Sexy Fish, Mayfair

In the end, I had to put my splayed fingers on the glass, covering the face of the paparazzi, their noses pressed to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rita Ora. I don’t suppose they were particularly interested in Piers Morgan, sitting a couple of tables away bang in the middle of the room, but really, who can blame them?

I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Las Vegas, but I have and there is a style of high-end restaurant that is uniquely of that place, or at least it was, until now. That style screams glitz and glamour but most of all money. Most things are fairly one-dimensional in Vegas, so when a restaurant is called Picasso, you know it’s going to be adorned with Picassos. Originals, naturally and museum quality.

Here, the impressive artwork is provided by Frank Gehry and Damian Hirst. The Gehry artwork is the amazing lighting installation over the bar, a shoal of swirling fish, striking and spectacular. Likewise the massive crocodile sprawling across the back wall. The Hirsts are rather understated by comparison, in what is said to be the most expensive collection of art ever commissioned for a London restaurant. I confess that part of me surrendered to the place with its vibrant, warm and inviting colours. It is not understated in any way. And whilst I like the décor, I really dislike the name. If it’s a joke I don’t get it.

And it’s a restaurant where the words “the most” could be applied fairly liberally, usually next to “expensive”. I won’t go on about the tons of Iranian onyx, or the largest indoor coral reef, adjustable so that you can choose your latitude to make the coral grow more quickly, or the indoor window waterfall, mistaken by one customer for a downpour. I will, however go on about the fish-shaped taps in the women’s toilets and the lovely friendly loo attendant, clearly happy to be working in such glamorous environs.

But this is a Richard Caring restaurant and it appeals to the Richard Caring crowd. The man himself was in attendance, sweeping in whilst the plebs sat at the cheap seats, him all coiffure and charisma, meeting and greeting his loyal followers, like a papal train, granting benedictions and free drinks in his wake.

I had thought we had a good table when I arrived but I soon realised that being next to the serving station and also the pap-window was not desirable. There are blinds for some of the windows but not our section, meaning that the paps congregated directly outside, pressing their faces and cameras to the glass. I am not a celebrity and I don’t want to be one, so this just irritates. I’m not sure if the restaurant is complicit – nothing shouts popular more than a group of paps outside your gaff – but it’s off-putting for us muggles.

I am with property banker N and borrower B, whose treat this is. B has been on a number of occasions now and is smitten. My inner control freak smiles as I am ordered to order for the table, as otherwise I worry that a) there will not be enough and b) others might order the wrong things, by which I mean things I may not have ordered myself.

Before we start, I look at the wine list. The cheapest burgundy is £68 so I go north-east to Alsace and my trusty Gewürztraminer. A Joseph Cattin 2013 which retails at £11.95 is £53 before service. This is not a place to stint.

The menu is pan-Asian, with lots of low-carb choices for the stick-thin identikit ageing Barbies in their leggings, examples of which abound here. I wonder whether they all go to the same plastic surgeon and hairdresser, with their tousled blond tresses, pillow faces and frozen foreheads.

And whilst this is somewhat Richard does Roka, it’s also a little caring for the Mayfair super-prime brigade, with its caviar selection and its Wagyu fillet steak at £110 for a mere 150g. I avoid both of those when I scour the large menu, split between a raw bar, skewers, hot and cold dishes, market fish, robata (grill) and vegetables.

The sashimi yellowtail with jalapeño and avocado is fine, thick slices but not quite enough bite in the pepper. It’s very prettily presented though, on a rustic dark plate. A tartare of yellowfin tuna with soy cured egg yolk and lotus chips, to use as crackers is creamy and delicious and there are unadvertised truffle shavings.

It is excellent and we devour it. Also good are the prawn soldiers, actually just sesame prawn toasts, served in squares, with a yuzu mayonnaise. I could eat a large plateful but I save myself as we also have a number of skewers, the most delicious being the maple-glazed pork belly, sweet and fatty and crisp. The chicken wings are not a patch on the Roka variety.

The shishito peppers on skewers are a disappointment of undercooked crunchiness and to be skipped. Crisp duck salad is covered in a syrupy dressing which is cloyingly sweet and we leave some of it.

The gochujang and miso lamb cutlets are grilled to perfection, with a crust of spice and saltiness. They come with a perfectly done smashed cucumber salad and I’d happily order them again. The same cannot be said of the sea bream with sesame which, in comparison with the punchiness elsewhere lacks a distinctive personality and the pickled kohlrabi and beetroot give it a well-needed lift. Without any sauce or marinade, a perfect dish for a dieter.

Brussels sprout tempura sounds interesting but doesn’t quite work, with its wasabi coating under the tempura batter and a slightly undercooked interior, I mean, no-one wants a sulphurous mushy sprout but I don’t want it to be raw.

Desserts are a high point and both the men go back to their childhoods with the vanilla rice pudding, topped with banana, macadamia and house cronut, but it wasn’t as delicious as the fluffy warm, sugar-dusted doughnuts, served with hot chocolate sauce and a citrus curd dip.

We had a little competition to guess the bill and I won, obviously, as I’d ordered it. £255 for three. That’s what you’re in for as a minimum and if you go for it, you’re going to be looking at least £120 per head.

Judgement: People don’t come to Sexy Fish for the food, they come to see and be seen, in a restaurant which sets new standards in fit out and design and has an almost-brash glamour. The food is fine but it’s not the point. It’s a restaurant for the occupants of Richistan, in a buzzy, atmospheric, glamorous space. Love it or hate it, Caring knows his audience and whilst some of the clientèle is more trout pout than sexy fish, I predict that the glitterati will still be in attendance for some time yet.

Scores on the doors:

Food 6.5/10
Atmosphere 8/10
Value 6/10

Best for: sleb-spotting
Worst for: the bare brick brigade