By Paul Reidinger

IN 1984 ( the year, not the novel) Mandalay opened as the first Burmese restaurant in San Francisco. Four years later, Burma became Myanmar, which for the past 17 years or so has been one of the world's most repressive and secretive police states while – as yet – failing to attain axis-of-evil status. Fortunately Mandalay has managed to avoid tumbling into the black hole that swallowed the mother country; the menu still proclaims a "Burmese" cuisine ("Mandarin" too). No doubt this choice of descriptor is wise, since "Myanmarese" is a dubious-looking word many of us would probably prefer neither to have to spell nor pronounce.

There is a wistful whiff of the lost past about "Burmese." Burma belongs to the ages now – to occasional showings of The Bridge on the River Kwai and, more fragrantly, to the dining room at Mandalay, which is a surprisingly classy place in which to be nostalgic. True, there are those steel-framed chairs one associates with all-you-can-eat sushi joints, but on the whole the level of the decor is quite high. The yellow paint is warm and fresh, the wooden half wall that bisects the room front to back handsomely carved (and, overhead, a burnished wooden grid hung as a false ceiling), the tables neatly set with linens, and the wall art tasteful rather than kitschy. The setting is unexpectedly rich – unexpected because the restaurant's street face, of bright green lettering and small windows, is not particularly inviting – and, in concert with truly excellent food, goes a long way to accounting for the full house we recently found early on a Saturday evening.

Some of the crowd loitering at the door did consist of people waiting for takeout, which periodically issued from the kitchen in white paper bags and was rushed to eager hands by couriers, like Pony Express riders handing off the mail. But mostly the people at the door seemed to be biding their time for tables – odd, really, since service is the one facet of Mandalay's operation that isn't quite up to snuff. The staff are too few in number to handle large crowds without bouts of neglect, and we noted a certain tendency to push alcohol. Within a matter of moments, I was asked three times if I wanted another beer by different service staffers passing back and forth past the table as if in some intricately coordinated Marx brothers skit. Eventually you give in just to make them go away, and they know this. It is the lesson children take away from successfully nagging their parents.

As at Straits Café (a Singaporean cousin also resident in the Richmond), the food at Mandalay is Indochinese in the broadest sense, ranging from curried lamb and potato in a clay pot to lemongrassy noodles to tea-smoked duck. The biggest difference between the two places has to do with the European connection: Singapore has long been an international city frequented by Dutch and British traders, whereas Burma, even before it became Myanmar, lay some ways off the beaten path. But Mandalay's cooking shares with Straits' a wealth of effects that are symphonic in their bright harmonies.

Even the lunch specials are quite sophisticated and, at prices well under $10, steals. One expects a cup of soup as an introduction to these offerings, and Mandalay provides it, perhaps in the form of tofu strips bobbing in a spicy brown broth thickened with cornstarch. But the marquee items themselves are multicourse: Rangoon beef ($8.95), for example, preceded by a papaya salad sprinkled with slivers of crisped garlic, and, ahead of lamb curry, a pair of deep-fried, and nicely latticed, onion cakes. I found the lamb's curry sauce to be slightly harsh, but the Rangoon beef – strips of tender meat sautéed with bell peppers and tomatoes in a cinnamon-scented five-spice sauce – found a perfect balance between tangy and sweet.

Fish cakes ($6.75 for eight) are a commonplace on Indochinese menus, and Mandalay's are characteristically rubbery. But they also have the bewitching perfume of cardamom and are served with a sinus-clearing chili sauce. Less commonplace is the balada ($4.25), a "Burmese crispy pancake" that is something like a cross between a thin-crust pizza and a loaf of langos, the Hungarian fried bread. One dips the triangles into the accompanying curry sauce – but even undipped, the balada is addictive.

Mandalay noodles ($6.50) – broad and supple, like fresh fettuce, and generously perfumed with sereh (lemongrass powder) – would make a complete meal for a light eater, but the dish is better suited to a supporting role. The noodles go nicely with, say, Mandalay beef ($8.25), deep-fried strips of meat suspended in a thick, garlicky-sweet sauce. (If you like Chinese-style orange beef – and have permission from your cardiologist to eat it once in a while – you will like this.) They are slightly more marginal (though still exquisitely tasty) in relation to Rangoon tea-smoked duck ($9.95 for half a bird), which is served cut into pieces, with steamed, split buns and hoisin sauce on the side: the basic ingredients of DIY duck "burgers" and a kind of self-contained – Myanmarese? – universe of food satisfaction.

Mandalay Restaurant. 4348 California (at Sixth Ave.), S.F. (415) 386-3895/6. Sun.-Thurs., 11:30 a.m.-9:30 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 11:30 a.m.-10 p.m. Beer and wine. MasterCard, Visa. Noisy if full. Wheelchair accessible.