The first time most Americans met Gordon Ramsay, he was slinging insults. At the beginning of his 2005 reality television show “Hell’s Kitchen,” the British chef brutally assessed his team of aspiring protégés. He accused one of having “a palate like a camel’s backside,” one of the few unbleeped epithets. Mr. Ramsay, a Michelin-starred chef who has built a solid international reputation for exigent viciousness, opened his first non-televised American venture here in November at the London Hotel. The result is disappointingly free of drama.

When I went last week, seven weeks after the restaurant opened, the map on the restaurant’s Web site steered would-be diners to a spot near Tenth Avenue that’s quite a distance from the actual location. (It has since been fixed.) That might be why there were several vacant tables the other night, despite a reservation queue five weeks’ long. Mr. Ramsay’s reputation inclines the customer to look for such slip-ups, and, to his credit and that of his chef de cuisine, Neil Ferguson, there are very few. With such a passionate focus on removing flaws, though, the experience never rises far above its baseline of unimpeachable adequacy. The name of the restaurant — Gordon Ramsay at the London — is typical of Mr. Ramsay’s no-thanks approach to innovation. The aesthetic results in a sort of ironed-out, colorless elegance, with a minimum of surprises, pleasant or unpleasant.

Once you find the hotel, a host hustles you through a lesser eating area, the “London Bar,” to an unmarked door that leads to the inner sanctum, where round, well-spaced tables in a baroque silvery room provide a sedate setting for what turns out to be quite a sedate meal. The preferred way to enjoy the Ramsay artistry here is the ludicrously named “menu prestige,” a seven-course tasting roster that costs $110. The meal is available in a standard or meat-free version — although I would be an uneasy herbivore in the custody of Mr. Ramsay, who has been filmed gleefully tricking vegetarians with chicken stock and concealed ham.

On this prix-fixe plan, my first course was a cold terrine of foie gras striated with firm lengths of unidentified game-bird meat, which provided an effective contrast, in flavor and consistency, to the liver’s unctuous smoothness. Tiny pickled vegetables around the plate lent charm and piquancy. The dish’s impact was dimmed, though, by the first foie gras, which had hit the table a few minutes earlier — a complimentary mousse hors d’oeuvre.

Next came a single fat raviolo bulging with pieces of lobster. A creamy fennel sauce amplified the delicate shellfish flavor magnificently, but the sweet meat had that rubbery chew that signals overcooking. Onward to a bass fillet the size of a matchbox, with a fine crisped surface but perhaps a little too much accompaniment. The simple artichoke-and-white-wine broth worked flawlessly, but the addition of soft bell pepper strips and chorizo dice swamped the fish’s subtlety in a Mediterranean tangle. Meanwhile, my meatless companion’s mushroom risotto was a distinct disappointment: high-flavored, but with a dry, underdone crunch in the middle of each grain, and an excess of soupy liquid.

I chose venison over lamb as a main course, a decision of which the stiffly professional server seemed to approve. Keeping venison moist takes finesse of one kind or another, and simply serving the meat very rare did the trick for Mr. Ramsay. A thin red-wine sauce tinged with bitter chocolate offered a little contrast, but the excellent meat was the star.

Perhaps the high point of the dinner was when a charming British server wheeled up with a trolley of about 25 cheeses and allowed me to pick six. I got a full-bodied Irish blue and a washed-rind Époisses whose heavenly reek remained in my nose for hours afterward. After that the meal’s conclusion was quick: a terrifically fluffy and flavorful apricot soufflé served with a teaspoonful of harshly alcoholic-tasting amaretto ice cream, an $8 coffee, and the check.

Mr. Ramsay’s new restaurant manages to be extremely satisfactory, even luxurious, while completely omitting any aura of specialness that would make it stand out among restaurants in its price range. The meal begins with a courteous visit from a champagne trolley purveying a variety of fine flutes, and ends with a bonbon trolley (for a small surcharge). In between, the service is lavishly professional — even when one might prefer a little more personality — and the overall impression is one of great competence and little sparkle. The food is much the same. There was nothing I would send back, but little that I’ll particularly remember, either.

Gordon Ramsay at the London (the London Hotel, 151 W. 54th St., between Sixth and Seventh avenues, 212-468-8888).