Like a trip to The Magic Kingdom, the experience of being at The Tobacco Company is really the main attraction. The food itself is only secondary — which is just as well because, frankly, it isn’t very good.

There’s nothing wrong with the food conceptually. In keeping with the aesthetic of the restaurant, the menu mimics the sort of old-world opulence traditionally reserved for Wall Street deal closers, rainmaking lawyers, and power brokers. It’s the kind of food I imagine Christian Bale’s character from American Psycho would enjoy, the kind that makes you want to have a dry martini in one hand and a fat cigar in the other.

The problem is the restaurant’s execution of this vision. The food comes across as little more than a caricature of fine dining, all kitsch and no substance.

Take, for instance, what are regrettably billed as the restaurant’s “signature” dishes. The she crab soup ($7) — just a hair shy of gloppy, heavy on the cream, and light on the crab — was reminiscent of an unrefined mess-hall chowder. The prime rib ($28), requested as medium-rare, came out looking as sad and soggy as a gray raincloud. Instead of being “slow roasted,” as promised on the menu, the meat both looked and tasted like it had been boiled to the point of oblivion.