When François Pasquier staged the first Dîner en Blanc in Paris in 1988, it was a whimsical act of exclusivity: a curated picnic meant to feel chic and clandestine. But what once might have been subversive has calcified into a for-profit formula, exported to more than 70 cities worldwide. In the age of Instagram, Dîner en Blanc is less about dinner and more about documentation. It is, in many ways, the prototype of our modern “do it for the feed” culture - a spectacle carefully engineered to photograph well and provide a fleeting illusion of belonging to something grander than it is.
At its core, this event reveals something profound about human restlessness. We live in an era where most of life’s needs are frictionless: food is ordered by app, friendships are maintained with emojis, and entertainment streams without pause. Comfort, paradoxically, breeds tedium. And into that void steps the allure of difficulty disguised as glamour. Dîner en Blanc demands effort - dress codes, logistics, secrecy - and sells that inconvenience as meaning. The work becomes the ritual, the ritual becomes the performance, and the performance becomes the product.
But unlike communal struggles of past generations, this labor serves no greater purpose. There is no harvest, no shared survival, no civic project - only the chance to sit in a borrowed patch of city space with strangers, consuming a meal you carried yourself, while appearing effortlessly chic to anyone scrolling on their phone. This is not ritual, but cosplay of ritual. It is the boredom of the modern elite repackaged as exclusivity.
The irony, of course, is that San Diego already offers nightly spectacles more authentic than this: sunsets over the Pacific, fish tacos by the beach, families gathering in Balboa Park. Yet those things are free, abundant, and democratic. Dîner en Blanc thrives on the opposite: artificial scarcity, exclusivity, and rules so rigid they verge on parody. No beige allowed. Gendered seating. Bring your own chairs. And pay for the privilege.
Some defenders will say the event is about community, beauty, or surprise. But community is not measured by coordinated outfits and synchronized table settings; it is measured by connection, care, and continuity. And beauty - the kind that endures - does not need to be staged, ticketed, or filtered through a hashtag. Surprise, too, should feel like discovery, not logistics disguised as magic.
In truth, Dîner en Blanc is not really a dinner. It is a mirror, reflecting the lengths to which people will go to feel alive in a culture numbed by convenience. It is evidence of our collective need for difficulty, even if that difficulty is contrived, shallow, and dressed in white polyester.
San Diego does not need Dîner en Blanc. What it needs, like every city, is genuine gathering: festivals that showcase local food, music, and voices, accessible to anyone who wants to participate. We need less curated difficulty and more authentic connection. Because if we are to measure a culture by the rituals it chooses, the return of this hollow spectacle should give us pause.
The French sociologist Guy Debord once argued that modern life had become dominated by "the spectacle" - moments not lived but performed, designed less for their own sake than for their representation. Dîner en Blanc is performance spectacle perfected.
Dîner en Blanc is back, San Diego. And if you find yourself tempted to join, ask yourself: are you really buying a meal under the stars, or just renting a role in someone else’s performance of elegance?
Dîner en Blanc is back, San Diego. And if you find yourself tempted to join, ask yourself: are you really buying a meal under the stars, or just renting a role in someone else’s performance of elegance?
Originally published on October 3, 2025.
