COOKING & ENTERTAINING WITH STYLE : SUNDAY MUNCHING : AMONG THE STARS

The rich can eat anywhere, but the famous must be choosey. Here, you are where you eat. And if you aspire to stardom, you, too, must consider which tables to turn to--especially for Sunday brunch, the most visible meal of the week. Celebrities know that if you’re going to be seen, it might as well be in the right places Rosemarie and Robert Stack enjoy a glass of champagne at a sunny, fall-morning brunch on the Hotel Bel-Air’s flower-filled patio.

Everybody in Los Angeles who isn’t already famous intends to be some day. That is the secret of this city of celebrities. It is what separates the native from the tourist.

We may stalk the stars but we do it for different reasons than do tourists. They are looking for fast thrills; we are making an investment in the future. When we follow the famous, it is because we are trying to find out how to behave when celebrity finally strikes.

One thing becomes perfectly clear to anybody interested in future fame: It is vitally important to pick the right restaurant. The rich can eat anywhere, but the famous must be choosey. Would you catch Madonna eating among a group of old fogies? Not likely. Or Gregory Peck losing his dignity in some loud and trendy new eating establishment? Unthinkable. They know that in Los Angeles you are where you eat.

And if you aspire to stardom, you, too, must carefully consider which tables to turn to--especially for Sunday brunch, the most visible meal of the week. It is hard to hide when you are eating in broad daylight, on a weekend, when everybody has the leisure to look around. And celebrities know that if you’re going to be seen, it might as well be in the right places. PLAYING IT SAFE

You really can’t go wrong at the Hotel Bel-Air dining room. It’s a dream of a restaurant, warm and lovely in the evening but particularly pleasant outside on the patio on a beautiful day. Bougainvillea drips over pink Spanish arches that frame bright blue skies. Umbrellas hover protectively, blocking the sun. Swans make lazy circles in the pond, while above them on a little bridge couples stroll, hand in hand. It is like some enchanted drawing come to life.

And even when the place is filled with certified celebrities (everybody comes here--the Reagans, Audrey Hepburn, Sophia Loren, even Tom Jones, who lives around the corner; it is the quintessential California brunch) the maitre d’ manages to make you feel as if you belong. “Is this table all right?” he asks anxiously as he seats you, sounding as if he really cares.

The brunch is expensive--but worth the splurge. It’s a major meal, one that rolls breakfast, lunch and dinner into a single repast. And it is a perfect opportunity for those less celebrated than they’d like to be to find out how fame feels.

The service is smooth and professional. The captain will offer a choice of fresh juice or champagne. He will then arrive with an opulent basket filled with croissants, muffins and various sorts of coffee cake. Only after you have worked your way through a basket or two will the actual meal begin.

Brunch here is served in two courses. Among the proffered first courses is a memorable carpaccio . It is a thickly sliced piece of raw beef on a bed of baby lettuces and young arugula. The top is glossed with a mixture of olive oil, lemon and herbs and then flecked with Romano cheese.

Other choices include menudo , for those with that morning-after feeling. There is also a lovely tortilla soup--a sort of warm gazpacho topped with fried tortillas, cilantro, chicken, cheese and chunks of avocado. There is fruit, either cold or in a warm compote drizzled with vanilla cream. But best of all is the Petrossian smoked salmon, sliced with a generous hand, served with a creamy grapefruit dressing, and topped with golden caviar.

Main courses offer a choice of breakfast or dinner dishes. Breakfast is not your best bet. If you must have eggs, try eggs Benedict with applewood-smoked pork loin and orange Hollandaise. That seductive sounding frittata of Swiss chard, mozzarella and sausage is a dull, overcooked omelet and huevos Zacatecas , which sounds wonderful, turns out to be nothing more than nachos with over-scrambled eggs and onions. However, most of the more substantial dishes are excellent. I especially like grilled marinated flank steak with home-grown greens, spicy cilantro and lime mayonnaise. Equally delightful is Sonoma lamb with melted eggplant (a saute of eggplant, tomatoes and zucchini that does not seem remotely “melted” to me), accompanied by a poached egg.

You can, if you’ve a mind, go on to dessert. Few people have the stamina for it. After such a meal, endless cups of coffee seem more appropriate.

As he ushered us out, the maitre d’ stopped to answer the telephone. “Ah yes, Mr. Puck,” he murmured. “Six people, Mr. Puck? Tonight, Mr. Puck? Of course, Mr. Puck.” He scribbled something and then he turned. “You know you’ve come to the right restaurant,” he said, “when Wolfgang Puck calls up to make dinner reservations.”

Hotel Bel-Air dining room, 701 Stone Canyon Road, Bel-Air. (213) 472-1211. Saturday and Sunday brunch, 11:30 a.m.-2:30 p.m. Full bar. Valet parking. All major credit cards. Brunch for two, with champagne, $44-$72.

