MAGA tourism in the heart of DC

On Friday night I arranged for a group to meet at Butterworth’s for a small dinner. I joke that I’ve become the Butterworth’s Whisperer, chaperoning curious and skittish liberal friends to DC’s Trump-era living museum for lamb tartare, cozy lighting and dissident ambiance.

I needn’t waste too much time describing the scene. The restaurant has been profiled more often than the new Pope. Suffice it to say the fries are sliver-thin and seed-oil-free, the martinis flow like water and there are always at least a couple of Republican who’s-whos to point at in the dining room. Nothing to be afraid of. Some nights there’s even a party if you show up at the right time, as I did a couple of months ago during the Conservateur’s “Make America Hot Again” event. That evening boasted themed cocktails (“God & Country,” “J’adore Cowboys”) and speeches about “superior worldviews” from J. Crew-bedecked platinum blondes.

Outside the door a lone protester screams expletives into a megaphone. A young tattooed woman approaches and attempts to placate him, but he is undeterred. Customers seem unfazed by the disturbance, smoking cigarettes as the protester continues his crusade. I walk in and greet Bart, the chef-owner, who is a friend. Bart looks well, even though I know he’s been fielding non-stop media coverage about the restaurant for weeks. He ushers me to my table. Seven of us are gathered this evening, all of whom I’ve invited on behalf of a tech friend who is in DC on official business. “Connect me with people right of center,” he said. I said OK and brought a left-wing philosopher, two editors – one libertarian, one libertine – and two politically inscrutable novelists to dinner. No matter. There’s a party later tonight I can get us in to which fits the bill. We pick up an eighth friend at the bar – a left-leaning journalist. I tell him to be cool if he joins us later tonight. “I know how to act!” he insists. He certainly does. I’ve seen him at every MAGA-adjacent event and afterparty since the inauguration.

A well-connected friend texted me earlier that day to “look hot tonight.” A rumor had been circulating that the paper of record would have a photographer planted at Butterworth’s for the evening. I do my best to comply. Sure enough, he’s there, floating around the room snapping pictures of cocktail toasts and braised duck. I wonder if my stylish friends will catch his eye. The novelists are discussing Christian mysticism with the philosopher; the philosopher is arguing that the personal is political. I’m downing fries and the rest of the table is talking new-media strategy.

The other owner – a MAGA operative-cum-restaurateur – comes over to say hello and asks me to autograph my first-ever print piece, published in the last issue of this magazine. How glamorous! I sign it and roll my eyes around the room, preening a bit. The New York Times photographer is ignoring us.

My tech friend foots the bill and we head out in carfuls to the next event across town. It is a house party held in Curtis Yarvin’s honor, filled with young Trump-adjacent agents, intellectuals (in a sense) and a few of the journalists who cover them. For an off-the-record MAGA party the conversations I am privy to are resoundingly tame. I sip a Red Pill-themed cocktail as one writer expresses his distaste for the performative and utilitarian aspects of newfound Christianity among the young right: “Shouldn’t you believe in something you actually think is true?” I overhear others discussing how much easier it is to engage in earnest conversation in DC than in New York: “Everything’s a signal up there. I don’t understand how they even enjoy the conversations they’re having.” Yarvin holds court throughout the night. Every time I look, he’s entertaining a different group of identical young men. He asks me to scooch over and make space as more of his acolytes gather in the living room. I move, picking up an enormous binder of Jeffrey Epstein’s flight logs that has been placed conspicuously on the coffee table. The front says in italics: “The Most Transparent Administration In History The 45th and 47th President of the United States Donald J. Trump.” I leaf through it, but don’t find anything interesting.

Upstairs, as partygoers fiddle with the lights to set the mood, a friend remarks on the fashion in the room. “Where do these guys learn how to dress?” he says, nodding at young men wearing J. Press blazers, cut and tailored to spec. “Style forums?” “Yes!” I respond. He thinks I’m joking. As the night grows late, conversations get a little bolder. One writer known for his extremely right-wing views asks me how Mexican I really am. He’s chagrined to find it’s a full 50 percent.

As the party slows, I approach a couple of baby-faced young men wearing fat ties and cufflinks and ask them what they do. “I’m a fed,” says one, taking a drag of his cigarette and refusing to elaborate. I offer him a copy of last month’s Spectator. “I’ll pass,” he says, turning away to exhale. His friend takes it instead. “I love oysters,” he tells me. Good taste.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s July 2025 World edition.