Apart from a few authentic spots in urban Chinatown enclaves, it took decades for Chinese restaurants in Europe and the United States to advance beyond dingy chop-suey shops adorned with neon dragons. Even then, a dubious array of buffets and take-away joints replaced them as the standard. While other global flavors easily found their way into the Western culinary canon, the full range of Chinese cookery has remained elusive, reduced here to a series of suspect "čínské restaurace" storefronts.

Granted, the appeal of chicken feet, dried shark fin, congealed bird mucous and other delights from the slaughterhouse floor may never find an audience in this part of the world. But there's also more breadth to the cuisine than General Tsao's chicken and kung pao shrimp.

China Fusion avoids the usual clichés — no paper lanterns or multicolored dragons. It's an indication of more serious ambitions.

In place of theme décor, the restaurant casts itself as a subdued haven one floor above the chaotic Světozor passage. Looking every bit like a Euro-trendy, white-tablecloth bistro with upscale Asian accents, China Fusion emphasizes fusion through ambience. It even stocks a decent wine list, although no bottle, whatever the appellation or vintage, could stand up to the green mussel entrée.

The mussels are meaty and musty, unexpectedly resistant to a prying fork, but otherwise relatively benign. The sauce, however, carries a vicious shock wave of garlic, enough to waste every vampire in every film ever made about vampires. After it decimates the taste buds, whatever remains of your palate must decipher a nicely puzzling backlash of flavor, starting with enough salt to smooth out the abrasive aftertaste of so much garlic, bitter orange sweetness and a rich caramelization from the pan.

Not exactly a first-date dish, but not bad for those inclined to bold flavors.

Another explosive, though more intriguing, presentation is a chicken breast, fried and sliced, rolled in almond and drenched in a very tart lime sauce. Even without the covering of citrus, it would be a reasonably good entrée. Strange as it may seem, the bitterly sour, overly sweet sauce boosts it into an extraordinary, can't-stop-eating-it category. The mellow taste of almond and a barely palpable scattering of chili buffer the lime and sugar bomb just enough to add dimension to the plate. Indeed, it almost seems as if the nutty essence picks up momentum as you cringe from the citrus. As a counterweight and palate cleanser, the kitchen includes a side of shaved bok choy spiked with a good dollop of chili sauce, which cuts down the lingering sweet acidity and moves you along to the next piece of chicken.

Starters are less impressive, however. Gyoza merits little more than a mention alongside the similar but more pedestrian "pot stickers" served by American chain restaurants; they're plain, bland nonentities.

One good thing about the gyoza: The soy sauce served alongside for dipping purposes is surprisingly nice, with apportioned layers of character not commonly found. There's a well-fermented sting, a hard, brackish rush, then a subtle but sharp finish resembling ginger.

Truly wonderful.

Another appetizer, chicken in orange juice, reeked of zest but was otherwise muted by off-balance seasoning (mostly garlic). Bits of orange peel hang in the murky liquid, and there's a backwash of bitterness, plus tough, chewy strips of chicken — nothing more.

There's shark-fin soup on the menu and a rather expensive braised dorsal entrée. For the less adventurous upscale diner, there's fried lobster with ginger as well. The one dessert item I sampled was a row of eggy steam buns filled with an understated red bean paste, which proved oddly satisfying.

The menu offerings tend toward Cantonese with a few Szechwan touches. Cantonese is a forgiving style, easily accessible and well understood by fans of the typical Chinese restaurants found in the United States and the UK a few decades ago — not too spicy with predominant flavors of, yes, ginger and garlic.