We discovered the Beach Street Bistrot in George Town accidentally.

We’d gone to Armenian Street to see the sights but left, rightly or wrongly, after only poking our noses into a couple of shops. After all — very special places excepted — if you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all, and this place seemed to be mainly tourist tat.

On the other hand we’re always interested in food, so having noticed a nicely typeset, rather elegant menu outside an air conditioned place on the way into the market, we headed there on our way back home

Ray — or maybe it’s Heather — says that if a restaurant, or a wine, has taken care over its logo and its typesetting you can probably rely on its food. I believe it’s good advice generally, and so it proved at the Beach Street Bistrot.

(Ray’s other recommendation, by the way, is to order the Classics — they’re Classics because they’re good. Or if you’re cooking yourself, to buy the best ingredients that you can afford and don’t feck with them. Keep it simple.)

It was just our second splurge of the trip. Third if you count the Aussie breakfast at Urban Daybreak, which was too cute for its own good. Either way, not bad for six weeks.

The Bistrot was jumping, and without reservations the only place they could seat us was at the bar. And you know what that means: the place probably is good, you won’t have much room, and the bartender, like your hairdresser, is thinking, “Oh God, do I have to talk to those people?”

While we thought about our order the barman served us Camparis and Sodas, and then we got to talking. He spoke nine languages, he said, though we had no way to check this out. His Dad was a Malaysian diplomat and they’d lived all over. He was born in Poland before the wall came down, and Polish was one of his best languages. But if we were looking for a new travel destination he recommended Peru. He’d spent three years there.

I said to him, “When they seat people at the bar I’ll bet you think, Oh God I’ll have to talk to them.”

“Oh no,” said his boss. “He likes it.” Behind our backs he was prompting our friend to hurry along with the cocktail orders.

We started by sharing a mushroom soup with truffle oil and shaved truffles, and a green salad. Then came the main event, Reuben Sandwiches.

Yes, we know that’s not the right thing to do in a French bistro, but for better or worse there are dishes, like Pad Thai and Dosa, that we like to compare and rank whenever we have the chance. And forgoing that chance is difficult.

We’ve both eaten Ruebens at the Carnegie Deli in Manhattan — the Temple of Jewish Delis surely — so we can say with confidence that not much compares with the Beach Street Bistrot. Heather, unimpressed with hers, had once asked the proprietor of a Titirangi Cafe, who wasn’t amused, if she’d ever eaten one.

She asked our barman for the brisket to be very thinly sliced. He said he couldn’t imagine that that would be a problem.

It was wonderful, and enormous, as expected. We ordered two, which was a mistake, and ate one. The chef said he modelled his on Katz’s, not the Carnegie, but never mind. He’d spent time at Victoria University in Wellington, not the first person we’ve come across on this trip who’s said that. He remembered Bacchus, the Galloping Gourmet and Hudson and Halls.

We had a glass each of good red wine, and a whisky and an espresso — I can’t imagine why anyone would order those — forgot about dessert and waddled home.

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So here are our rankings this trip:

Eggs for breakfast: Saffron Cafe in Luang Prabang, with a quiet view over the Mekong, and just few tourists in the off-season. Or, to share with a big crowd of nattering locals, Roti Bakar on Hutton Lane in Georgetown — one of those places that really knows how to pump out good affordable food.

Pad Thai: Hard to say. Maybe our friends at Pran in Chiang Mai, or my sentimental favourite, Baan Suan Jantra in Chiang Rai, where Nee gave us a demonstration.