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Put me at a table at one of the most spectacular beaches in the world where I can look down and practically see the stitching on the surfers' wetsuits as they angle to catch a wave. The light has the clarity of late fall. Not a shred of cloud in the sky. The glass doors to the terrace are open; the salt-laden breeze plays over the white linen tablecloth, across the sparkling silverware. I take a sip of light, fragrant red. I twirl the spaghetti around my fork, admiring the violet of the clam shells against the green-gold olive oil and the emerald parsley in my spaghetti alle vongole verace.

It could be the Amalfi Coast, maybe Capri, but it's not.

Think major metropolis. And what are the chances, really, that at this restaurant with a view, the pasta and every other dish would be so delicious in the moment — and the stuff of daydreams months later?

About zilch. Anywhere, that is, except Sydney.

Nobody does the sexy, beachy restaurant better. Funny thing is, Sydney seems to do practically every other genre spectacularly well too. So much so that this city of 3 million has become a mecca of sorts for anybody serious enough about food to get on a plane and fly 16 hours to get here.

Not only are those restaurants-with-a-view astonishing — by rights, they needn't be very good at all — but Sydney also has enticing candidates of nearly every ilk, including high-concept French, serious seafood houses, contemporary Asian and cafes that serve breakfast with such sunny optimism you feel nothing can go wrong again. Ever.

In the States, Australian food is construed as fusion. Far from it. Young American chefs love to take a taste from here, another from there and mix it up into one big Asian stew, often without knowing much about the cuisines they're fusing. Australian chefs tend to keep it pure and cook Thai or Chinese or Vietnamese with a logic and integrity that are impressive.

I'm convinced it's because many of them grew up on the Asian food found in the cities. Australia is so far from everything that it has become a rite of passage to go traveling, not just for a couple of weeks but often for a couple of years, staying abroad to work and learn. The best Australian chefs have caught the soul of a cuisine, so whatever they cook rings true.

When The Times asked me where I'd most like to go to eat in the world, I zeroed in on Sydney, which I'd had in my sights for a while, so much so that my list of restaurants to try kept expanding at an alarming rate. I also had to see whether the raves I'd been hearing about the restaurant scene there were the real turtle soup. Or merely the mock.

But back to the beach. I was sure that Icebergs, a blindingly white futuristic box built on top of a swimming club at Bondi Beach, would be a tourist trap, Sydney's equivalent of Gladstone's 4 Fish on Pacific Coast Highway. But in this sprawling seaside city, which melds the beauty of Seattle with the energy of L.A., the forces for good eating have somehow won out over the philistines.

At this sophisticated urban Italian restaurant, my husband, Fred, and I feasted on sweet little gamberetti (shrimp) with textbook aioli and grilled quail with verjuice (unfermented grape juice) and red and green grapes on a bed of vine leaves. But the pièce de résistance was chargrilled salt-crusted rib-eye on the bone, dripping with juices and served with a lemon wedge to cut the salt. Dessert was a phenomenal handmade torronne studded with hazelnuts and pistachios.

Sydney knows how to do the fun and funky thing too. On the other side of the beach is Sean's Panaroma, which is more Chez Panisse in spirit. Tables are crammed together. The dishes are scrawled on little blackboards hanging from the ceiling, and the waiters negotiate the happy clamor with good grace.

No table left? They'll give you a blanket to wrap yourself in and a table outside. The food is simple and direct: tiny golden fried whitebait and impeccable deep-fried swimmer crabs with lemon and aioli, guinea hen with chestnut stuffing and Brussels sprouts, and marvelous, tender veal scaloppine with chorizo and sage. We don't have anything like this at the beach in Southern California.

For my first meal in Sydney, a well-informed friend suggested the Boathouse at Blackwattle Bay. We could try some local oysters and the new chef, Martin Bonn, formerly chef de cuisine at Tetsuya's, the original restaurant from Tetsuya Wakuda.

The Boathouse sits on a quiet little bay atop the building where a women's rowing club stores its boats. It looks weathered and funky from the outside, but upstairs it's one big room with windows all around, a view from every table and a glassed-in state-of-the-art kitchen.