Like children versed in their grandparents’ youthful glories, most Oakland residents can recite the tale of their city’s gilded age. Life was good—until the once proud urban center hit a post–World War II freefall that left crime-addled neighborhoods and a hollowed-out downtown in its wake. For those who spin such wistful yarns, even recent signs of the city’s resurgence double as reminders of what’s been lost.

An exception in this narrative is Picán, an upbeat, upscale restaurant in Oakland’s Uptown district that celebrates its locale by playing to its grand and glamorous side. Picán’s owner, Michael LeBlanc, was born in New Orleans but moved to Oakland in the mid-’90s and cofounded Brothers Brewing Company, the first African American–run microbrewery in the country. LeBlanc’s latest venture, which he plotted for nearly a decade, is an ambitious restaurant that asks a lot of itself and something of the city. It holds up a mirror to Oakland and encourages its patrons to respond in style.

LeBlanc has compared an evening at Picán to “dining with the Huxtables,” an analogy that sells his restaurant short. For one thing, Pudding Pops aren’t on the menu. For another, Bill Cosby’s TV clan was nowhere near this cool. Despite its location on the ground floor of a gray, generic condo complex, Picán radiates physical appeal. The sparkling cocktail lounge, stocked with high-end bourbons and low-slung leather chairs, gives way to a regal dining room with leather banquettes, Victorian moldings, and a vaulted ceiling of pressed tin. A smaller side room, designed for private parties, features ornate chandeliers, walls draped in lush fabric, and French Quarter–style shutters that lend the space the bearing of a Southern drawing room.

In keeping with its elegant appearance, Picán employs a doorman and recommends that its patrons look sharp, unusual practices in a city where diners rarely find an occasion for which they can’t dress down. Blue jeans are discouraged; jackets are a plus. The result? An atmosphere of sartorial splendor. On a recent weekend, the actor Blair Underwood was one of dozens of patrons orbiting the bar who seemed sprung from a fashion spread.

Against such a backdrop, a timid menu would go overlooked. But chef Dean Dupuis, summoned from Atlanta’s acclaimed South City Kitchen, has crafted a selection that clamors for attention. It’s a fitting showcase of California-infused Southern cooking, taken for a refined spin—deftly prepared dishes that are unrepentant in their richness. In Dupuis’ interpretation, “Southern foie gras” means a heaping platter of creamy chicken livers studded with bacon, sprinkled with scallions and fried shallots, and sweetened by an avalanche of onion-and-marsala sauce. Pork belly arrives in a thick slab, blistered on the outside but marbled in the middle. Pierced with a knife, it lends fatty flavor to a soft poached egg, which spills across a fresh landscape of pea shoots and black-eyed peas.

Dupuis varies the intensity of his Southern accent. Sometimes he lays it on thick, as with she-crab soup, a rib-sticking bisque brightened with a blast of sherry and bolstered with sweet chunks of blue-crab meat. Other times, he speaks with just the slightest lilt: Pan-roasted scallops hardly qualify as a Dixie classic, though they try to play the part with tiny bits of crawfish and a scattering of hominy-and–spring pea succotash.

The chef’s repertoire includes a wide range of regional fare, including Low Country shrimp and grits, a Louisiana crab–and-crayfish cake, and crisp-coated, faintly spiced fried chicken that soaks in buttermilk for three days.

All the entrées—from bourbon-lacquered duck to slow-smoked ribs painted in a thin coat of molasses barbecue sauce—are delivered in portions that all but eliminate the need for robust sides, like smoked-gouda mac ’n’ cheese, served molten in a skillet, and buttermilk mashed potatoes, a smooth but hefty blend of dairy and starch. A Caesar salad, ornamented with fried okra and parmesan-grits croutons, provides some leafy shelter from the steady heartiness of the menu. If Picán ever runs into financial trouble, it might seek underwriting from Lipitor.

The size of the restaurant, combined with the kitchen’s lofty intentions, can lead to prolonged intervals between servings. But the waitstaff, whose attention is often spread too thin, drop by frequently enough to keep the evening lubed with well-balanced bourbon cocktails, and the people-watching is almost enough sustenance in itself.

On each of my visits, my dining companions griped about the prices, which hover in the mid-$20s range for most entrées and also head into double digits for so-so desserts, like a chocolate-pecan tart with a dense and disappointing crust. The restaurant, my friends complained, was tone-deaf to our economic times. But in a more meaningful way, Picán has perfect pitch. It’s a lively, lovely restaurant, infused with good vibes and a sense of inclusion. If it’s not a re-creation of what Oakland once was, it’s at least a sweet reflection of the neighborhood that Uptown aspires to be.

Picán: 2295 Broadway (at 23rd St.), Oakland, 510-834-1000, Reservations Recommended, Valet Parking, Wheelchair Accessible $$$