Craving some soulful American cooking after two weeks of the Italian cucina, we hit South Street’s Crescent City a few hours after hitting the tarmac. For all restaurant’s low-country roots, the bistro is surprisingly elegant, all French doors, cream cloths, wine-colored walls, white wainscoting, and cherry wood. How does one eat a po’boy in such lavish environs? We would have killed for a summery Philly microbrew, Flying Fish Farmhouse Ale, perhaps, or Dogfish Head’s Festina Peche, but the beer on tap list was a paltry three draughts, the most exciting of which was Yuengling (not that there’s anything wrong with Lager, mind you). Fortunately, the food was satisfying, if a bit heavy-handed. Quesadillas filled with lightly fried shrimp and luxuriously fatty avocado was the subtlest; an overstuffed fried chicken sandwich in ‘French bread’ that looked and tasted like Sarcone’s was the most unwieldy. Each bite made more of the ingredients squeeze out, till we just gave up and excised the chicken from the roll like an Atkins dieter. The same crusty baguette was successful paired with sweet, tangy, and tender pulled pork, while shrimp swimming in a dark barbeque sauce soup was a shade too aggressive. Fresh berries and shortbread biscuits sounded like the essence of a Sunday church picnic, but Crescent City had run out. This was probably a good thing since we were so full after dinner we came down with that nauseous feeling we sometimes get after watching the Phillies.