Original Zen

          Perhaps it's rash to send you off willy-nilly to worship at Zen Palate. True, many devouring carnivores, racked with doubts, are favoring fish these days. But how many of us are ready for shredded gluten and tofu cutlet? Zen Palate is a rare and oddball treasure, a special taste -- somewhere between loving Tom Wait's singing and eating rose petals for breakfast. And yet everyone I've taken there has seemed enchanted.

          Setting this handsome little temple of vegetarianism on an especially surly, rough-and-tumble stretch of Ninth Avenue is an act of courage (if not faith-- forgive me, I know nothing of Zen and little about Buddhism). Yet it's just a block from Jezebel and a quick beeline to the theater. Designed by Tony Chi & Associates for Buddhist owners with investments in Sichuan restaurants around town, the mottled pumpkin walls, parchment-cone sconces, white hot spots sunken into cool tile floors, and intimations of imperial palaces follow the Zen lesson quoted in the spiral-bound menu: "One can attempt to enter the realm of a worry-free space from a chaotic environment."

          There are blue skies and clouds painted above and a rosewood Buddha in his niche with an offering set before him -- unripe mangoes, perhaps, and a glass of water. The sophistication of the details -- wicker Paris café chairs, rich mahogany paneling, ice water for the table in fancy blue bottles, a slanted cut of bamboo as napkin ring, a blaze of geraniums on the bar -- plays against the innocence of the servers, sweet, welcoming, unaware that scraping leftovers from one plate to another at the table is distinctly counter-Zen.

          The food is eclectic, too, quite Chinese and a little Japanese with a hint of Indonesia, hometown healthful meets nouvelle cuisine. Crisp taro spring roll on a curl of radicchio. Mu-shu basil rolls. Classic steamed vegetable buns, gummy, soft Wonder-bread-like rounds filled with a savory mince. Delicious dumplings in a slightly thick wrap. Alchemy with taro and tofu-- a $12 sampling for two will tell you more than you need to know. But the hot-and-sour soup is nicely pungent, not hot at all, and you marvel at the slashed bits of mushroom that do a clever impersonation of pork. Zen Won Ton are elegant faux-meaty little dumplings in a clear broth with islands of spinach.

          My friends are nuts about "sweet and sour divine," roasted pecan "puffs" in a sweet-and-sour sauce. For me, one or two nuts will do; it's a dish to share, along with flavorful stuffed black mushrooms, mu-shu fantasia (rice noodles substitute for egg), and "rainbow stuffed" Chinese cabbage -- crunchily furled around faux bacon, seaweed, and water chestnuts,

          "It must be ham," my friends cry, biting into vegetable bundles tied with dried-zucchini cords in early-nouvelle-cuisine style. Ham forbid. It's smoked tofu. More tofu, stuffed and stewed with tomatoes, bean threads, and peas, makes an ethereal casserole. Spinach linguine is tossed with bean sprouts and shredded black mushroom. Sticky brown rice comes in a small bamboo cup (for one) or topped with coconut "cream" and vegetables for the table to share.

          Skip the "eggplant delight." I never met an eggplant I didn't love till this one, lost in its murky red sauce. And what can I say about the taro pancake -- battered and fried, with a sweet lemon sauce -- that's practically dessert? One evening, we devour it, oohing and aahing. At lunch a few days later, it has become overwhelmingly starchy. You can explore the à la carte listings (entrées $8.50 to $14.50) or order table d'hôte: taro spring rolls, familiars from the Chinese experience with brown rice, and dessert, $6.55 to $9.55 (lunch only). But the familiarity is deceptive. Tasty sweet-and-sour pork with broccoli is actually sautéed gluten; amazing how good it is. More gluten, shredded with slivers of celery and carrot in a honey-and-pepper sauce, masquerades as Hunan-style "chicken." Mock squid has a slightly fishy taste, though it's pleasant enough. But "chucked" gluten in curry doesn't taste like much of anything.

          When serenity demands a finale, there is ice cream or cheesecake and, among the exotica, sweet black sesame pastry, small cubes of coconut "tart" or fried jelly cake -- curiously satisfying. Check to see if the liquor license has arrived yet. You might want to brown-bag beer or a Beaujolais for this strange, pleasant outing.

