The waiter at little Thai restaurant has turned on tinkly waterfall next to me, and trained a fan on me. I have coke, and I have pad thai.
The problem is the pad thai. Every mouthful is an adventure. There is the ideal amount of toasted peanut, the crunchy bean sprouts, spongy egg, heavenly spring onion. The prawns are fragrant, even the tofu is aromatic and light. There is a symphony going on, right in front of me, on this plate. It's too perfect. I'm going to have to physically restrain myself from licking the plate - in Thailand if you polish it off it's offensive: they haven't fed you sufficient and will be insulted and bring you more. I want to walk into the kitchen and tell the chef that she has a talent which is a rare and precious gift. Buuuuuut I don't speak a word of Thai, and am going to have to leave this place with both-thumbs-up, plus face-bisecting smile. And maybe even a bit of "Best. Pad. Thai. Evah!".
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