FOR THE RICH AND THE THIN

Brunch at the Bel-Air is beautiful--so beautiful that with all the sun and flowers and celebrities you probably won’t notice that most of the food sounds better than it tastes. Michael’s is another matter. Like the Bel-Air, it fills up with the rich and famous. But the Bel-Air is where the stars stay when they come in from out of town, where the powerful meet for breakfast (which they often don’t eat), and where any Angeleno will bring a guest who wants a glimpse of the good life. Michael’s, on the other hand, gets a different crowd. Stars from Sylvester Stallone to Bette Midler eat here; so do high-priced artists like Richard Diebenkorn and David Hockney, whose paintings crowd the walls. Even other chefs eat here; on Sundays when Anne Rosenzweig is in town, you’ll almost always find her brunching here. For nobody comes here just because it is pretty and high-powered; people come to Michael’s to eat.

From the very start Michael’s has been more than merely a restaurant. Michael McCarty was one of the first restaurateurs to fill his walls with the sort of art that transcends decoration. He was the first to declare his independence from France, to make a commitment to California food. He was a pioneer in the use of computers, and his wine list has always been extraordinary. When he decided to start serving brunch last year, he made another statement.

Even the drinks are out of the ordinary. If your idea of a good time is to get up on Sunday morning and try to forget Saturday night, there’s no better place . You can get tastefully sloshed on a pina colada , get a buzz from the jalapeno and lime-laden Bloody Mary, or sip a frothily delicious Bombay Ramos fizz.

I’ve been known to get high on Michael’s French toast, the best in town, made with a densely textured egg bread and served with thick rashers of smoky bacon. Blueberry pancakes are another high point--thin tasty cakes served with pitchers of real maple syrup.

Like most brunches, Michael’s runs the gamut from breakfast to dinner. On the breakfast side are truly elegant scrambled eggs made with smoked salmon and ossetra caviar. On the luncheon portion of the menu is a barbecued pork tenderloin sandwich, an oddly robust and homey addition to such a sophisticated list. Served on a baguette, the meat is sweetened with molasses, sparked with fresh greens and heated up with a very sassy salsa. More in the Michael’s mode is grilled fish with beurre blanc , a dish that arrives elegantly undercooked.

Actually, my favorite Sunday meal at Michael’s is the watercress, endive and poached egg salad, which is served with a crisp bacon vinaigrette. A take-off on the French frisee aux lardons , it really gets your eyes open.

There are pastries if you want them--wonderful ones--but you probably won’t. For the people here are all so rich and so thin; it quickly seems clear that in L.A. the fat rarely become famous.

Michael’s, 1147 3rd St., Santa Monica; (213) 451-0843. Saturday and Sunday brunch, 11:30 a.m.-2 p.m. Full bar. Valet parking. All major credit cards. Brunch for two, food only, $36-$76.

FOR THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS

It’s hip, it’s hot, it’s happening. Cafe Mambo is halfway across town and a world away from Michael’s. In contrast to the cool elegance of the West Side, this restaurant crackles with energy. On a Sunday morning (well, a Sunday afternoon, really-- Mambo people are the sort who stay out late on Saturday night), you get the feeling that every hip person for miles around is sitting here eating pastel fruits and empanadas. It might be Don Johnson, George Michael or Brigitte Nielsen. Cafe Mambo is truly a happy place.

At one table a little girl is eating hamburgers. “Is that really what you want?” her mother asks, gesturing at her own French toast. The little girl nods solemnly and then proceeds to devour the huge burger. Meanwhile her mother eats a fruit salad filled with exotic slices of passion fruit and mango, then goes on to great fat slices of French toast.

Cafe Mambo is owned by the people who surprised the city with the success of Cha Cha Cha. When they opened on an unfashionable street last year, they simply took the town by storm. They somehow managed to create a mixture of good food, warmth and charisma that made their charming Caribbean outpost a destination for people who normally wouldn’t dream of driving their Mercedeses through these mean streets.

And Mambo instantly drew the same clientele. For the same reasons. The restaurant is young and charming, filled with the kinetic art of Allee Willis. And the food is wonderful. Offerings include the likes of chilequiles, delicious fried bits of tortilla with guacamole and salsa, delicately fried slices of eggplant filled with cheese, and addictive little meat-filled turnovers in a crunchy cornmeal crust. But my favorite dish is huevos negros , poached eggs on toast topped with a sauce that is more rich brown than the black its name implies. Made with “lots of peppers,” Worcestershire sauce and chicken stock, the sauce has a sweet edge of complexity. And it is so spicy that it takes your breath away. I can’t think of a more appealing way to wake up a Sunday morning.

There are other good dishes here. The omelets are fine; the lobster sandwich with garlic mayonnaise a delight. If you’re in the mood for more of a meal, try a plate of pasta or a spunky salad.

Prices at Cafe Mambo are not very high. Don’t let that worry you; it takes more than high prices to lend a restaurant cachet. Cafe Mambo may be inexpensive, but it draws a celebrity crowd. They know that this peppy room filled with beautiful people makes everybody look good. Half the diners are young--and the other half look as if they are.

Cafe Mambo, 707 Heliotrope Ave., Los Angeles. (213) 663-5800. Saturday and Sunday brunch, 9 a.m.-3 p.m. No alcohol. Lot and street parking. American Express, Carte Blanche, Diner’s Club. Brunch for two, food only, $10-$25.