Cometa, London: ‘They take the best British fish and treat it to a Mexican makeover’

Two women dressed in acid-lemon jumpsuits, carrying vivid pink suitcases, walk into Cometa, stride past the raw seafood bar and up the staircase towards the bathroom. At this studiedly elegant Mexican seafood restaurant, the exuberance feels out of place. An investigative trip to the loo reveals that upstairs, the Boohoo spring–summer showcase is in full swing, a preview of fast fashion to come, all pounding pop music and pristine skin…

Cometa inhabits what was until recently the wine bar at Carousel, a restaurant and events space where guest chefs take up weekly residencies. (Fittingly, the wine list is succinct and reasonable: with our meal, we went for a glass of Puglian L’Archetipo Rosato, which was £12, and worth it.) The residencies still happen next door, but in February this side of the restaurant put down permanent roots, asserting its role in London’s growing Mexican food scene.

A seafood joint, Cometa aims to take the best of British fish and treat it to a modern Mexican makeover. In the kitchen, Carousel founder Ollie Templeton is joined by chefs Alejandra Juarez and José Lizarralde Serralde, both born and trained in Mexico City. Downstairs, away from buoyant online retail empires, the mood is tasteful. Most of the tables are for two, and taken up by well -dressed,expensive-looking couples. Cometa’s friendly, confident staff wear jeans and utility jackets in a tasteful olive green. This is a land of white brick walls and midcentury modern furniture. It is clean lines, Labour and Wait, a shrug of a menu listing three or four ingredients rather than giving any clear explanation of the food itself. It’s not a regular restaurant: it’s a cool restaurant.

Many years ago, there was a TV sketch showcalled Tittybangbang, in which a woman showedoff outrageously, then dropped her catchphrase:“Don’t look at me, I’m shy.” In atmosphere, Cometa is a marathon-running dad in expensive sunglasses, but on the plate it is a different story. Most of the food is unapologetically brash, loud and bold, a hearty slap of flavour and heat.Every dish is “for the table”, which speaks to thisspirited openness, though it would make Cometaa testing venue for a first date. It turns out this is not food to share while trying to impress your dining partner. It is food for the slop-it-down-your-chin stage of a long-term relationship.

We ordered drinks to settle in. The tomatillo michelada was the avocado-green of my grandmother’s old bathroom suite. It was sour and savoury. “It tastes like booze soup,” said my gazpacho-hatingpartner, though she did finish the glass. I had a blood-red agua fresca, syrupy with hibiscus and guava, as camp and showy as a soft drink can be. I wondered if they were drinking it upstairs.

From the crudos, the raw and cured section prepared at the bar, we had prawn, burnt mandarin and ginger ceviche: a cold-water plunge of bracing acidity with the look of 1970s wall-paper. The scallop and guacachile tiradito, on the other hand, was genteel and refined: slices of sweet, lightly seared scallop sitting on the shell in a puddle of deep-red chilli sauce. The heat did not overwhelm the delicate shellfish, but brought it to life. I scoffed it in an instant, then regretted how quickly it was gone.

From the otros, or “others”, the lobster flauta was less decorous but truly phenomenal.If, at the top of the Magic Faraway Tree, there was a Land of Gregg’s, then this would be the only thing on its menu: m ushy beans and Spenwood cheese, flecked with massive chunks of sweet lobster, all wrapped in an impossibly buttery roll that tasted more like a pastry than a tortilla. The chef came out and urged us to eat it with our hands. We didn’t need the encouragement.

The headliner was sea bass from the grill, with mole verde and chile de arbol. For £55, two small sea bass fillets arrived on a platter that must be described as extra, its three base elements – a green mole, creamy garlic emulsionand bright red chilli oil – forming a beautiful puddle, a deconstructed Mexican flag in sauce splodges. It was lovely, though a fleeting sort of loveliness, and so profoundly photogenic that I was left wondering if that was the main point of the dish.

We ordered the limited-edition fried chicken,seasoned with the Yucatan spice blend. They only make about 15 portions a night, and when it’s gone, it’s gone. Panicked by its scarcity, we fell for this trick of marketing. It was very good fried chicken, hot and rich, cleverly topped with mint and radish, which cooled it down and waved away any greasiness. Even so, it was a shameto have wasted a selection on… fried chicken.The table next to us ordered steak and chips, albeit with a salsa. It felt like a seafood restaurant making unhappy concessions to the crowd.

As the menu is so artfully elusive, and I had already chatted the staff’s ears off with questions about it, we resorted to Googling the dessert before ordering. I didn’t fancy the Citrus Bonanza, as the whole meal had felt like one of those, so instead went for the chocolate, guajillo and hazelnut buñuelo. The internet suggested a doughnut, but never trust the internet. What arrived was more of a millefeuille – crisp slabs of pastry layered with a thick, chocolatey cream flecked with dried chilli. Again, tasty but one of the few coy notes, a blush of a pudding more than a yell.

It’s early days, so Cometa’s contradictions – its bombast and its delicate touch forever bumping heads – may well work themselves out. But for now, it is more of an acid-lemon jumpsuit than it lets on. It is shouting, at the top of its voice: don’t look at me… I’m shy.

Cometa, 21 Charlotte Street, London W1T 1RW (cometa.restaurant). Sharing plates £16-£55, desserts £9-£11, wine from £9 glass / £35 bottle