Beach House was never supposed to be exclusive. It just ended up that way.

Summer of '84. A Californian waterfront shack, forty members, one kayak, and a barbeque that worked when it felt like it. By '87 there was a waiting list. Nobody saw that coming, including the people running it.

At its peak: windsurfing, sailing, Saturday club nights that ran until the neighbours called, and food evenings with no menu — long tables, whatever was fresh, you ate what arrived. The chef called it "organised chaos with good olive oil."

Strictly invite only; those in the know, go to Beach House.