Chef Kevin Cadow bills his CAFÉ INDO as a French Asian bistro, a fitting subtitle for the Mid-City eatery.

Indo. It’s just two syllables, only four letters, but people seem to have difficulty nailing it. There’s a desire to sneak in an "i", making it "indio." Or, for the similar sound only, it gets mixed up with another newly opened restaurant whose name begins with "ind" and ends in "o." I was confused initially, too, more by the restaurant’s mission than by its name. But six months into business, Café Indo is serving a solid, personalized cuisine of bouillabaisse and pho – of duck confit and coconut curries – that clears its name of ambiguity.

  Prior to this solo cheffing venture, chef-owner Kevin Cadow’s career was bookended with formal culinary training at the Cordon Bleu in Paris and a sous-chef position at Vietnamese Chef Minh Bui’s Lemon Grass Restaurant on Camp Street. Cadow chose his cafe’s moniker for the peninsula sometimes called Indochina that juts between India and China into the Indian Ocean. Among other small countries, the thin finger of land includes Thailand and Vietnam (the latter once existed under French rule). Given the historical background of both Cadow and Indochina, "A French Asian Bistro" is a fitting subtitle for the Mid-City restaurant.

  Considering the cafe’s ethnic scope and its few trips off the starting block, I was surprised recently to find real cohesion in the multi-cuisine concept. On my first visit (shortly before Indo’s three-month anniversary), the cafe was coloring outside the lines of a French-Asian ideal. I couldn’t resist the squeaky, browned dumplings of herbed gnocchi clinging with Parmesan and olive oil, for example, but the Italian dish betrayed the cafe’s cultural claims. My server’s answer to the gnocchi was, "Well, some of the food is Vietnamese, some is French, which … you can go anywhere from there." Which … indicated that the chef’s focus might drift. At the opening of a conceptual restaurant – say a French Asian bistro – such wanderings can disgruntle diners who were lured by the writing on the sign.

  Since then, Cadow has taken gnocchi off the menu. He also pared the lengthy list of daily specials down to a concentrated few, including incredible three-course lunches for just $20. This narrowing down and honing in washed away leftover menu confusion like a coral leaf of pickled ginger cleanses the palate.

  Not much about the minimalist Mid-City space has changed since Minh Bui closed down his Lemon Grass Cafe there last year. White paper draped over table linens and French deco posters for foie gras and La Vache Qui Rit cheese lean towards a bistro feel. A shiny espresso machine froths with cappuccinos, which Cadow’s brother Eric serves in angular cups with sugar cubes and demitasse spoons.

  Indo’s French tastes are similarly straightforward and virtually untouched by Asian personality; white truffle oil and fish sauce never collide. Cornichons sat in line beside a silken slab of duck liver pate, Dijon mustard and rusky croutons. A seared, tender ribeye glazed with melted marrow and further flavored by pockets of fat accompanied French fries, which almost perked to crisp with an addictive coating of garlic and parsley. And while it was drab in flavor, a traditional bouillabaisse packed well-cooked mussels, whitefish, shrimp and calamari – all tinged with saffron.

  Cadow wields his sword of extensive French training most confidently with classic pastry masterpieces like L’Opera: slivers of almond cake soaking in rum buttercream between layers of deep chocolate ganache. I preferred the subtler sensations of vanilla bean seeds settled underneath yellow, burnt-crusted custard, scattered nibs of candied ginger studding a reef of cheesecake and rose ice cream melting over a bowl of strawberries and raspberries.

  While Cadow’s Asian authority is absent in both dessert list and decor, his colorful and flavor-rich interpretations of stir-fries, curries and Asian finger foods ultimately account for most of Cafe Indo’s ambience. He does sometimes meld cuisines here, powerfully incorporating various cooking styles from the Asian peninsula in one dish. At lunch, rafts of chicken floated in a Thai-inspired green coconut curry lightened with wilted herbs. I dumped in an entire bowl of basmati pilaf with cashews, raisins and saffron and then ladled it up to my mouth in a deep ceramic spoon with soothing dollops of plain yogurt.

  And my lust had no patience for transparent rice noodles slipping through chopsticks when faced with Cadow’s stir-fry. Often lifeless, token vegetarian dishes, stir fries outside Chinatown rarely enamor me like this one served in a shallow, gaping bowl did. The clear noodles slithered through a dark, ginger-spiked broth with wrinkled tofu, chives and a vegetable jumble from shiitake mushroom to sugar snap peas. Again, I was tempted to drop into sun salutations when I bit through gingered shrimp and pork dumplings. They waded in a warm, red chile-tinged rice wine vinaigrette, while leaves of watercress and shreds of carrot caught the sauce’s ebb and flow.

  Indian pappadam thin as moth wings and speckled with pepper and cumin are served before each meal alongside tiny dishes of mango pickle and gingered mango chutney. If this border crossing is confusing, it’s a delicious momentary slip.