4-5 Rupert Court, London W1 (020 7434 1128) Meal for two: £45

A few years ago a TV history of television drama screened a scene from an apparently famous US soap, in which a Jewish mother is attending to the needs of her flu-ridden adult son. He sits at the kitchen table, dizzy with fever, while she ladles broth into a bowl the size of a baby's bath, imploring him to eat. She turns her back, all the time continuing her monologue about the restorative powers of broth, and thus not witnessing the moment when he faints face down in the soup, thrashes for a moment and then falls still. She turns around, witnesses what has occurred and shrieks the immortal line: "Oh my gawd! Levy's drowned in his chicken soup!"

I was reminded of this scene while sitting in a Malaysian café, tucked down an alleyway in London's Soho, before a huge bowl of laksa, as my own cold kicked in. There was more than enough for me to drown in here and, frankly, I didn't think it would be that bad a way to go. Laksa is one of the great dishes of the East Asian repertoire: a massive coconut-milk soup, shiny with orange chilli oil, holding ribbons of rice noodles, fat prawns, crinkly-skinned tablets of tofu and those gloriously over-processed fish balls that turn up across the region. I've eaten appalling versions and good versions, over-sweetened ones and dishes which are nothing of the sort, but which contain some thickened, vaguely spiced coconut-based sauce to excuse the abuse of the name. The one served here, at C&R Café, goes straight to the top of my laksa list. It's a little sweet, but not so that your teeth ache. There is fire and softness and a big slap of umami. And all for £6.50. It should be available from the NHS on prescription.

I was directed to C&R – apparently the letters are the initials of the manager's aunt and uncle – by a Malaysian friend who was bubbling with pride at the MasterChef victory of Malaysian-born Ping Coombes. It was, she said, a joy to see the dishes of her homeland taken so seriously. I had to agree. I watched Coombes advance through the competition, frustrated that she wasn't one of the competitors the week I was judging. I asked my friend where I could go in London to try the real thing. (Or at least what she regarded as the real thing; I suspect every Malaysian will have their own version, depending on how their mother cooked.)

And so she sent me down Rupert Court, an alleyway off the south end of Chinatown. (There is a glossier C&R Restaurant in Westbourne Grove, the older sibling to this place, but who needs gloss?) After my laksa epiphany I decided to investigate the menu further and returned on a Saturday night to find a queue snaking down the alley. No, of course they don't take bookings. It's a simple place of wipe-down tables, with grey-painted walls on one side to soften the blinding white, and some rough-hewn stone cladding on the other.

Service is no nonsense; you don't come here to be looked after or liked. This has the virtue of pushing the queue through. They also have an annexe on the other side of the alley for when business is brisk. Which is most of the time.

What matters is the food, none of which costs more than £8 a dish. If ever you want to challenge some knuckle-dragging closet racist about their views on immigration – "I'm not a racist, but I know who I don't like" – send them here. Malaysian food is a glorious tribute to the mixing of the many. It is the sum of all its influences: of Chinese, Indian, Thai and a few other traditions besides. And yet it is also itself – a unique flavour that emerges from out of what the fearful dismiss as cacophony. It is better for what each different culture brings. Witness the famed roti canai – flaky, oily griddled breads that recall Indian paratha, but with a chillified dipping broth which places them elsewhere in Asia. They leave you licking slicks of salty oil from your fingertips and crying out for more.

From the other side of the equation is archar awak, a crunchy salad of pickled vegetables with sesame seeds and peanuts and just a hint of chilli that cuts through the fat of the bread. Then comes the beef rendang. I've tried versions of this before which to me seemed little different from a Thai massaman, a big, dark soupy sweet and hot meaty curry. Here, it is something else – the highly spiced meat braised and then cooked down and down until dry; until the meat is beginning to crisp and caramelise; until the myriad spices are beginning to form a holy crust. It is compelling. It demands to be finished even though you know it will stay on your breath for days. As I eat I find myself thinking about the pan in which it was cooked, and the thick, crunchy rubble that must have been left on the bottom. I dream about scraping away at that crust with a wooden spoon.

There are other pleasures: a soupy seafood stir-fry with slippery coils of thin rice vermicelli, in a sauce heavy with black pepper that's the colour of night; some green beans and fat prawns tossed with chillies in a wok. But both of these bend the knee to the nasi lemak (a version of which Ping Coombes made in the MasterChef final). This, the Malaysian national dish, is in truth a compendium. In the middle is a tian of rice slow-cooked in coconut milk. Around it is a light chicken curry, a pile of roasted peanuts still in their crimson skins, plus a kindling of tiny dried, salted fish, with a slightly woody texture that gives way to crunch. And, of course, there is a puddle of thick sambal, the extraordinary Malaysian condiment made with chillies, shrimp paste, garlic, ginger, sugar and lime… you know, all the good things. A spoonful of nasi lemak is a variation of these flavours in whichever order you like.

There is no dessert menu, which is good for we have over-ordered and are done. A ginger juice drink, with a proper fiery kick, settles me beautifully. But there remains a sense of loss. The menu is long. I've only tried half a dozen things. It remains unexplored territory. Oh well. It seems I am only just getting started.

Jay's news bites

■ When it comes to Malaysian food in London, the old Chinatown stalwart Rasa Sayang deserves to be acknowledged. Its picture-led menu includes Singapore chilli crab, a dish which, when done well, is a six-napkin job (rasasayangfood.com). An honourable mention also goes to Noodle Express, an Asian café in Farringdon. For the most part it serves standard Chinese takeaway staples, but its laksa is an  impressive affair.

■ The marvellous Rosie Sykes (right), last seen cooking at Fitzbillies in Cambridge, is joining forces with her old friend Thomas Blythe for a one-night residency at Mayfields in Hackney on 22 June. Blythe is better known for his brilliance front of house. He was general manager at St John and now runs the show at Merchants Tavern. However, he first trained on the other side of the kitchen door. Diners should expect to be well fed (mayfieldswiltonway.co.uk).

■ Reasons to despair: a survey by sustainable agriculture group Linking Environment and Farming (Leaf) found 19% of British people did not know this country grows apples.

Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk. Follow Jay on Twitter @jayrayner1