worst location on the entire property.  It’s positioned right next to the public beach access, at the exact spot where most outside guests tend to gather.  The ocean is calmest there, and, well, people are lazy—they’re not walking further than they have to.  So if you’re spending over $20k a night for that villa, you may be delighted to find a charming collection of tourists camped out in front of it.  Some are even selling things.  A true cultural immersion experience.

And if you need any more culture, you can talk to this… thing.

Service

All the intention is absolutely there, but the execution often trips over itself and lands on an anvil.  Think the Wet Bandits from Home Alone.  Look, they’ve been open five months.  Rarely does anyone get it right in the first year, and I don’t find the rates here offensive either, so it is what it is.  But will that stop me from writing about it?  Hell no.

Let’s start with the Stay List.  I didn’t send one in.  Partly to test them, partly because I just didn’t feel like it.  And to their credit, they nailed it, using all the preferences from the numerous other Cheval Blanc’s we’ve stayed in.  They also had some of the best welcome pastries I’ve had in ages.  I raved to a few staff about the incredible welcome snacks, including the chef, who promised us a refill.  That never happened.  I’m not a petty man, but you go promising me chocolate and don’t deliver?  You’re dead to me.  Dead.

I like points that just help me cut down on the word count, as they so perfectly encapsulate the stay: spending over 20 minutes dealing with the bill at the end, as they graciously offered us two complimentary spa treatments for being regulars, yet then billed us for them.  All the best intentions, little of the delivery.

There were nice touches: offering to clean our luggage on arrival, pre-ordering our breakfast on the second day (don’t think I’ve ever experienced that before, but makes total sense as most people eat the same thing for breakfast every day), and stocking the fridge each afternoon with a pastry of the day.  Housekeeping was generally excellent, albeit slow, and always found in our room as we came back from breakfast.  But by the end of the stay, even the pastry gifts had noticeably shrunk, both in size and enthusiasm.  The generosity and thoughtfulness of the Cheval Blanc brand was absent.  It was like someone was slowly siphoning off the magic.

Our butler had just one villa to look after—ours—for several days, which should have been amazing.  He was very kind and responsive, but not proactive.  We saw more of our former butler from Randheli (now working here for a month to train the others up to standard), who we kept bumping into as he buzzed around other villas, reminding us how high the standard could be.

There’s a mix of familiar faces from the Maldives—Joali, Velaa, Randheli—many of whom recognised us, and most of whom were excellent.  Management (all expats) was engaged and very present, very often asking for feedback.  But there’s still a noticeable gap when it comes to the newer, local staff who make up the majority.  No one seems to know the answer to anything.  I could have asked their name, and they’d have needed to double-check with a manager.  I wasn’t asking them to explain what reciprocal tariffs are; these were basic questions.  Over at Suva, lunch took forever.  We had to wait for another table to finish reading the kids menu, as it was the only one available.  Someone didn’t know where the bathroom was.  Others looked genuinely confused, like it had opened yesterday, or how they managed to get a job.  Like those people you see mistakenly showing up for TV interviews.

On our last day, there was no housekeeping and a completely different team at Le White, so everything had to be re-explained.  Lucie remarked, “It’s feeling very Banyan Tree,” which is impressive given that neither of us has actually stayed at a Banyan Tree before.  But I’ve seen Full Metal Jacket, so I can guess.

There are real stars in the team, no question.  But you can’t shake the feeling that everything’s still improvised.  Repeatedly asking for our villa number, missteps with simple requests, occasionally forgetting where the bathroom is—it all adds up.  But few things irritate me more than someone cracking open a bottle of billable water without asking first, which they kept doing.  Eventually, they stopped, presumably after noticing the steam rising from my ears.

The bones are there, and the people are trying.  But right now, it’s still finding its footing.  And the foot might need to give a kick up the arse.  But once again, they’ve been open for five months.

Also, shoutout to the GM who told me he was looking forward to my review.  At least I know I have one reader.

This way to somewhere better.

Food

The food was excellent, with a few real standouts—especially anything that passed through the pastry chef’s hands.  I always start trips with the best of intentions: I won’t eat like a pig who’s just completed a seven-day fast.  I’ll be sensible.  Balanced.  Civilised.  And within about eight seconds, all my willpower vanishes.

The desserts are exceptional.  All of them.  There was a Paris-Brest I’m still thinking about, partly because the name makes the child in me giggle, but also because it was amazing.  In fact, sweets are a real strength across the resort, with one exception: the breakfast pastries.  When they’re free, apparently, no one’s too concerned about whether they’re worth eating.  The pastries rotate almost entirely each morning, which is good going, even if most of them aren’t particularly memorable, except for one blueberry doughnut that tasted like someone sprayed an orgasm into my mouth.  Even the bread is outstanding, and also changes daily.

