They don't really need put the word "upscale"--as in "upscale Southern cuisine"--on the menu at Alexandria's on Second. It's the kind of thing you can put together yourself. There are the dapperly suited hosts at the podium, the crimson walls and dark wood, honey-smooth R&B classics wafting though the air, the Romare Bearden-like lithographs on the wall, and most of all, there is a $26.95 price tag on the jambalaya. There's no doubt that Belltown's newest restaurant (finally filling the vacancy left by Falling Waters) is more upscale than down home.

When Andrew and I ambled in, reservationless and a little disheveled, we were clearly not quite with the program: All around the mostly full restaurant were sharp-dressed people out for birthday parties, family dinners, and I suspect, not a few first dates. Luck was on our side, though, and we were graciously guided to a window-side table. It wasn't long before our elegant waiter, his manicured hands turned out with more than a little gold jewelry, brought us drinks (sure, mine was ersatz ginger ale, made with bitters and 7-Up, but it was so nicely served) and a basket full of miniature corn muffins. Now tasty as they were, corn muffins like this might not be the best accompaniment to other food--they were awfully sweet, but then again, they came at a most fortuitous time, right before my blood-sugar level dipped to a fight-picking low. Besides, mini-muffins are just plain adorable.

There isn't only one Southern cuisine out there, and the menu at Alexandria's is scattered to the torpid breezes of several southerly regions. It boasts Cajun classics like the jambalaya; soul food standards--fried chicken and catfish, barbecued ribs plus all the sides--the collards, the macaroni and cheese, the sweet potatoes; a Caribbean dish or two; and some fusion food made to fit the theme by the addition of the word "soul" in its description. It is possible, I hope, to get soul pumped, Popeye-like, into one's body by walking into Alexandria's and eating the "soul rolls" (egg rolls filled with collards and beans), followed by "soul teriyaki Salmon."

As "Me and Mrs. Jones" trickled through the speaker--oh how I love that Billy Paul!--we took on some Jamaican-inspired jerk chicken wings ($7.95). They gave off an appealing bit of pepper heat first, followed by the lower frequencies of allspice and other sweet spices. An accompanying orange marmalade was inconveniently chunky for dipping or spreading, but boasted welcome fire-taming qualities. Catfish chowder ($7.95) was a rather subtler affair, a light buttery broth heavy on bell peppers and celery and mild bits of catfish.

Like barbecue, fried chicken is a permanently controversial dish in Southern cooking. Should it be battered or just flour dipped? Fried in butter, shortening, or bacon grease? Does a bath in buttermilk before frying do anything to tenderize the meat? Alexandria's ($16.95) goes simple on the frying (just a light coating of flour, I think) but sweetens the pot with a drizzling of honey. The results were fine, if not delectable--the breast meat a little dry, the sweet crust more chewy than crackly. On the side were yummy mashed potatoes flecked with a confetti of parsley and red pepper, and collard greens that had not been cooked quite long enough to convert their peppery mustard bite into sweet earthiness. And what about that luxury-priced jambalaya? I suppose one is paying for the shrimp that populated the heaping portion of rice, which was heavy on the same vegetables as the catfish chowder. It was pleasant, but without depth that might have come from porky bits of sausage or ham or even a quick broth made from the shrimp shells (after all, we paid a premium for those shrimp).

But even if the food was not earth-shaking, there is something about the atmosphere I liked. Usually, smoothness is not something I crave in a restaurant, but somehow Alexandria's sureness with customers is winning. As soon as I'm no longer gestating, I'll go back to the bar to enjoy some good bourbon and listen to the blues trio that was setting up just as we finished dinner. Who knows, I might even see what those soul rolls do to my profoundly un-funky self.