What began as Goldfoil Magazine - a niche yet sharply observant voice in the digital wilderness of lifestyle media, has quietly transformed into something more intimate, more rarefied, and arguably more useful.
Club Goldfoil is no longer just a publication. It is a state of mind. Think of it as an editorial salon without the velvet rope. Its pages are not bound by print but held together by discernment - the kind that filters out the noise and curates only what truly matters:
This evolution was never about scale. It was about scarcity. Club Goldfoil is designed for those who already know where to stay in Paris and are ready to discover where to go afterwards. It is for those who have experienced the Amalfi Coast by land and now wish to see it by private charter.
For the art collector with a standing invitation to Frieze, the fashion insider who prefers not to attend Fashion Week, and the investor who chooses a private chef over a reservation. In short, it is for people who do not need another guide - just a better one.
From Venetian hideaways to Gstaad in high summer, meticulously plotted itineraries for those who prefer their holidays tailored, not templated.
Discreet restaurants, after-hours tasting rooms, and chefs who don't advertise, each vetted for ambience, discretion and a certain unspoken standard.
The exhibitions worth flying for, the operas worth dressing up for, and the art sales you heard about one hour too late, until now.
Pieces that whisper rather than shout, fashion that isn't new, just quietly necessary.
From heirloom jewellery to Brutalist ashtrays, a selection of what to buy, keep, and hand down.
Unlisted villas, by-invitation-only clubs, and the kind of weekends that don't make it onto Instagram.