There are five restaurants, which is impressive for a property of this size.  The only one I didn’t bother with is 1947, which is only open twice a week.  But scheduling conflicts was not my reason for absence.  I don’t think I’ve ever overcome my dislike of this restaurant since having such a bad meal in Randlhei.  But even ignoring that, I have neither the patience nor the emotional bandwidth to sit through a three-hour tasting menu in the tropics; it’s not why I go on holiday.  And , especially when my children mostly talk about poo, so that’s as far as my conversation skills now go.

Le White is the main dining spot—open for all meals—and the most consistent in terms of service, thanks to a heavily expat team who actually seem to know what they’re doing.  Breakfast is a small buffet, similar to Randheli’s in style, but even smaller, with a modest à la carte focused on eggs, a few Asian dishes, and your standard French toast/pancake/crepe rotation.

Lunch and dinner follows the same menu, with an international offering including a variety of Southeast Asian, Indian, burgers, soups, etc.

The kitchen knows what it’s doing—it’s just a pity the setting doesn’t match. It’s a shame it’s not beachside.  It’s open-air but mostly indoors and with little views, which, combined with the humidity and relentless flies, makes it yet another query as to whether you’re in a beach resort.

Sula is the casual beachside grill, perched just above the sand with a small pool and loungers nearby.  It’s beautiful in theory, with classic Seychelles rocks providing the backdrop.  In practice, it’s a bit of a mess.  They need a manager here—orders are forgotten, bills are wrong, napkins are a distant memory, and the food takes so long to arrive that if you’re planning a visit soon, send me your order now and I’ll get it started for you.

The menu is minimal—grilled meats and seafood mostly—and too repetitive to return to daily.  Thankfully, you can order from Le White, which I assumed would break their brains but was met with calm competence.  Small victories.

Every Thursday, Sula hosts a Creole buffet night.  I didn’t fall for it—I’ve done enough “local evenings” in luxury resorts to know what’s coming, and I declined the opportunity to queue for lukewarm fish curry under a string of fairy lights.

They’re working on turning Sula into an all-day beach bar, complete with more deck chairs and a stronger sense of purpose.  But for now, if you’re staying up in the hills, the question remains: what exactly are you supposed to do with your day once you make the trek down?

Vivamento is an Italian restaurant, open for dinner and lunch from 2:30 pm, which is an odd time slot unless you’re Southern European or just capable of rational thought.  It’s set above the ocean, with a spiral staircase and the main swimming pool just below.

Being Italian, would you be surprised to know there’s a pizza oven?  And the meal starts strong with excellent canapés, addictive breadsticks, and a beetroot something-or-other that I can’t identify but really liked?  Ok, maybe the last bit was hard to guess.

Mizumi sits in a quaint colonial‑style bungalow, overlooking the wetlands and water.  It’s undeniably picturesque, in that slightly faded, colonial style way, but also the single most humid spot on the entire property.  And that humidity was the only thing that managed to raise my blood pressure, because the food was just fine.

Like Randheli’s Asian restaurant (once a highlight, now decidedly meh), Mizumi can’t even compete with a mid‑tier UK chain like Sticks’n’Sushi. Not bad enough to complain about, just blandly forgettable—except for the price, which is very memorable.

Kids Friendly

This is easily one of the best kids’ clubs I’ve ever seen.  You can tell it shares the same design DNA as Cheval Blanc Randheli, but with far more space to play with—and it’s all the better for it.  It not only surpasses their Maldives property, but comfortably outshines anything else in the Seychelles.

The outdoor space is huge: a slide, one main pool, two shallow walking-depth pools, climbing frames, and enough running room to exhaust even the most energetic sugar-fuelled demon.  Indoors, there’s a large space packed with toys, climbing areas, games, and an air hockey table.

I was also delighted to see that the former kids’ club manager from the Waldorf Astoria Platte Island is now running the show here.  She was one of the highlights from our stay there last year.  It’s open from 10 am to 8 pm, with just an hour-long break from 6 to 7 pm.  Would I have liked it to open from 9 am, though?  Maybe even 6 am?  For sure.  In fact, let’s round it up to open 24 hours.

There’s a children’s dining menu (although it’s the same in every restaurant – some other resorts have one per restaurant) and kids under 5 eat free.  Dnd dining hours are refreshingly family-friendly – most restaurants open from 6 pm, with some even earlier.  And it’s Cheval Blanc, so they have a ridiculous amount of cute amenities in the room, like Cheval Blanc-branded sandals and robes.

