We restaurant writers fall back on certain handy adjectives perhaps more than we should: “ethereal” for desserts, “leaden” for bad gnocchi, and the perennial bet-hedging favorite, “uneven.” Once in a while, however, the lazy word choice is really the most appropriate. Fillip’s, a new Chelsea restaurant, is wildly uneven.

Situated on a humble block of Seventh Avenue, it looks like a casual cafe, with lush plants enclosing a sidewalk seating area. Inside, a giant, impressive floral display in the middle of the small space stands out amid standard-issue yellow walls, dark wood, and white tablecloths. The 15 tables are comfortably spaced, the tone is hushed, and the dim room has a classy, competent atmosphere. Walk into the men’s room, however, and the sophisticated fine-dining mood is shattered by a deodorant ad – a telltale hint that the management has no fear of compromise, here trading patrons’ equanimity for maybe $100 a month in revenues from Zoom Media.

The first and loudest wrong note, though, is struck by the staff. On my visits, some were in tuxedos, others in jeans, with no perceptible pattern. They were intermittently attentive and oblivious, often requiring multiple requests before carrying out such tasks as bringing the menu. Their main shared aptitude was in pushing wine – clearly extensive drills had taken place. Again and again throughout our meals, a server would peer closely to assess the level of a half-empty glass and ask “Would you like another glass?” Then a minute later, another server, and then the host would come by to do the same, although none of these solicitous citizens was available when we were ready to order dessert. (I should mention that the bussers, by contrast, were flawlessly good at their jobs.)

Worst of all, the servers’ training doesn’t seem to extend beyond pouring refills. Despite the respectable, mostly French cellar, which includes several premier cru Bordeaux with a drinker-friendly minimal markup on bottles, the staff appears to have no knowledge of or interest in wine. Asking for a recommendation is pointless.

One waitress was nonjudgmental: “Oh, the pinot grigio is okay, the sauvignon blanc is okay; they’re all okay really.” Another flatly stated that she didn’t know anything about wine and drifted away lest she be further burdened by annoying questions.

The chef tries nobly to balance out the equation. Joshua Smookler cooks straightforward, minimalistic dishes – meat-and-potatoes with a French accent and nary an eponymous fillip. When the menu offers “Rack of lamb with parsnip puree and Swiss chard,” it’s fairly certain that the big white plate will contain those three items and nothing else. The tuna tartare appetizer ($13) has none of the gloppy, compressed texture that results from fine-chopped tuna scraps: the bright-red cubes of prime fish are large, discrete, and flavorful in their own right. A hint of truffle oil adds warmth, and jicama shards add crunch. Serving three bare stalks of asparagus for $9 takes the minimalism a touch too far: The unsatisfying portion is topped with a small, savory heap of cooked wild mushrooms, and a desiccated chip of black truffle lends credibility but no flavor to the dish. But a bowl of vichyssoise ($9) is as generous as the asparagus is stingy: cool, thick, and creamy, with excellent, balanced flavor.

The aforementioned lamb ($25) may be the menu’s pinnacle: three brown-crusted, crimson-centered chops that the simple preparation flatters to a T, with pepper and salt and little else. The parsnip puree is perhaps a little too sweet, but otherwise it’s a fantastic dish. A sizable skate wing ($19) excels, too, with a crisp, faintly sweet exterior and delicious, slightly sinewy flesh. Butter and capers provide classic flavor, and a trio of tiny peeled potatoes sings thin harmony. But the hands-off treatment doesn’t quite suffice for a pale piece of roasted chicken ($19). The meat is tender and well cooked but meager in flavor, which a few baby parsnips on the plate are powerless to amend.

The restaurant’s unevenness is apparent again in the dessert course. A cinnamon apple pot de creme ($8) is delicious and basic – a cup of rich custard that comes straight to the point without even a mint leaf for garnish. On one of our visits, however, the usually effective kitchen had 86ed the best-sounding options, and took nearly half an hour to deliver a miserable strawberry shortcake ($8), which turned out to be a sour scoop of cold strawberry bits and strawberry sorbet stuck into a dry scone with heaps of creme fraiche and not a hint of sweetness in the whole dessert. A platter of five pungent European cheeses for $16 provided a more reliable finish, even if one or two of the pieces seemed a little dried-out.

Despite servers’ attempts to squander the obvious effort that has gone into the wine service, it remains the restaurant’s strength. Even without help from the staff, one can drink very well and affordably here. By-the-glass options include a deep and scintillating Domaine Drouhin pinot noir ($12) and a juicy Jaboulet Isnard Cotes du Ventoux ($9). For bottle orders, they bring out the fine crystal, which shows off such steals as a 1996 Chateau Trotanoy Pomerol for $80 and Martinelli’s “Bondi Home Ranch” 2003 pinot for $51 (which, by way of comparison, I found for $86 at a Midtown restaurant last month). New Zealand’s admirable Mud House sauvignon blanc holds up the low end at $30.

Issues such as misspellings on the menu (“mosh” for mache!) can be laughed off, but when the service is as frustrating as it is at Fillip’s, it takes a serious toll on the experience. It’s almost easier to relax in a restaurant where you know everything will be uniformly mediocre than in a place like this, where some things are a struggle and others are effortlessly great. Removing the ad, training the staff, and ironing out the glitches might be a chore, but given the potential of the food and wine, it’s worth it.

Fillip’s, 202 Seventh Ave., 212-242-4787.