Last year, a member of Ned’s Club who hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in years requested a zero-proof spritz at The Gallery, one of several dining rooms in Washington’s buzziest private club. He took one sip and tasted booze, a fact reconfirmed by his wife, and immediately informed his server about the full-strength mistake.
The attendant’s response took him aback: “Oh, well,” she said. “Nobody’s pregnant, are they?”
Zoom forward to an evening in late May. At the invitation of another member of Ned’s Club, I’m at The Gallery, with its marble-topped tables and Italian-influenced menu, when a fruit tart arrived in a circle of pink powdered … something. Dehydrated rhubarb or strawberries, maybe? Curious about the dusting on my plate, I asked the waiter what it was. “I have no idea,” he said, shaking his head as he hastily departed, incurious about getting an answer from a colleague.
No doubt you’ve heard about Ned’s Club, launched with fanfare across the top three floors of the historic Walker Building and American Security and Trust Company Building in February 2025. (Longtime Washingtonians might remember it as the former Riggs Bank; the name Ned’s Club is a hat tip to the architect behind the building that hosts the club’s London branch, Edwin Lutyens, who also designed the British Embassy in Washington.)
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Billed by its principals as “a modern take on a traditional club,” the venue is owned by American billionaire investor Ron Burkle in a joint partnership with Michael Milken. It arrived at a time when the pace of exciting new restaurants in D.C. was approaching a turtle-like crawl and the city’s movers and shakers — young ones and women in particular — were hungrier than ever for something sexier and more approachable than what existed.
“You can’t just go back to your usual table at Tosca every other day,” a prominent female member of Ned’s Club told me, referencing the Italian-accented lobbyist draw downtown. Unlike the more established clubs in town, which cater to what she calls “SPM” — a “stale, pale and male” clientele, she translated — Ned’s Club reaches out to a wider audience.
Consider the admission fees. For most members, the upfront cost to join is $5,000, with an additional $5,000 fee annually. Food and drink are extra. Government workers are offered a different rate, as are communities that might not have the budget for exclusive club memberships.
“I’m a restaurant owner. I can’t afford a Ned,” says Tim Ma, the talent behind Tim Ma Hospitality, a co-founder of Chefs Stopping AAPI Hate — and the only member I interviewed who agreed to speak on the record about Ned’s Club. (The others fretted about their future relationship with the place.) Ma declined to share what he paid, but said the reduced cost made it “a no-brainer” to join.
Ned’s, the latest of a wave-lette of clubs catering to a cooler clientele, is onto something. Joiwind Ronen — hired as the executive director of membership and programs to put “a D.C. imprint on a global brand” — says Ned’s Club distinguishes itself from other private societies in part with diversity. A third of members are under 40, a third are in their 40s and a third are over 50, says Ronen, who adds that Ned’s Club is non-partisan. “I just introduced a Democratic governor and a member of the Trump administration in the elevator,” she sounds happy to report.
Not that Ned’s Club is all about welcoming huddled masses yearning to breathe free, provided they add some measure of flavor. Members of an exclusive, invitation-only group of power players pay $125,000 to join and $25,000 annually, for which they get access to the posh Founder’s Dining Room and concierge service at sibling clubs in Doha, London and New York. (Ronen wouldn’t share current membership numbers, but reports “we’ve had a wait list since we’ve opened” with 1,000 members.)
People sign on for myriad reasons: exclusivity, uncommon amenities, the opportunity to show off for out-of-towners or business associates as if they were in club-rich New York, members say.
“It’s not as noisy as a coffee shop” and is a welcome convening spot, says the female club member, who appreciates the “well-curated space” and the fact that members can “go alone, and you always see someone you know.” Unlike at the more staid private clubs, “no one here asks, ‘Who’s your husband?’”
Reviews from members and their guests are mixed, however. “It’s not a cohesive experience,” one early joiner told me, describing how he once segued from drinks at the bar to a dining room, only to be asked at the host stand if he was a new member. “The flow isn’t right,” he says, particularly on the popular terrace on the top floor.
No one seems enthusiastic about the food. “It reads better than it tastes,” another member said, summing up his recent brunch experience at the Asian-themed Kaia, also on the top floor. “But you can’t beat outside on a nice day!”
Management receives feedback — yep, there’s an app for that — which probably explains a change of executive chefs in April and the arrival in July of a new food and beverage director.