The Good

• Easy to get to
• Stunning area

The Bad

• Beach trying to kill you
• Public beach
• Rooms too close to each other

The Luxurious

• Excellent kids club
• Food
• Quality design

Conclusion

Reviewing a place like Cheval Blanc Seychelles is an interesting task.  On one hand, we genuinely had a great time.  The style, the design, the attention to detail—it’s unmistakably Cheval Blanc.  It’s relaxing, yet engaging for the children.  It’s walkable, yet packed with facilities.  It’s beautiful, both in the fine details and the surrounding nature.  The resort is large enough to offer genuine variety in dining, yet somehow so quiet you start to wonder if all the other guests have joined some exclusive cult you weren’t cool enough to be invited to.

But on the other hand, I’m here to tell my clients whether it’s worth their time.  And for all the polish, all the pastries, and all the promise, something fundamental is missing.  It’s not the service.  It’s not even the rooms.  It’s the location.

Like almost every new hotel, it’s not quite ready.  But unlike most, that’s not something time will fix.  The issue isn’t teething problems or undertrained staff—it’s the setting.  Cheval Blanc Seychelles is the right brand in the wrong place, while North Island has long been the wrong brand in the right one.  But North can fix that—Marriott’s out.  Cheval Blanc can’t fix the ocean.  Location isn’t something you can fix with time.  The landscaping will grow.  The staff will improve.  But the dangerous tide, the public beach access, and the inescapable sense of “just another resort” will linger on.

Would I recommend flying all the way here just for this?  No.  For the vast majority of people, getting here is such a hassle that there are many more special places you could go instead.  But if you wanted to pair it with North Island, La Cigale, one day Fregate, or even Waldorf Astoria, it would make for a good combo.  A base for exploring Mahe, a soft landing after the pain to get to this part of the world.  But a destination in itself?  No.  It’s a very good resort.  But it’s still just a resort.  It doesn’t have that je ne sais quoi you find at Randheli or Cheval Blanc Paris.  It’s missing the magic.

This feels like a resort aimed at “good enough,” which is a shame given the weight Cheval Blanc carries as a brand.  But, they’ve priced it accordingly, and from that perspective, it makes sense.  I feel they should have chosen a private island.  And yet, I’m oddly grateful they didn’t.  I’m glad to finally have a solid, recommendable option on the mainland.  Unlike Four Seasons Mahe, I can actually point people here without smirking as I knowingly send them to a place I dislike, usually because they asked for free advice and plan to book it with their usual agent.

Seychelles desperately needed something like this.  It is one of the most beautiful destinations on Earth, yet it has been sorely lacking in a product that draws people in.  Four Seasons needed real competition.  It now has it.  If you ignore that the beach is actively trying to slay you and your loved ones, it’s the best resort on the mainland, by some margin.  I appreciate that’s like saying Ted Bundy was an all-around great man, if you ignore the hammer stuff.

But if this were the site of the Four Seasons?  Chef’s kiss.  Instead, what we have is something that’s very good—but not unforgettable.  Somewhere that felt they needed to be here, rather than wanted to wait for the perfect opportunity.  I like it a lot, but there are caveats.  It just doesn’t have that intangible magic (except in the design department).  The feeling you get at truly special places.  It almost felt inevitable that the French brand that greets you with “bonjour” in the Maldives would eventually set up shop in this French-speaking territory.  But did it have to be here?  Surely a private island would have been more fitting.  More special.

The loud, relentless ocean.  Drowning hazards.  The endless parade of buggies buzzing past every five seconds.  The concrete pathways.  The one-bedroom beach villas have no separate living space.  The villas too close to each other.  A child was injured by a wave while we were there.  Strangers with full beach-day setups were camped out in front of villas.  A rotating cast of strangers setting up shop outside your room.  A stray dog wandered in to drink from the kids’ pool.  And despite the beautiful design, you still can’t see the ocean from most of the beach villas.  Because privacy.  Because zoning.  Because Seychelles.

None of it is Cheval Blanc’s fault—they’re bound by the laws of physics and local legislation—but it chips away at that sense of escape I look for in places I genuinely fall for and recommend without hesitation.  You’re probably not imagining near-drownings and randoms loitering outside your villa when you book your trip to paradise.

And yet I’d still consider coming back.  In fact, I very likely will come back when Fregate finally reopens.  Our five nights flew by.  I really did enjoy it.  And until Four Seasons Mahe has a major refurb, there is no competition for the winner of Mahe’s best.  Even if that’s not quite the compliment it sounds like.