There’s been a bit of grumbling in London recently about a new posh Japanese restaurant called Sexy Fish, part of the Ivy group, which means it’s a Richard Caring joint. It’s on the south corner of Berkeley Square, just down from Nobu and Novikov, which means if you’re a peckish oligarch and in the mood for a £500 bit of salmon sashimi, flown in from Iceland that morning, you now have three options next door to one another. How handy is that?
Most of the grumbling has been along these lines: ‘Sexy Fish?!?!? How can a fish be sexy? I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my whole entire life,’ etc etc etc.
Anyway, CONTROVERSIALLY, I don’t mind the name. I went last night (Prince Harry was there for lunch, FYI), and it is a bit sexy, if you can ignore the dodgy, airport lounge-coloured ceiling. Moody lighting, handsome waiters, mermaids flashing their norks on the bar. That sort of thing. The food was good if not outstanding – I ate spoons and spoons and spoons (you get the drift) of tuna tartare. But the food isn’t really the point.
The point is the other people there, so the tables are designed in order that you can see everyone else. Hopeless going to a place where women with ruinously expensive plastic survey are having lunch if you cannot gawp at their faces. The bar was rammed too, so I suspect it’ll become quite the hangout for that patch of London for a while.
My favourite bit of the whole night, however, was *accidentally* overhearing the conversation on the table next to me:
Handsome waiter: ‘Here is the menu sir, let me know if you have any questions.’
Man: ‘Yes I do have one question. What should I eat if I’m allergic to fish?’
Handsome waiter: ‘You’re allergic to fish?’
Handsome waiter: ‘Err, umm, errr, well what about some chicken skewers? Or some vegetable tempura?’
OR HOW ABOUT YOU DON’T COME TO A RESTAURANT CALLED SEXY FISH? THE CLUE IS SORT OF IN THE NAME.
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