Where Half-Chickens Go to Heaven : Versailles’ first branch location: Just as homey, just as delicious.

There are 47 different entrees at the Cuban restaurant Versailles, and until 10 days ago I had only eaten two of them. Let’s just say that six years of meals at Versailles have inspired a certain gastronomic tunnel vision.

I’m not the only one with lack-of-adventure problems. Everywhere, it seems, waiters in black pants and white guayabero shirts (and waitresses in short skirts) are streaming around you, delivering mounds of shredded pork or beautifully browned half-chickens, so large that they teeter precariously on the plates, like boulders just before a landslide. Both of these popular items are soaked in Versailles’ secret marinade, a tart citrus-based juice so aromatic that if you were to examine the warm strata of air that clings to Versailles’ acoustic tile ceiling, I’m convinced that you’d discover celestial clouds, composed almost entirely of vaporized garlic buds.

Ordering something different means losing out on one of Versailles’ homiest fringe benefits. Once the waiters get to know your face, they skip the formal service etiquette and get down to shorthand. “Which one do you want?” they smile, meaning is it a chicken night or a pork night.

After the successful Versailles in Culver City opened its first offshoot a couple of months ago on La Cienega Boulevard in Los Angeles, my neurosis began to compound itself. It was practically impossible, I decided, to duplicate the chicken or the pork at another location. I was wrong. The dishes are prepared so identically that if I were offered the two in a double-blind test, I’d flunk. But I didn’t find that out until I had already begun searching the menu for suitable replacements.

Expansion is often the death of good restaurants. The mysterious alchemy of ingredients and atmosphere that makes an establishment special is a difficult thing to duplicate. Try out the latest spinoff and you can find yourself in a half-empty dining hall, picking at unremarkable dishes, and feeling no less claustrophobic than if all the oxygen in the room had suddenly converted into flop sweat.

Right from the start, though, I could tell that Versailles’ new one-room adjunct on La Cienega Boulevard had made the transition smoothly. The prices have remained low, the food is just as wonderful (with an identical bilingual brown plastic menu) and your meal still arrives at warp speed.

The best sign is that the owner, Orlando Garcia, hasn’t made the usual mistake of trying for an upscale spinoff. If anything, the new place is even more modestly conceived than the original. Versailles moved into a space occupied by The New Yorker delicatessen, and the meeting to plan the remodeling couldn’t have lasted more than 10 minutes. Wine-colored industrial carpeting was installed and a laminated map of Cuba now hangs on a wall. And fresh stalks of bright gladiolas surround the child-sized plaster statuette of the patron saint Santa Barbara, who gazes languidly down at you from her perch atop a high shelf. That’s about it for the interior decorating.

The new Versailles is situated in a nondescript mini-mall, alongside a dry cleaner and a carpet outlet (which perhaps explains why, one afternoon, the dining partner of the man seated next to me was a large, plastic-wrapped bolt of turquoise lo-pile). There is plenty of street parking, but apparently no one has told the attendant who anxiously watches over the mall’s tiny parking lot. He applies himself to his task, alternately waving a giant ping-pong paddle (it says: Please Park Here) and mopping his anguished brow. And when the spirit moves him, he’ll throw in an impromptu driving lesson. The last time I backed out, I spotted him in my rear view mirror. He was white-knuckling an imaginary steering wheel, his hands flying in right, then left, concentric circles, in case I had forgotten how to navigate a three-point turn.

To allow for maximum occupancy, two long rows of glass-topped tables have been pushed together, cafeteria-style. With this kind of communal seating arrangement, I couldn’t help but notice how good my neighbor’s arroz con pollo looked, so good that I ordered it, then braced myself for a big letdown. Instead, I received a huge bowl of steaming yellow rice and chunked tender chicken, tasting faintly of tumeric and bay leaf. Out came a slippery heap of yuca-- slightly fibrous, pale cassava root sauteed with lots of garlic. Suddenly I was swigging down a can of Materva, a fizzy soda which tasted like scorched tires (“but like good scorched tires,” said my friend) and is made from yerba mate , a species of holly from South America. Then the waitress was bringing me her favorite mamey tropical fruit milkshake, the fluorescent tangerine polish of her three-inch-long fingernails glowing dizzingly against the glass of foamy pink liquid.

Almost everything comes with Versailles’ traditional side orders--a plate of white rice, sweet, mushy plantains and a cup of smoky black beans. With these kinds of extras, I’ve never understood why some regulars rave about the dinner rolls: they taste of lard and have crusts that crack like an eggshell.

On my next visit, I discovered the reason why someone had feverishly asterisked the carne con papas on my menu in red felt-tipped pen. It turned out to be a rich, dark stew of bell peppers, potatoes and soft, shredded beef. You can’t go wrong with the ensalada de aguacate , it’s just firm slices of ripe avocado and Bermuda onion in a dressing you mix yourself with heavy olive oil and a little white vinegar. But one of my best discoveries was the chicken soup. The spicy broth contained carrots and potatoes with whole chicken legs cooked so long that the meat had fallen from the bone, revealing tibia stained orange from chile and tomatoes.

The only thing I liked about the bistec con cebollas is that the skinny, gray fillet is smothered with marinated onions--Versailles’ lime-vinegar marinade could make anything taste good. A while back, Versailles started selling bottled versions of the marinade by the cash register. I instantly bought some. But dreams of re-creating the Versailles experience in my very own home were quickly dashed when I tried it out. I even took a bottle to some chef friends who let a plump chicken breast marinate in the sauce for four hours and then cooked it. “Hmmm,” mused one chef after taking a bite. “Tastes like . . . chicken.” Bland chicken. We tried pouring on a little extra, just as the label instructions said. Now it looked and tasted as if it had just been doused with sweet, chemical-y Slurpee syrup. Later, I found out that even Versailles’ cooks don’t use the bottled stuff--they make their own batches fresh each morning.

Because the old Versailles is so close to MGM and 20th Century Fox, it occasionally resembles a studio commissary. But the crowd is more heterogeneous at the new branch, a point made one evening by our waiter. I think. “I have strong legs,” he began. “And I can chase down anyone who tries to skip the bill . . .” What was he trying to tell us, I’ve wondered ever since.

Versailles

1415 S. La Cienega Blvd., Los Angeles (213) 289-0392.

10319 Venice Blvd., Los Angeles (213) 558-3168.

Open seven days 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. No liquor at La Cienega location. Beer and wine at Venice restaurant. Major credit cards accepted for orders more than $10. Parking available.

Recommended dishes: Cuban-style roast pork, $6.45; roast chicken, $6.45; Cuban-style beef stew, $6.25; arroz con pollo, $5.95; yuca, $2; chicken soup, $2.