Revisiting Andre's French Restaurant

Stephanie and I visited Las Vegas last November to see U2 at the new Sphere. The concert was as amazing as the venue, but that’s not what this newsletter is about. While there, we first stayed at the Plaza Hotel and Casino at the end of Fremont Street. I’d learned that they were the only hotel in Vegas with pickleball courts, and Stephanie is a fanatic—twelve courts total that, while we were there, rarely got used. Then one day, while she was playing pickleball, I walked down to the only independent bookstore (that is, selling adult fiction and not porn) in the city, The Writer’s Block. I walked down Fremont and then took a right on 6th. A few blocks down on 6th, I passed the old Andre’s French Restaurant. I’d worked there when I first moved to Vegas in 1984.

I’d rolled into town in my 1971 VW Microbus, outfitted with a bed and camp stove. I’d been living in the thing for six months and impulsively took a studio apartment near the Strip on Koval Lane. That first week, I took a server job at the local TGI Fridays on Flamingo Road after completing an employment application, two interviews, and one polygraph test where I had to admit drug use but no felonies. The training class at Fridays lasted a week, followed by another week of following a trainer, then by a couple months of shitty shifts where I made little money. So, I took a job at Andre’s as an assistant server.

Las Vegas in the 80’s was not a Mecca for foodie tourists as it is today. Vegas was more known for its cheap buffets, where you could eat as much as you desired for $9.99. A handful of excellent steak joints existed for those conventioneers in town to wine and dine clients, a few of which still operate: Hugo’s Cellar in the Four Queens and THE Steak House at Circus, Circus are two. Then there was Andre’s, probably the best restaurant in Las Vegas at the time.

Andre Rochat was French-born and moved to Boston with only $5 in his pocket and his Sabatier chef’s knives. He worked in restaurants on the East Coast, New Orleans, and the West Coast. In Tahoe, Andre met a showgirl and followed her to Las Vegas. There, in the early 70s, he opened the Savoy French Bakery. Andre’s French Restaurant was opened in 1980.

What I remember is that he was a temperamental chef type. At one fancy catered event, a sous chef accidentally broke the wing off a five-foot-tall carved-ice angel that Andre had finished just hours before. The man went ballistic—yelling, swearing, gesticulating—all but physically beating the poor woman. I did my best to stay out of his way.

The menu was pure Escoffier with sauces like hollandaise and béchamel, terrines with aspic, pates, and deserts like cherries jubilee and peach melba. Tableside service was the fashion then, and we prepared Caesar salads tableside with lemon, egg yolk, anchovies, garlic, parmesan, and olive oil. Fish dishes were presented whole with the head on and filleted in front of the customer. Soufflés were rushed to the table and portioned out before they embarrassingly collapsed.

We wore white shirts, black bowties, and vests above white aprons. As an assistant, it was my job to pour water, serve the homemade baguettes, present the dishes (from the right), and remove the finished plates (from the left). My job was to also pour wine once it had been presented by the sommelier.

I quickly learned that the pouring of wine was my most important responsibility, and my task was to save the bottles with any liquid left in the bottom. Of course, we served great wines: Latour, Lafite, Margaux, etc. (you get it). These were wines that none of us working there could afford, and because we worked in a French restaurant, we loved wine. And our clients, with their fat expense accounts, ordered the best. The trick to getting an unfinished bottle was to put the wine order in early and pour heavily as soon as any glass was nearly empty. Then, after the appetizer plates were cleared and right before the main course was served—when everyone was significantly buzzed—I’d pour what was left. I’d then show the host the empty bottle and politely ask if they’d like another. Nine times out of ten, the host would be guilted into ordering. Then, it was time to slow the pour. By the end of the meal, there was a good chance that a quarter of the bottle would be left over. I stored the saved bottles in a special cubby hole in the server’s station left open for that purpose.

After dinner service was over and we’d done our side work, it was time to drink. We’d sit around a table, taste the wines we could never otherwise afford, and eat what was left on the cheese and dessert cart. By that time, Andre was long gone and couldn’t say boo.

When I passed Andre’s last November, the original building still stood but was now in shambles with broken windows, water damage, a collapsed sign, and piles of trash in the courtyard. Andre had moved on to open restaurants in the Monte Carlo and the Palms—probably the first celebrity chef in Vegas. I assume he’s still kicking.

Stuff gets lost and forgotten in Las Vegas, a place where nostalgia runs thin. New Yorkers would never think of taring down The Umpire State Building or Chrysler Building, but Las Vegans think nothing of imploding the Dunes and the Tropicana or demolishing the original Flamingo Hotel. I like that—never looking back, moving forward, creating new. I think I push to do that in my own life. But here I am being nostalgic, and I wish Andre’s French Restaurant still served Caesar salads tableside.