Good evening,
As requested, — a more refined setting. One with culture in its bones and discretion stitched into the seams. A place where your glass is never empty, and your name is never written down.
Allow me to reintroduce: The Arts Club, Mayfair.
Founded in 1863 by the creative elite — but reborn quietly for those whose wealth is generational and whose presence is intentional. This is not Soho House. This is not for the loud, the new-moneyed, or the public.
It is for you.
Beyond the white stucco facade on Dover Street, The Arts Club operates as an embassy of taste. There are no velvet ropes. No signs. Just the right kind of doorman, with the right kind of nod.
Inside:
-
The Drawing Rooms — champagne flows like conversation: effortless, French, and extremely expensive.
-
The Rooftop — reserved for those whose last names end in trust funds, oil, or titles not listed on passports.
-
The Private Salons — for private dinners with curators, billionaires, and the kind of patrons who never attend auctions — they simply call them off.
-
The Underground — yes, there’s a music venue. No, you won’t find it on the website. That's the point.
Phones stay in clutches. Cameras are not welcome. And if you hear someone whisper about Basquiat, Bowie, or Brioni, they’re probably sitting right behind you.
Membership is waitlisted. But yours, of course, is pre-cleared.
Should you choose to arrive, your table will be set under your alias of choice. Your preferred champagne — Krug Rosé, 2006 — has been placed on standby. A certain discreet French film director (whom I won’t name here) has also been notified of your potential arrival. Just as you wished.
This is where art and power drink from the same glass.
Welcome to Mayfair's best-kept secret.
No comments
Post a Comment