Good evening,
You’ve asked for a space that isn’t polished — but cultured. A club that doesn’t just know names — it inspires them. The kind of haunt where the tablecloth is linen, but the stories spilled onto it are anything but clean.
Founded by those who were too sharp for the Savile Row set and too rich to be starving artists, Groucho has always belonged to the misfits of power. No influencers. No lifestyle bloggers. Just lives actually being lived.
Here's what you'll need to know:
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The Clubrooms — walls lined with original Basquiats and better-kept secrets. The only currency that matters here is wit, and the occasional scandal with a signature scent.
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The Bar — dark, loud, full of ghosts in Tom Ford. Your martini will be dry, dirty, and poured by someone who once served Warhol. (Yes, that Warhol.)
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The Upstairs Bedrooms — where guests check in under pseudonyms and check out with stories that never leave Soho. Velvet headboards, late-night champagne, and no CCTV.
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The Snug — a private space reserved for those writing the next novel, plotting the next collection, or ending the next marriage.
Membership? Closed, officially. But you're already known.
I’ve seen to it that your suite will be ready under the alias "Miss Parker-Bloom." Your table — the one by the window with the broken lamp (left that way on purpose) — will be waiting with a bottle of Ruinart Blanc de Blanc chilled precisely to your preference.
Tonight’s guest list includes a defamed fashion critic, an anonymous art dealer from Dubai, and a French countess who owns a villa and three very forgiving lawyers. You’ll fit in seamlessly.
The Groucho is not a club you join. It's a club that decides if you're interesting enough to remember.
And I assure you — that you are.
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