"Blow Job" Pops, Fire Eaters, and Slutty Doctor Costumes at D.C.'s Latest Supper Club

Promising an underground dining experience not for the weak of mind, Arcane Supper Club sold out its first event—themed “gluttony”—on Saturday. That’s 128 people who received instructions from an anonymous host to come to The Loft at 600 F St. NW for a night promoted as over-indulgent, “radical,” and cloaked with secrecy.

What guests got instead was a house party bred with a PG-13 haunted house and a loose “mad doctor” theme that had very little to do with a deadly sin. There were no opportunities to pluck sushi rolls off naked ladies, indulge in avant-garde libations, or sneak off to a dark corner with a date.

Guests drank “Anacostia Tea,” a syrupy glass of bourbon, gin, ginger beer, and Rock Creek Fruit Punch, under overly bright lights that illuminated hanging ganglions of burnt stuffed animals and baby dolls.

The bizarre dress code included no hard-bottom shoes, collared shirts, or suits for men, and no “club dresses” for women. “WTF Should I Wear?” Arcane’s Eventbrite page asked. “Nothing! But if you must, artsy, chic, daring, skin, offensive, tight, bold must we go on.” But guests eager to ogle buttoned-up lobbyists in Lady Gaga garb shook hands with reality: Sexy, offensive, and skin-baring to D.C. means wearing patterned pantyhose or a pink wig.

Those expecting R.J. Cooper or other foul-mouthed, big name chefs to rip off masks at midnight were at the wrong party. The $35 ticket price should have been a clue. It turns out the chefs manning the three food stations—nicknamed “The Hooligans”—came from Details Catering.

Guests, told to come hungry and prepare to “infatuate themselves in dirty flavors,” were fed tacos in overworked shells, a dumpling sampler, and two kinds of noodles served in Chinese take-out boxes. The Tex-Mex-meets-Asia soba noodles with charred poblano peppers, snow peas, and marinated bean curd were the highlight.

To get dessert, guests climbed a flight of stairs and bypassed a magician only to be stopped by a chick in a risqué (but sadly not lewd) doctor costume. She asked guests how they felt, then circled some things on a prescription pad before sending them into a desolate “lounge” to pick up a pharmacy bag of treats to take home. One of the treats was a “blow job” banana pudding push pop. The others were curiously covered in plastic wrap labeled with medical marijuana stickers—even though they contained no actual drugs.

Guests who stayed long enough were privy to some Polynesian fire eaters, who were a nice break from the hum-drum dance floor livened occasionally by someone twerking.