The vintage back bar and a server sideboard were salvaged from a drug store, but the room’s most striking elements are brand new, including the slick white tables and bar top, and the wallpaper, red as papal slippers, imprinted with a gold pattern based on the gun-toting white ram.

The kitchen consistently makes elementary mistakes that would provoke sighs and shoulder shrugs if the centerpiece steaks cost $20. With most of Manhattan Drugs’ steaks selling for nearly twice that price, it’s probably best the knives are cleared before the check arrives.

A wedge salad, crowned with two strips of a tasty candied bacon and blasted with way too much dressing.

With the popcorn shrimp, the shrimp are watery plugs ofnothingness. An accompanying waxy honey mustard dressing that really should be in a relationship with a different appetizer doesn’t help much.

To make its baked potato, Manhattan Drugs hollows out a potato and blends its innards with a modicum of butter, sour cream and chives. The resulting nubbins are then returned to the hard-baked shell, like parched pebbles in a dry creek bed. Both times I tried the flavorless potato, it was served at what might be considered room temperature if a large man was controlling the thermostat.

So how’s the steak? The filet’s lifeless, but the strip and rib eye are threaded with fat, and both were cooked as requested.