The restaurant was pretty enough. We had glasses of Madeira and then I had a glass of sparkling Austrian rose that tasted like it had been made in the traditional method. We sat at a table in the window. The menu featured tastes, small plates, and large plates. The service was negligible, at best. Small plates included two pieces of the tiniest lobster roll anyone had ever seen--there were three of us. Six Beausoleil oysters arrived. They were nice. Mignonette was nondescript. Some kind of cheese spread came with bread chips. All of this was... fine.
I ordered chicken, envisioning a half-roasted chicken on a rainy night, but what arrived was a boring breast on top of a white puree with hacked-to-bits Brussels sprouts. My friend's duck was tender enough. My other friend's braised lamb shoulder was passable. The Cotes du Rhone might have been the star of the evening.
And finally, dessert. I ordered what claimed to be a tart served with whipped cream and apricot. It was, in actuality, a brick of tasteless chocolate cake with whipped cream and no noticeable apricot. The peanut butter thing ordered by my friends came topped with popcorn. That was probably its most memorable asset.
We figured out why none of us had never heard of Klee: it really isn't that good.
200 9th Avenue
New York, NY 10011