So it was that I strode out of the lobby and resolved to keep on going until I found a place I wanted to eat at, which in this thoroughly depressing foreigner ghetto part of Pudong wasn’t necessarily going to be easy.

About 3km down the road I came across just the place. It turns out the restaurant is called the Xiao Ningbo Seafood City but they had me at "Seafood" which was prominently displayed on a giant neon sign blazing into the night sky from atop the restaurant.

Sadly it appears that they exhausted their technology budget buying the signage and had no money left to buy any credit card readers. I suspected this might be the case and made sure to query the validity of my plastic before placing an order, only moments after walking through the door to a chorus of astonished gasps from the staff. Yes, a westerner in our restaurant. Where no one speaks English. And he only has some very rusty Cantonese at his disposal; about as useful in Shanghai as it would be to enter a restaurant in Newcastle speaking Welsh.

I pointed at my Mastercard and received a solemn shake of the head from the waitress. Then I pointed to my Bank of China card and got an outstretched arm pointing vaguely down the street. "Well I’d best make my way to the bank then," I said, more to show some sort of acknowledgement that I understood than because I thought she might have a clue what I was saying, and headed to the door. Rather, we headed to the door, since the waitress had taken it upon herself to accompany me to a cashpoint the next block down.

I’d like to think that this was because she feared that left to my own devices I might head off to another eatery which would accept my flexible friend, thus depriving her of a future anecdote about how a white man entered the dingy, smoke-filled establishment and actually stayed for dinner. But she probably just fancied me.

On our return I was greeted with more gasps, a lungful of the aforementioned smoke and a rather hefty menu, which in another example of what one has to admit was becoming a decent run luck, was decorated with almost lifesize pictures of the dishes on offer. I pointed out some chicken’s feet, soup, a fish and beer. My new waitress, who had shooed the first away, waved her hands at the first fish, turned the page and pointed out another. Unsure as to whether my original choice was unavailable or simply perceived to be of too low quality for a visiting westerner, I nodded and said OK. The order was placed.

First up were the chicken’s feet. They were neither fantastic nor terrible. A solid start. Next came the soup. In a bucket. If its contents were poured into my bathroom sink they would surely overflow. There was no way I would come close to finishing it and it would be folly to try. And that’s a shame because it was really quite delicious. Finally came the fish, which ended up bearing very little resemblance to the pictures either of the fish I originally asked for or the one I was told I was getting. Nonetheless it was perfectly adequate.

On the whole the meal was, while admittedly not spectacular, a welcome change from the fusion dross I’d been served up to now. Going to a real rundown Chinese restaurant in the middle of nowhere where no one speaks English and gobbling some fresh seafood and assorted animal parts was refreshingly like old times.

Strada opened a few months back with a decent amount of publicity. Our house in Beche Court got a flyer through the front door offering free wine to celebrate the opening. I didn’t go but the advertisement did its job; I kept the restaurant in mind whenever I was in town and feeling peckish.

Unfortunately I never actually managed to get a table. One time I went with some friends and it was clearly fully booked. Another time it looked fairly quiet but the staff declared that it was in fact booked up.

Last month at a meal given in honour of a CSR staff member who was moving on, a colleague continually sang the praises of Strada, saying how much better the dishes were than those at the restaurant where we were eating, and waxed so appreciative that other members of our party asked if she was a shareholder or had some other vested interest in directing people to Trinity Street.

When I announced that my parents were visiting and that I had booked a table at Strada, she reeled off a list of recommendations and promised that we would love it.

We did.

The starters were delicious. The mains were delicious. The pizza we shared was delicious. A proper freshly made thin crust pizza; exquisite. The desserts were delicious. The service was courteous and efficient.

Twice in one week I had built up my expectations for a good meal and twice in a week I had not been disappointed. It’s like being back in Hong Kong.

If I can eat at a Lebanese place called Beirut and an Indian called The Curry House then surely Al Casbah has to be worth a look.

Rebecca and I arrived to find the place jam packed as usual. Indeed it looked as though we might not be able to get a table. Luckily for us the staff were able to manœuvre some chairs around and cram us in. Finally I would eat at what I was soon to learn is the most dangerous restaurant in Cambridge.

Yes you read that correctly. Dangerous. As our waiter laid the table he dropped a knife which bounced right on the edge of the table and flew towards me at a fair pace. I tried to catch it but wasn’t quick enough. I succeeded only in parrying the blade in the direction of the diners to our right, giving the poor lady at the head of the table quite a fright, though thankfully not causing any actual damage. Later in the evening the gentleman opposite her had a narrow escape as the head waiter spilled a bowl of soup … almost over his trousers.

I leaned over and declared that I couldn’t be held responsible for that incident – a reference to the earlier lighthearted suggestion that the flying knife act was of my instigation – and all concerned laughed heartily. It’s the kind of place where you can relax and have fun, thanks to the laid back atmosphere created by the staff.

None of which counts for much if the food on offer isn’t up to scratch. I am happy to report that it was. Every dish from the fresh bread through the starters and main course was freshly and expertly prepared. The meal had been just as good as I’d expected it to be.

Another subject I know a thing or two about is customer service. It’s very easy to knock what passes for customer service in the UK, especially if you’ve lived overseas as I have. It’s true that we Brits don’t tend to go in for the whole "the customer is always right" thing, preferring instead to believe that the customer is always a dollop of maggot-infested faeces at the bottom of the shop’s litter bins, and must be shooed away lest his mere presence infect us with his filth and cause us to have to do some work.

Well, at the Curry House I was greeted – by the guy whom I always refer to as the Cool Old Guy, not knowing his actual name – with a shake of the hand and the observation that it had been a while, as indeed it had. And when it came time to order drinks he correctly announced what I would be drinking before I had the chance.

As usual the fare was excellent and the service polite and efficient. A pleasing, if by now unsurprising, change from the ordinary.