Bang on 7pm, Steve dived behind the bar to switch the soundtrack. He was a self-confident New Yorker (“Uruguayan, Peruvian, Armenian, with a dash of Chinese”), and his restaurant, La Fusta, served the best Argentine food in Queens.

But he knew who was boss, and it was out with chart sounds. “Evenings I gotta play tango,” he explained, as mournful sounds filled the room. “Or I get beat up.”

I believed him. The foodies who flock here from Manhattan come for the tenderest organic steaks this side of Buenos Aires, but also for something rarer. Uncut Latin spirit.

I was taking a tip from a friend. “Eat your way around Queens,” said Seamus, who had lived there. “It’s a global village – a different city.” So I made my way to Times Square one Sunday, bought a $7 day pass and boarded the 7 train. Next stop: the world.

Through a tunnel under Manhattan’s encircling waters, the 7 train rises in the east, on the kind of elevated rails King Kong plucked carriages from. The string of silver tins skims glum brown tenements and clapboard cul-de-sacs, serving America’s latest settlers en route to its terminus at Flushing, where Chinese markets clog the streets.

The 7 train is a trip through a world of diverse cuisines: Korean, Colombian, Indian, Mexican, Jewish, Irish, Argentinian. Hopping off, you can fill your face all day – buttermilk pancakes or takeaway tortillas, fragrant Thai soup or a curry as fiery as a Mumbai sunset, cooled by Guinness in a pub apparently imported from Cork.

The tracks were laid by immigrant workers in the early 20th century to coax residents from Manhattan and balance out the New York populace. It worked, and sprawling Queens flourished multiculturally along it. I felt something of a pioneer pulling out of Times Square.

First port of call was Long Island City. The sun was high as I exited at Vernon Boulevard-Jackson Avenue, and back across the East River, the glinting syringe of the Chrysler Building looked close enough to touch. But Long Island City was another world: a Hitchcock high street, quiet and leafy, with greasy car-repair workshops and droopy traffic lights above the crossroads.

I passed diners serving an arty local community exiled by Manhattan’s sky-high rentals and, on cue, my stomach began to rumble like the 7 train. I entered Lounge 47 (47-10 Vernon Boulevard, Long Island City; 00 1-718 937 2044) and slid onto a banquette. Out back, a garden of parasol-shaded tables and geraniums recalled southern Italy, and Billie Holiday mixed with brunch chat as LongIsland C y staff brought fresh herb omelettes or superb steak and eggs. Over buttermilk pancakes drowning in maple syrup and blueberry compote, I planned the day. Then, ready for the next course, I rode right to the end of the line.

The rattly carriage to Flushing was a real cross section. Vietnamese housewives cradled pink carrier bags sprouting leafy greens. An Asian girl popped the gum blown by her boyfriend – a Springsteen double, so tattooed he looked as if he’d been attacked by Biros. And two elaborately Afro’d lesbians engaged in a snog that lasted from 90th Street-Elmhurst Avenue to 103rd Street-Corona Plaza, while an Indian lady studied the exotic bouquet she was carrying.

We ran high over streets that once rang to the strains of Louis Armstrong, who used to play his trumpet on the front steps of his house in Corona. The iconic skeletal globe of the 1964 World’s Fair glinted on the horizon in the late-afternoon sun, an early beacon of Queens optimism. Finally, we braked at Flushing-Main Street, and I stepped out into avenues of Pakistani grocers, Afghani canteens, and synagogues. Restaurant signs aroused curiosity: “Flushing Noodle Rest” sounded like a discreet way to get rid of what you couldn’t finish without offending the chef.

At Green Papaya (38-12 Prince Street, Flushing; 718 353 1888) were some of the tastiest Thai dishes outside Bangkok. The $4.50 tom kha soup was a delicate sweet-sour pairing of coconut cream and lime juice, plump prawns and thumbnail mushrooms. Then came a $6 red curry of bamboo shoots, like tiny, tender planks of wood.

As parties of extended families oohed over courses, the curry fired my taste buds, and Woraphot, the waiter, fresh from Chiang Mai, considerately brought another Singha beer with the bill.

I wasn’t going to worry about the waistband – not with Little India just down the tracks. Back on the train, and a hop to 74th Street-Broadway. The sky glowed like coals as I emerged among shopfronts of sari-clad mannequins, the tail lights of thick traffic blinking red with the stabbings of frustrated feet.

Jackson Diner (37-47 74th Street, Jackson Heights; 718 672 1232) is a landmark Indian restaurant – 25 years old, and Zagat-rated – and they served Kingfisher beer in glasses thick with freezer ice. It was the perfect accompaniment to masala dosa, crepes filled with potatoes, peas and nuts ($9); then uttapam, the southern lentil pancake topped with vegetables ($8). High on a screen, enviably slim Indian dancers writhed in thigh-length boots.

I was close to admitting defeat, but not before a couple of $1 Mexican vegetable pockets from Mama’s Empanadas (42-18 Greenpoint Avenue), a wonderful takeaway in nearby Sunnyside. I’d managed to squeeze in Steve’s margaritas – they have a kick like a thoroughbred – at La Fusta (82-32 Baxter Avenue, Elmhurst; 718 429 8222), before it was time for last orders, at 11ish, at Donovan’s Pub (57-24 Roosevelt Avenue; 718 429 9339) in predominantly Irish Woodside.

A TV blared football, and a stranger, Sandra, promptly bought me a Guinness. Soon we were chatting like mates. She was born in Co Mayo, but had lived in Queens since 1986, brought by her parents.

“Donovan’s has been a neighbourhood staple since 1966,” she said. “People you haven’t seen for years, you’ll meet again here.” As we opened up on life and loves, she spoke of her children and I told her the way to my heart.

On which note, she pointed to a New York Post review on the wall – Donovan’s Pub: NYC’s best burger, 2007. “As thick, juicy pub burgers go,” it read, “this $7 mouth-waterer simply can’t be done better.”

I told her I couldn’t possibly do the thing justice this time – so, as I headed to the subway for Times Square, my new best friend, in true Queens fashion, made me promise I’d be back.

Travel brief

Getting there: 14 airlines fly to New York from the UK and Ireland. Try British Airways (0870 850 9850, www.ba.com), Virgin Atlantic (0870 380 2007, www.virgin-atlantic.com), or Continental (0845 607 6760, www.continental.com), which have fares from £300. Where to stay: the three-star Amsterdam Court (00 1-212 459 1000, www.amsterdamcourthotelnewyork.com) has 110 compact, modern rooms and a central location minutes from Times Square. Doubles start at about £185. Or try the Paramount (866 760 3174, www.nycparamount.com), a fashionable boutique property just a few steps from Broadway, with doubles from about £170.

Getting around: the 7 train runs from Times Square to Flushing. A one-day Fun Pass, offering unlimited subway and bus rides, costs $7 (£3.40). Further information: for more on Queens, go to www.nycvisit.com. For foodies, Eating Like Queens by Suzanne Parker ($16.95 from the US bookstore chain Barnes & Noble) is inspiring and informative.

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