The goal of Ned’s Club, says Ronen, is “to surprise and delight members,” and on the handsome surface, it delivers. Name another upscale watering hole with live music seven nights a week. Or consider the near-daily events programs that include lectures by Smithsonian curators and even off-site trips to Glenstone Gardens in Middleburg, Virginia, via a Bentley.
Every member I’ve talked to agrees the space is a looker. The art on the walls, about 130 pieces, showcases the talent of women and locals; throughout, the fringed chairs and couches seem to offer hugs to their occupants. Palladian windows, lofty ceilings and soothing color schemes create a modern baronial look.
Worried about parking downtown? The club has you covered, with all-day valet service. “The convenience is huge,” says a freshly minted member, who finds it a “really comfortable place for coffee, a drink, a meeting.”
Not everybody’s buying. “It’s not as private as you hope,” an early subscriber told me. “Not when you go with a source and get seated next to Kellyanne Conway,” the former counselor to President Donald Trump.
The member remains miffed that in The Library — basically an elegant WeWork that turns into a lounge at night — a server once ordered him to close his laptop at 5 p.m. while he was finishing an email. The member also thought it was ridiculous to pay an upcharge of “$4.50 for pickle juice for a martini” and questioned the status of customers. “It felt like a lot of strivers, third-year law associates you’ve never seen in your life.” Ultimately, this member says, “It never feels like home to me. I’m very happy not to rejoin.”
* * *
I’ve been hearing about the club since it opened. Until recently, however, I’d never stepped foot in the place. I’m not a member, and I needed to tag along with one to sample the whole gilded enchilada. Scheduling took some time (members who could be discreet are busy) but since April, when the new executive chef debuted, I managed to explore the club’s three dining rooms over the course of several months. I had some skin in the game: I enticed the four members who got me in with breakfasts, lunches and dinners that I personally paid for.
My guides coached me on what to expect. Dress-wise, almost anything goes. “Please no gym wear or baseball caps,” reads the club etiquette. (Ma shared that he was wearing a T-shirt the time he visited the Founder’s Dining Room, where he sat next to Milken, the club’s white-collar-criminal-turned-philanthropist landlord.)
Photography and phone calls are another matter. Even on the terrace, with its only-in-Washington vistas, photos and videos are verboten. The secretary of the treasury, a frequent visitor, can sip and sup in peace, in other words.
“We want our members to feel fully relaxed,” says Ronen, who admits it’s hard even for her not to take an occasional selfie. (Two servers told me they didn’t care if I snapped something quickly, but their managers would.) “I prefer no photos,” says an original member. “It gets people off their phone so they can face people in a conversation.” Calls are limited to the hallway or Ned’s two phone booths.
Every time I’ve checked in at the front desk, a host has taken my first name and last initial and placed a sticker on the lens of my phone. Then it’s up, up and away in a wood-paneled elevator.
I scored big and tall on my introduction to Ned’s Club: dinner in the exclusive Founder’s Dining Room, the steak and seafood restaurant on the 10th floor. As if the story gods were watching out for me, my party’s entrance coincided with Trump’s return from China on the South Lawn of the White House.
I watched as the helicopter blades from Marine One blasted surrounding trees while sharpshooters kept their eyes peeled from the roof of the residence — an impressive sight, no matter one’s political allegiance, and better in the company of prime rib ferried to the table on a shiny trolley. (Friday is Prime Rib Night here; $135 gets you roseate beef sliced tableside and an icy martini. Fun!)
Our gracious attendant tells us she previously worked at the upscale Bresca and Causa restaurants in Washington, and that the new executive chef, Joshua Smith, used to work for the acclaimed California chef Michael Mina, most recently at Bourbon Steak at the Four Seasons Las Vegas. Promising signs both.
What’s less enjoyable is the dull bread, the tinny background music and a draft from the air conditioning that feels as if we’re dining in a meat locker. (Bring a wrap.)
Surf — oysters on the half shell, a diver scallop capped with lemony cream sauce and shiny orange roe — trumps some of the other dishes, including a creamy gray steak tartare that lacks the expected sharpeners, arid chicken nesting on soft cabbage and a risotto that sits like Thanksgiving in the stomach. (The lobster on top is respectable.)
The side dishes are solid. Mashed potatoes are free of lumps. Creamed spinach is balanced with parmesan and garlic. And hot towels are a nice touch following the appetizers.
