gastropoda/trails

The pretty good, and quite authentic-feeling, in a bad way: Chola on the East Side, yet again, where I met a friend on a sweltering day at a table under a halogen light in an un-air-conditioned room and where our sweat was definitely transporting. We hadn’t seen each other in a year and a half, so this was one of those bottle-and-a-glass lunches, which the waiters took in stride, giving a little hint at what kind of ladies lunch there. The routine has changed, so I kept expecting the apps to arrive when you now can make some chaat yourself off the huge buffet, which remains my favorite in the city (especially for a paltry $13.95). Everything else was outstanding aside from the saag paneer and the dosa, which both seemed a little wan. We did get a tindal curry, though, which I don’t think I’ve ever had in this country. And the vada counted as a particular treat. Points off, though, for a bathroom floor I almost slipped on even before our sauvignon blanc’s cap was unscrewed, and for the staff cleaning with ammonia, which does tend to drown out flavor. WIGB? Always. It does Indian right. 232 East 58th Street, 212 688 4619.

The good: La Mangeoire in Midtown, where my consort and I headed after a bizarre opening at ICP (if I’d known it was a costume party, I would have ordered an Aretha hat) on a brutally cold night and where the place and food were just evocative enough of Provence. I’d come across another mention that Christian Delouvrier was cooking there, so we thought we’d see what the king of $38 cauliflower soup was up to, the chef who once sent Ruth home feeling as if she was Cinderella in a gilded carriage. We’d been there a couple of years ago at least and knew at least we could get downsized portions of entrees, a menu trick that is not to be underestimated. But the whole experience was satisfying if not carriage-worthy. They seated us at a corner table in a small room where even a bunch of old people celebrating a birthday were bearable (another relatively young couple busted into the singing to say, “You can do better than that,” but if it was loud it was mercifully short). The good bread was presented with little ramekins of excellent anchoiade, olive oil and little olives. The Provencal white was unobjectionable at I think $34 a bottle. The waiter was both engaging and attentive. On his advice on what the chef had changed, we split the petatou, a little cast-iron pot filled with potatoes, airy goat cheese and meaty lardons in perfect balance. Bob had the petite coq a vin, really rich and almost sticky sweet; my similarly sized duck confit on lentils with raw escarole was faultless for $19. As we left, there was the onetime king, sharing viand frites near the front door. WIGB? Probably. Besides the food, the noise level is commendable. 1008 Second Avenue near 53d Street, 212 759 7086.