No local restaurant captures the collective spirit of both old and new Vegas like Pamplemousse, housed in a pink stucco bungalow east of the Strip on Sahara Avenue.
Its name is French for “grapefruit” (maybe because, as my nephew suggested, the interior is a soft pink grapefruit color), and it is filled with memories and good things to eat. Furthermore, the restaurant has withstood an onslaught of Vegas celebrity chefs and changing American tastes over a period spanning more than three decades. Now, at long last, it has a new owner, and a sorely needed fresh approach to what’s cooking.
Burgundian chef Jean-David Daudet took over the restaurant last year from longtime owner Georges Laforge, who remains involved. Daudet has completely redone the interior, adding a slew of dishes from his native province, as well as updated versions of classic fare that are appealing and fun. I am a fan of rustic French cooking, so there is no other casual French restaurant in Vegas I’d rather visit on a regular basis. (Joel Robuchon at the Mansion, my choice for a grand occasion, is a horse of an entirely different color.)
My wife and I had a romantic dinner here recently. We sat in an alcove, under black-and-white head shots of Lana Turner and Debbie Reynolds, while a French balladeer sang on the sound system. Our Gallic-accented waiter plied us with country pate, Chablis from Daudet’s native Burgundy and a perfectly executed coq au vin, chicken in red wine sauce with bacon and onions. By the time we finished, we were both on Cloud 9.
Daudet, who doubles as personal chef for an influential casino executive, can be a magician when he wants to. His menu is stocked with old Vegas chestnuts such as spring lamb rack, beef Wellington and tarte tatin, but look deeper and you’ll find gold. The chef does an amazing black truffle salad with poached egg, tarte Provencal (tomato and goat cheese tarte) and grilled magret de canard (duck breast), paired with crisp duck confit.
And you won’t find this type of retro décor on the Strip. Mirrored walls and rustic furniture are in marked contrast to these pink walls, pink tablecloths and scarlet carpets. Part of the dining room is swathed in a festive black-and-cream-striped canopy. Crystal goblets and decanters glimmer on the intimate service bar, where your kir, champagne and crème de cassis will be stirred.
I love to come here for Daudet’s lunch menu, which comes as close to approximating what one might get at Brasserie Lipp on Paris’ Boulevard St. Germain as anywhere here. Les oeufs en meurette, for example, is a lunch dish extraordinaire, whose translation, eggs poached in red wine sauce, does not adequately describe its pleasures. The buttery sauce is laced with smoky bacon, and there are crisp toasts to scoop up the yolk when it breaks.
Then there is the famous croque Monsieur, the French version of a grilled cheese that has a slice of ham in the middle, and a bubbly Bechamel sauce on the outside. Sometimes there is hachis parmentier, ground meat and mashed potatoes with a cheese crust, sort of a pub dish similar to the shepherd’s pie you’d get in London. Naturally there are moules frites, mussels with hand-cut fries. No bistro menu worth its salt would be without them.
During the evening, the ambiance is distinctly more intimate. Crudites, raw vegetables, come in a straw basket, with the color and bounty of nature providing all the seduction necessary. We nibbled on radishes, cauliflower, leeks, cucumber and tomatoes, dipping each piece in rich vinaigrette, along with slices of crusty buttered baguette.
That truffle salad is notable for thick slices of the legendary tuber, which Daudet admits that he gets from Tibet, not France, of all places. The Burgundian favorite escargot, snails done in chopped garlic and parsley, is available here (although my wife insisted she’d get up from the table if I ordered them), and so is homemade terrine of foie gras, which is nice when paired with a sweet wine from southwestern France.
Daudet’s full rack of spring lamb, meaning four meaty chops on the bone, is done with a pistachio crust, adding richness and dimension. One of the holdovers from the old place is osso buco, or marrow-filled lamb shank. But it’s not done in the typical Italian way, but rather à la Bourguinonne, again, in the chef’s irresistible red wine butter sauce.
Desserts are made by a pastry chef introduced to us only as Bo, and are equally terrific.
A feathery-light rum baba comes topped with vanilla pastry cream and flanked by a side of freshly whipped cream. A textbook soufflé Grand Marnier is as light as that cloud that my wife and I floated out of the restaurant on. There is, if you insist, mousse au chocolat, for all you old Vegas stalwarts.
Sorry, no grapefruit around here.
Pamplemousse
400 E. Sahara Ave. 733-2066. Lunch 11:30 a.m.-2:30 p.m. Monday-Saturday; dinner daily, 5:30-10:30 p.m. Suggested dishes: oeufs en meurette (lunch), $8; black truffle salad, $21; coq au vin, $27; baba au rum, $9.