There are about five million references for “Mandarin House” on the Internet, ranging from Chinese language centers and business schools to a dynasty of independently owned restaurants stretching across nearly every commercial corner of the globe.

Among them is the windowless Mandarin House in Bankers Hill, which derives much of its puffery these days from online reader reviews. On the outside, the 28-year-old eatery appears like a withered banquet room destined for the bulldozers. Marked only by outdated orange signage, the structure is as easy to ignore as the forsaken Pernicano’s in Hillcrest.

But step inside and you’re beamed back to when the restaurant opened in 1980, around the time when saucy Mandarin and Sichuan cuisine began supplanting a less-exciting palette of pseudo Cantonese kitchens famous for their American-friendly chop suey.

Mandarin House’s cult following is understandable. Its plain décor is frozen in time, although hints at being slightly more elegant in earlier days judging from the worn carpeting and a few random nail holes in the walls left behind by framed art. In addition, the owners rarely advertise. The libations are a little goofy. And the food is quite pleasing, provided you’re okay with settling for dishes that don’t lend much in the way of wild culinary adventure.

While waiting for two friends to arrive, my companion and I killed the minutes sipping a “flaming volcano” from red straws the length of our arms. Tailored for two, the cocktail is made of rum, cherry brandy and pineapple juice, and served in a retro ceramic urn adorned with palm trees and Polynesian dancers depicted in faded colors. In the middle was a small well of fire fueled by 151 Proof Rum that made for a fun and kitschy spectacle.

As a foursome, we skipped the prix fixed feasts (designed to feed parties of two or more) and ordered an array of ala carte items that we unanimously agreed will prompt our return. The two latecomers, both vegetarians, were particularly impressed by the crispy, meatless egg rolls, as well as an order of fresh bok choy sautéed with ginger and a couple of entrees containing semi-firm tofu cloaked in thin batter and flavorful sauces.

Among the non-vegetarian choices, an appetizer of roast pork slices delivered copious medallions of the gristle-free meat infused with a pineapple-soy taste and served over green onion shoots. Sesame shrimp, however, contained only traces of the main ingredient; the seafood entombed in six triangular-shaped cakes that bordered on the bland side. A few swipes through the restaurant’s screaming-hot Chinese mustard and superbly fruited plum sauce made them palatable.

Among the raves by those who frequent here is a chef’s special called “salt pepper chicken,” a novel creation featuring thin slices of breast meat that are battered in flour, cornstarch, seasoned salt and pepper. It was love at first bite. The batter mimics chicken skin in both flavor and texture, offering a slight chew and soaking in just enough vegetable oil in the frying process to fool the tongue with the essence of pure animal fat. In a blind taste test, I would’ve guessed I was eating fried chicken wings.

Missing from so many other versions of lo mein is what epicures call “wok breath.” Here, the soft wheat noodles lap up the smokiness of the flames while adopting a savory flavor from what is probably a well-seasoned wok. I ordered the dish with chicken, which came with all white meat that was surprisingly as moist and pliant as the noodles.

Crowding our table were two different dishes drenched in yu-hsiang sauce, which in hardcore Sichuan restaurants delivers a blast of chili heat and garlic. Mandarin’s sauce loses that pungency to an overuse of rice vinegar and sugar – not necessarily displeasing, but simply extra sweet as we discovered when paired with jumbo scallops and cubed tofu.

Entrees are generally large enough to feed three people, though probably more if your party springs for whole Peking duck served with Asian pancakes or a whole chicken marinated in “condiments,” according to the menu.

The English-challenged wait staff is friendly and humorous, accustomed to newbies inquiring if there’s MSG in the food (the answer is “yes,” but you can request “without”), and of course: “How old is this place?”

Before learning the restaurant’s exact age afterwards, we were told by our young waiter who probably wasn’t born until the Dukes of Hazard went into reruns and turned-up collars fell out of style: “Oh, this is very old.”