We’re intimidated even before getting to our table, perhaps because I’m wearing H&M and my own face
When I tell the pal we’re going to Sexy Fish, she says, “Funny, nobody talks about getting crabs any more.” By the time you read this, everything to be said about this outlandish newcomer’s bizarre title will have been said, but dear God: it’s the worst restaurant name since Tottenham’s Golden Stool.
The latest in the apparently unstoppable Richard Caring’s empire, this is a restaurant designed to knock your silk socks into next week. Water gushes down windows, perhaps to deter the inevitable paparazzi, but I fear for the effect on older customers’ bladders. There are acres of lava stone and onyx, cavorting fish and crocodiles by Frank Gehry, bronze Damien Hirst mermaids and a massive relief avec shark – of course – by the same artist. Downstairs is a Bond-villain lair lined with extravagant, coral-reefed fishtanks throwing out an eerie glow. None of it looks like London. The nearest comparison I can dredge up is dodgy-new-money magnet Macau, where my hotel looked like a giant illuminated pineapple and an emerald of untold value languished in the lobby. Like the practice of double-wristing watches that each cost as much as a suburban semi, Sexy Fish is designed to shriek: “Look at me! Just! Look! At! Meeeee!”
Related: Bellita and Aron’s Jewish Delicatessen, Bristol – restaurant review | Marina O’Loughlin
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