Billionaire level catering

Guide Budget: $1 million +

**YOU THINK YOU’VE TASTED LUXURY? THINK AGAIN.**

Most people don’t even know what real food *is*. They confuse Michelin stars with excellence. They think truffle shavings on overpriced pasta means they’ve “arrived.” Pathetic. That’s not luxury—that’s theater for tourists with trust funds and no taste buds.

Real luxury isn’t *served*. It’s **orchestrated**.

And if you’re still booking caterers off some concierge list like a rookie, you’re not a billionaire—you’re a billionaire *wannabe* playing dress-up in a world you don’t belong to.

Welcome to **Billionaire-Level Catering**—the only kind that matters when your name opens borders, your presence shuts down city blocks, and your dinner party isn’t an event… it’s a **global incident**.

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### THIS ISN’T CATERING. IT’S A SOVEREIGN OPERATION.

Forget “menus.” Forget “buffets.” Forget “servers in black ties.” That’s for weddings in Westchester and charity galas in Beverly Hills where the real drama is who’s sleeping with whose CFO.

When **Slay Club World** moves, we don’t “arrange” a chef. We **deploy** one.

We don’t “book” a kitchen. We **build** one—in the middle of a private atoll, atop a glacier in Patagonia, inside a decommissioned missile silo in New Mexico if that’s your vibe.

Minimum budget? **$1 million.** And that’s just to get the door open. Because at this level, you’re not paying for ingredients. You’re paying for **impossibility made edible**.

Imagine:
– A 12-course sensory opera inside a floating glass pavilion over the Amalfi Coast—each dish timed to the exact second the sun hits the Tyrrhenian Sea.
– A midnight feast in the Sahara, where your table is carved from meteorite iron, and the chef flew in from Kyoto just to hand-form wasabi root into edible sculptures that dissolve on your tongue like whispered secrets.
– A private dinner inside the vaults of the Bank of England (yes, we cleared it), where dessert is served on gold leaf stamped with your family crest—and the sommelier is a former MI6 agent who knows which vintage pairs best with geopolitical leverage.

This isn’t fantasy. This is **Tuesday** for the top 0.0001%.

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### THE CHEFS? THEY DON’T WORK FOR YOU. THEY SERVE YOUR VISION.

These aren’t guys with fancy knives and Instagram followings. These are **culinary generals**—artists who’ve turned down three-star empires to cook *once*, for *you*, in a place that doesn’t exist on Google Maps.

One of them once sourced water from a single glacial spring in Greenland—melted it under moonlight, filtered it through volcanic rock, and used it to poach caviar so delicate, it had to be eaten blindfolded.

Another built a 30-foot ice altar in Antarctica just to serve a single bite of fermented reindeer heart wrapped in 24-karat gold-dusted lichen.

They don’t care about your dietary restrictions. They **redefine** them. If you say “I don’t eat seafood,” they’ll make you taste the ocean’s soul so profoundly, you’ll weep—and beg for more.

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### WHY $1 MILLION IS THE FLOOR (AND WHY YOU’RE GLAD IT IS)

Because real exclusivity **costs**. Not in dollars—but in **access**.

– The white Alba truffle? Already auctioned to a sheikh in Dubai. But we’ve got the *black Perigord* that grows only under one oak tree in France—harvested by a monk who hasn’t spoken since 1987.
– The Kobe beef? Overrated. We source *A5 Olive Wagyu*—cattle fed on pressed olives from a private grove in Shodoshima. Only 300kg exists per year. You’re getting 12kg. The rest? Burned as an offering to culinary gods.
– The wine? Not from a cellar. From a **private asteroid vault** where vintages age in zero gravity. Yes, really.

And the staff? Not hired. **Vetted**. Biometric clearance. NDA signed in blood (metaphorically… mostly). Your guests won’t see a single server unless they’re meant to. Food appears. Glasses refill. Crumbs vanish. Like magic—except it’s **precision warfare disguised as hospitality**.

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### THIS ISN’T FOR “EVENTS.” IT’S FOR LEGACIES.

You don’t throw a party like this to impress. You do it because **history remembers who dined like gods**.

Napoleon fed his marshals on silver platters looted from Vienna. Cleopatra floated down the Nile on a barge scented with myrrh, feeding Marc Antony figs dipped in liquid pearl.

You? You’re hosting your daughter’s 16th birthday on a private island in Fiji—where the cake is sculpted from Tahitian vanilla orchids, and the fireworks are synchronized to a live symphony conducted by a Nobel laureate.

Or maybe it’s a merger celebration in Dubai—where the canapés are embedded with nano-chips that project your company’s stock ticker onto the desert sky.

Whatever it is—it’s **yours**. Unrepeatable. Unphotographable (unless you allow it). Unthinkable to anyone who hasn’t stood where you stand.

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### SLAY CLUB WORLD DOESN’T “CATER.” WE COMMAND REALITY.

We don’t ask, “What would you like?”
We ask, **“What haven’t you dared to imagine yet?”**

And then we make it so real, your guests will question whether they’re still on Earth.

Minimum budget: **$1 million**.
Maximum impact: **eternal**.

If you’re ready to stop *hosting* and start **reigning**…
Slay Club World is already packing the knives.

**The world isn’t your oyster. It’s your pantry.**

Now go eat like you own the species.

— 🔥 *Slay Club World: Where Billionaires Don’t Dine… They Declare.* 🔥

*Reservations aren’t made. They’re granted.*
*Membership required. Net worth verified. Soul inspected.*

Guide Budget: $1 Million