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ANY MOMENT NOW, Fred Astaire is going to pop from behind a pillar and break into "They Can't Take That Away From Me." He'll tap his cane on top of my table, turn on one heel and sit down to share a half-dozen oysters with me.

He's in for a treat. The raw oysters at Oceanaire Seafood Room are exquisite, right up there with an Astaire-Rogers duet. The choices change daily, because this seafood restaurant's offerings are flown in fresh daily from around the world. That's just the kind of haughty pronouncement that usually leaves me suspicious of anything and everything on a menu. But at Oceanaire, the claim holds true.

Becky Stein/SPECIAL (ENLARGE)
The raw bar makes a strong statement at Oceanaire, with the oysters (above) being a clear standout. There's also a shellfish platter with shrimp, mussels, king crab legs, jonah crab claws and lobster meat piled on a three-tiered megalith of chipped ice.
Becky Stein/SPECIAL (ENLARGE)
Oceanaire also scores with crab dishes, including jumbo lump crab cakes.
Becky Stein/SPECIAL (ENLARGE)
Grilled 'dirty' Fish Tacos.
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OCEANAIRE SEAFOOD ROOM Overall rating: Food: Seafood house Service: Seasoned warriors of service. The kitchen is usually well-timed, although there can be rare lulls between later courses at lunch and dinner. Setting: An art deco dream of cherry wood, red leather and neon blue light. The décor strikes a formal tone, yet the dining room is comfortable and welcoming. Address, telephone: 1100 Peachtree St. N.W., 404-475-2277 Hours: Lunch Monday through Friday from 11:30 a.m. to 5 p.m., dinner Sunday through Thursday from 5 to 10 p.m. and Friday and Saturday from 5 to 11 p.m. Price range: $$$$ Credit cards: Visa, MasterCard, American Express, Diners Club, Discover Best dishes: The raw bar items, especially the oysters, crab cake, pumpkin marlin with sesame crust Full bar. The wine list is short but interesting; prices range high for most selections Reservations: Accepted Vegetarian selections: Tomato-and-red onion salad, sides of sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, hash browns, creamed corn, sauteed spinach Children: Welcome, but little ones may feel more comfortable during early evening hours or at lunch Parking: Adjacent lot with complimentary valet Wheelchair access: Yes Smoking: At the bar only Noise level: Medium Patio: Yes Takeout: No KEY TO RATINGS Outstanding. Sets the standard for fine dining in the region. Excellent. One of the best in the Atlanta area. Very good. Merits a drive if you're looking for this kind of dining. Good. A worthy addition to its neighborhood, but food may be hit or miss. • Restaurants that do not meet these criteria may be rated Fair or Poor.

But before Fred and I slurp back bivalves, I can't help but notice the sleek cherry wood paneling; the red leather and brass tacks of the C-shaped booths; the click-clack of heels on polished hard wood floors; the austere, art deco look to the dining room.

The atmosphere is part 1930s movie set, part sepia-toned ocean liner splashed with blue — and feels a bit like a chain, which it is. (This is the seventh in the country.) The tables are dressed with white linen and table-top caddies that overflow with shiny bottles of ketchup, mustard and Old Bay seasoning. The room is filled with strains of the Mills Brothers.

The menu has an old-fashioned, horse-sense feeling. It's full of fresh fish selections and high-end house specialties that focus on seafood such as sesame-crusted pumpkin marlin and cioppino. Oceanaire says it's a seafood restaurant that acts like a steak house, and shows it with enormous portions and a la carte entrees and sides.

Waiters here are seasoned professionals who can trumpet the daily selections like barkers at an auction. They parade and pause tableside in grandiose fashion, performing functions that range from recommending your lobster be prepared "dirty" (New Orleans-style) to setting a baked Alaska on fire in front of you.

And it is so wonderfully old fashioned to serve a relish tray — tiny bits of perfect pickled herring with sour pickles and olives, their wonderful brininess melding with the crunchy rush of oyster crackers I stuff in my face every time I get near them.

The raw bar is clearly the restaurant's strongest showing, with oysters as the front runners. There are East and West Coast selections — the West dominated by smooth Kumamoto and the wonderfully mild belon. East coast oysters are smaller and less, well, oyster-y. Precious briny pearls like Malpeque, beau soleil and salt aire are such a treat when served with a classic mignonette heavy with vinegar; cocktail sauce with fresh shreds of horseradish; sesame vinaigrette.

The shellfish platter copies the towering style of classic "le royale," although relegated to being called simply "grande" or "petite." Either has generous portions of super-chilled shrimp, mussels, king crab legs, jonah crab claws and lobster meat piled high on a three-tiered megalith of chipped ice. Unlike the oysters, nothing is particularly exceptional about the way any of these things taste. But honestly, how boring can crab and lobster be?

Oceanaire is most like a steak house in its prices, which are as man-sized as the portions. Eighteen ounces of Australian cold-water lobster tail will cost you $85, and live lobster is $24 a pound. They're simply not worth it. The Australian "bug" is characteristically not as tender as Maine lobster, and Oceanaire's is no exception. Staring at my plate — stark white save the shellfish — I felt gypped.

The appetizers, especially a milky white crab cake full of feathery crab meat and barely held together with anything other than flavor, are the most interesting offerings, except some of the sides.

A serving of hash browns is the size of a plate, extra crisp around the edges and starchy-good in the center. Asparagus is always something that depends on the market, but Oceanaire's tasteless, oversized stalks seem to have been plucked that way on purpose to match the manliness of the rest of the menu. Even on a menu with this kind of brawny bravura, asparagus should never be butch.

As for the fish, it's best to stick with the simplest preparations. That pumpkin marlin cooked medium rare is scrumptious with just a smattering of black and white sesame seeds for crust, dipped into a zoomed-up soy sauce. When the menu strays into ditties like sole stuffed with blue crab meat, bay shrimp and brie cheese, it's like condemnation to luncheon banquet hell — the fish is sticky; the cheese is sticky; the white sauce ladled over it is sticky.

Desserts have tons of timely appeal, although few are actually as fresh-tasting as the fish. Tin roof sundaes (gobs of melting ice cream in chocolate sauce with red-skinned peanuts) and dixie cups (complete with wooden spoon) resurrect memories of the neighborhood soda shop. Baked Alaska is drenched in blue curaçao and lit on fire at the table. The cheesecake comes in slabs, not slices.

The American notion that bigger is better now has fins.