Ultimately, though, the restaurant doesn’t threaten the steak house pack in town. “Best for the view and the interior,” says the member who got me in with him. Gazing out on a postcard-perfect backdrop, including the colorfully illuminated Treasury Building, I nod in agreement. Indeed, my loftiest memory about that night is the price tag: just over $1,000 for four, not including a round of drinks we had in the bar out front.
“‘You don’t really go there for the food,’” a new member says he was told by other members. “There’s some truth to that.” His words play in my head throughout my next two visits to the club, where I dine twice in The Gallery. (Smith oversees the kitchen staff for all three dining rooms)
First thought: What a snooze of a menu! Judging from the tuna crudo, tomato soup, rigatoni Bolognese, grilled salmon (are you falling asleep yet?) and New York strip steak, the generic selections could have been assembled by AI.
Second impression: Someone’s not tasting the food. The swordfish is thick and juicy, but those compliments are undone by a topper of peppers and olives that go down like a salt lick. It’s the same problem with orecchiette piled with a blizzard of toasted breadcrumbs and gloppy wisps of Swiss chard. The aforementioned fruit tart with the mystery garnish traps rhubarb and strawberries in a doughy crust that bends, rather than flakes. I dig the thyme-buttermilk ice cream, though.
The reason food critics go out to eat with companions, often multiple times, is so they can sample the range of a script. And so I did. In a city stuffed with good pizza, The Gallery’s oval pepperoni pie is fine, with a crust that’s by turns crisp and pillowy. There’s a sea of fried calamari out there, but I found my fingers darting back, again and again, to a pile of bronzed crisp rings and tentacles scattered with crimson fresno chiles.
* * *
One thing I’ve learned over decades of restaurant-hopping is this: People will put up with middling food if the service is good. No matter how delicious the cooking, though, no one wants to feel overlooked or unwelcome. Ned’s Club members were quick to tell me about the inconsistent or absent service throughout the club.
I observed plenty of ineptitude in their presence. One evening at Kaia, the food arrived before fresh plates did, a second bottle of wine was unceremoniously poured into used glasses and no one seemed able to multitask. Faced with a sad heap of shredded duck leg with the texture of beef jerky, some dry scallions and stiff pancakes, I asked if there was supposed to be hoisin sauce for the sharable entree. “Oh yeah,” a server said, after we were already a few bites into the $55 travesty. As we ate the self-made wraps, it sounded like footsteps on gravel in my mouth. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Bon appetite, gang!
To be fair, the sushi and steamed pork-and-prawn dumplings are fair, and I ate most of an appetizer of craggy hot chicken nuggets, cooled with a dunk of yuzu-brightened mayonnaise. But the steamed cod leans sweet, and it isn’t the silken fish you hope for, and a side of Brussels sprouts proves sodden and cloying.
A week earlier, at the bar on the popular terrace, I was told the cocktail I requested was from an old menu, unavailable. Funny to see the same drink, then, on the current menu on this particular visit.
Another night on the rooftop terrace, three waters were dropped off for four people, only two of three people got their drinks together, and we all watched as a member strode past our table, grumbling that she was off to find the cocktails her party ordered “30 minutes ago.” The fog of a nearby cigar smoker enveloped our space; the club’s starry views can come at a price.
Breakfast, served in The Gallery, is the club’s fastest-growing meal, and I was delighted on my last trip to find chilaquiles on the menu. Buttery pieces of avocado and a textbook-perfect fried egg on a base of refried beans and fried tortilla made an ideal eye-opener. A view of the Washington Monument on a sunny day enhanced the fresh berries and crisp waffle, too. No one bothered to ask if we wanted more coffee, though.
“They’re fixing pieces, but not at the same time,” said the member who got the alcohol-laced drink rather than the mocktail. He told me this over a lunch that was better than my dinners at The Gallery. I can vouch for a messy-but-tasty smashburger under a glossy potato bun, a prettier-than-before tuna crudo anointed with basil oil, and a congenial waiter who poured my club soda with bitters at the table. Smith has obviously been tweaking and editing.
“Food is central to how members connect, gather and experience the Club,” read a press release from Ned’s Club in April.
I couldn’t agree more. The views and decor can’t do all the work. Which is why I felt a tinge of disappointment during my recent breakfast, when I inquired about “Chef Dan’s bread,” pointing out the shoutout on the menu to a server. She replied with a smile and a shrug; clearly, she had no idea who he was.
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