663 Ninth Avenue at 46th Street

Light That Fire: Jewel of India

          Lofty, mirrored, padded in dowager blue with lines to match, Jewel of India is $2.5-million worth of optimism. Partners Bhushan Arora and Victor Khubani, veterans of Tandoor on Madison Avenue, wave that twenty-year lease, flaunting a treasury of carved sandalwood, ivory, inlaid mother-of-pearl, and gold leaf. It's a religion of sorts, that faith in New York.

          Just a few steps east of the Algonquin and the Royalton, this Indian jewel with its fiery sauces, searing tandoori ovens, and snap-finger service is a handy retreat before and after theater. An interlude with the prawns vindaloo and incendiary alu chat (not even yogurt can cool these detonated potato cubes) could keep you alert though the draggiest polemic.

          Take fire-eating friends so you can make an adventurous smorgasbord of the menu: a cooling yogurt raita (with chunks of potato and cucumber) against a torrid vegetable jalfrazi (carrots, string beans, potatoes, cauliflower, and cheese in a peppery tomato sauce) with rich, buttery chicken makhani ("universally popular," the menu boasts) and one or two or the house's warm layered breads-- almond-and-raisin-topped nan, or kulcha with spiced onions and peppers. Cool your mouth with beer, British or Indian (in the giant bottle). Pressing the icy bottle against your fevered brow is okay, too.

          A sari'd beauty greets you, and if it's a typical evening, many Indian faces line the booths and banquettes, tribute to the kitchen, perhaps, or a multitude of cousins, investors-- choose the fantasy. There are giant silver service plates, sitar music, and service that simmers from attentive to what Queen Victoria might have expected but we are about to drown in.

          If you don't want a dozen dishes served all at once, mingled on the plate (authentic Maharani style), be firm. Ask to have covered casseroles set on the table so you can serve yourself. The attendant's instant assent will be flavored with dark flickers of disapproval. Just sniff, sip, nibble, and bear it. Dip an edge of crisp papad (north-Indian wafer) into the complexity of coriander sauce, or clear you sinuses with a hit of the mango-lemon-carrot pickle that tastes like a cedar closet. (I love it. My chums loathe it.)

          I might start with a sampling of tidbits from the tandoori, because what I really crave is an overdose of the mythic breads-- keema nan studded with spicy minced lamb or alu paneer paratha, sticky with butter between whole-wheat layers --anything in the blistering, perfumed vindaloo sauce, and sag (cubes of lamb in sweet, creamy spinach purée). For you, the house's clay-oven cookery could be the focus of the feast-- whole chicken marinated in yogurt and a subtle weave of Indian spicing or cubes of chicken, lamb, or fish, sometimes nicely moist, occasionally overcooked. (Perhaps a firm advisory of preference would help.) A crunchy dose of cucumber salad with onions, tomatoes, devilish green peppers, and coriander is a must, as is shahjahni pilaf-- basmati rice mingled with chicken breast, almonds, and raisins under a sheer coverlet of egg white.

          Skip the dal papri, a toss of tasteless whole-wheat chips with chopped potato, and consider the samosa or those fritters called pakora, simple an idle diversion before the curtain rises. And if you are too tired to think or plot, choose one of the prix-fixe dinners-- vegetarian ($19.95) or the chef's or dieter's special ($20.95 each).

          There's no dessert here that could possibly compete with lemon tart, passion fruit mousse, or grapefruit sorbet. So we're stuck with gulab jaman, India's soft, milk-and-honey soaked pastry balls served warm. The charm of rasmalai (cottage-cheese patties with cardamom in rose water), carrot halwa, kheer (cool rice pudding), and the Indian ice cream kulfee is elusive, and the rose, mango, and fig ice creams are not delightful alternatives.

          The $10.95 buffet lunch served upstairs from steam-table chafing trays is popular with Indians as well as business lunchers from the neighborhood, but the meats and birds lurking in those wonderfully aromatic sauces can be toughened and fried by too long a wait on the fire. And if you order dessert by reflex, assuming its included, you'll find you've hiked the tab 50 percent for two sticky doughnut holes and a dab of sweetened cottage-cheese.

          Late one night, just before closing, it is a bit of a shock to see the handsome hostess sariless at the door, in an unmagical black sweater. "Excuse me for changing," she apologizes. "The theater is over." Help yourself to an Indian digestif, fennel seed. If spicy pyrotechnics keep you awake, this is the night you can get through the magazines pile by your bedside since January.

15 West 44th Street