VELVET GOLDMINE: Red velvet cake, along with jambalaya and slow-cooked ribs, is among the Southern classics on Crescent City's menu. : Michael T. Regan

Occupying an abandoned pool hall, Crescent City fills an architectural void, further bridging the gap between upper and lower South Street, The decor is restrained, masculine and library-like. Though the atmosphere is not unfestive, it's built for serious dining rather than bead collecting. Red walls are offset by cream-colored trim and framed photographs. The foyer, with a black and white mosaic tiled floor, opens first into a bar area, then into a larger 145-seat dining room. Large windows open out onto the street, overlooking the cafe tables on the sidewalk and attracting snippets of pedestrian conversation.

The bar here has been set fairly high, and unsurprisingly, the service is still a little unpolished. Servers range from tentative to overzealous, and you can't help but be aware that you're one of the first guests to cross the threshold. Even so, the dishes arrive in a timely manner, with a support team ensuring that the entire party is paced appropriately.

The first gustatory impression is memorable: a napkin-wrapped mini-loaf of onion bread, to be dipped into a flower-shaped pat of creamy herb butter and/or a ramekin of olive oil with a dab of garlicky hummus. Nothing terribly exotic, but it's a distinctive gesture that you'll look forward to on your next visit.

Crescent City cooking goes beyond Cajun and creole to include the white gravies and Mexican influences of the broader South. A word of caution to the cholesterol counter: In true Southern style, much of what comes out of the kitchen is fried, even when it is not necessarily described as such.

An appetizer of pan-seared sea scallops, for instance, are battered and crisply coated. It's hard to complain, though, when they are also cooked to perfect white tenderness, and swirled in a tart balsamic reduction with cubes of tomato and wilted lettuce.

What isn't fried is most likely going to be red. The garnish of choice is cayenne pepper, which is sprinkled around the edge of practically every plate. Appetizer links of Louisiana alligator sausage are halved and tented on a thick, creamy tomato sauce woven with crisp fried onions and slivers of scallion. The sausage, by the way, is as mild as the proverbial chicken, but has a luscious seafood texture. Crab soup is a creole swirl of tomato broth with corn kernels, string beans and flakes of lump crab, plus a few fried shrimp on top.

Chef Duplantis, formerly of Louisiana and Florida, has a sure touch, consistently producing dishes that are gutsy and intensely flavorful. Not to be missed is the jambalaya, a vibrant mix of chorizo, ground beef, rice, red beans and plenty of cayenne. It's served on its own as a side or with a few of the entrees, like slices of pork tenderloin, marinated to butter-softness and grilled. Another specialty selection combines the jambalaya with juicy fried slices of chicken breast and a pale, rosemary-scented gravy.

Florida snapper is lightly fried before being grilled, the char marks streaking the golden batter. Alone, it's a quiet affair, but the plate is also loaded with zesty tomato rice, a cylindrical corn cake, which is something like molded corn bread stuffing, and shrimp bathing in a sweet creole sauce.

Boneless ribs are slow-cooked and sauced lightly with chopped tomato and a healthy dose of cumin. The shredded meat is fork tender, and served with a fluffy scoop of garlic mashed potatoes and more delicious corn cake. The only curious note here is a smattering of shredded cheese, which seems like flavor overkill.

Desserts are just as strong as the preceding courses. Pecan pie is one of the best I've had. The pecans are big and fruity, a distinct crisp envelope over the silky bourbon filling. Even more beguiling, however, is the red velvet cake. Not just a slice, it's a whole round cake that easily feeds two or three people. Each bite has the grit of sugar, the smooth creamy lick of icing, and the ruby red cake's synesthetic shock of chocolate. Both of these desserts come with praline ice cream.

The dish of bananas Foster is not flamed up tableside, but it's a pyrotechnic dessert all the same. The bananas are sauteed in butter, rum and melting brown sugar until they soften, and arrive in a pool of rum-flavored cream along with a luxuriously redundant scoop of vanilla ice cream. It's an old-school, legendary treat from a storied place, Brennan's Restaurant in New Orleans, an apt choice for a restaurant with its own great legends in the making.

Crescent City

Wheelchair accessible. Credit cards accepted. No smoking. Outdoor seating.