Gen Z doesn’t know how to talk to people.
You’ve heard this sentiment before, or even said it yourself. It’s practically canon. As a wise elder of the generation (27 and a half-decent conversationalist, imho), I’ve always rolled my eyes when hearing this complaint.
Then I got invited to a party where the main event was a ping-pong table, and I was forced to reconsider my eye-rolling. Do we really need ping-pong as an icebreaker?
Last Thursday — my favorite night to party, along with the rest of New York and humanity — I skipped my usual haunts for a press invite too confusing to pass up. It read like a Mad Lib: a party hosted by TikTok-famous New York bassist Blu DeTiger, her brother Rex DeTiger (yes, that is their family name — it’s Dutch, look it up) and Giullian Yao Gioiello, partnered with Bounce (a ping-pong party pop-up), to kick off the All Things Go music festival at The Ned NoMad, a four-year-old outpost of the London members’ club and hotel in — you guessed it — NoMad.
I RSVP’d yes before I even finished reading the invite.
This isn’t the first time I’ve heard of events with contrived activities that are seemingly unrelated to the actual hosts or venue (see: run clubs with DJs that end with a coffee rave and the Airbnb-sponsored Marty Supreme Invitational). As for me, I’m more of a stand-around-and-drink partier, and a decided skeptic of all this production for what is, presumably, “just” a party.
But here I was, party-girl-turned-journalist reporting for duty. What’s up with ping-pong?
Ned’s Club had its big moment in 2024, only two years after opening, when guests like Taylor Swift, Selena Gomez and Doja Cat were regulars. In a city full of clubs running on legacy, seven-figure income checks and, frankly, old-money connections, Ned’s was one of the first geared towards a younger, arts-minded crowd. Younger, indeed, is how I would describe the ping-pong party.
By the end of the night, I’d spoken to at least 40 people (out of maybe 150), and every single one agreed that they wanted to come because of the sheer information overload of names on the invite. Why Blu? Why Bounce? Why Ned’s? Why All Things Go? The ping-pong table didn’t seem like an actual conversation starter beyond “Have you played?” but the curiosity around how these elements fit together worked to break the ice on its own. The table itself also gave people something to watch for the primetime party hours (as opposed to staring at their phones).
Most of the people I spoke with who were under 30 were not members, which may be exactly the point of this party. They were guests of the hosts, or friends with someone who was friends with the host. So many claimed to be Blu’s “friends” and promised to introduce me to her, yet when we’d get within five feet of the booth, they’d stall. “Oh, she looks busy,” they’d say. This happened with three different people who claimed close friendship with Blu (none of whom, of course, wanted to be named).
Let’s go back to getting in. My secret confidante plus-one (read: social-media-averse friend) and I were shuffled through a chaotic entrance (no clear check-in, lots of PR people milling about — I’m a born-and-raised New Yorker with little patience for nonsense). We were eventually stamped on our wrists with invisible-ink stars that were revealed by a tiny UV flashlight. Très chic.
Finally, we were shepherded through floor-to-ceiling gold-lined brocade curtains — which I later spilled a little rosé on by accident, sorry — and faced The Party: a packed room with lots of bobbing heads and clicking heels. The dimly lit space was notable as much for what it was missing (a dance floor) as what replaced it in the center (the ping-pong table).
At the table, two beautiful women crushed their pong volley with professional speed. One of those women: Blu DeTiger herself. The other: Daniely Rios, a Pan American table tennis champ from Puerto Rico, whom Gioiello (Bounce’s co-founder and MC) named one of his favorite players of the night.
“It was just incredible to see them ripping forehands together. Especially in their nice dresses and bags,” Gioiello said of Rios and her friend Francesca, a national champ from Peru.
Orange pong balls whizzed across the room, landing next to pointed heels and clean sneakers. To the right was a DJ booth being manned by Rex DeTiger. Later on, Gioiello joined in.
Blu is openly obsessed with the table tennis game. Bounce was actually created by Blu, Rex and Gioiello as a way to satisfy her obsession. This particular Thursday night, it also served as a fitting kickoff for her All Things Go set at Forest Hills Stadium the next day. (Well, before the festival was canceled anyway.)
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With its impossible door, is BC the new Bungalow 8?Despite servers passing trays of Espresso Martinis and spicy mezcal Margaritas, we made our way to the bar. It sat at the very back, past side rooms with people nuzzled into deep-set chaises, and past the kitchen entrance, which is always tempting to me.
The drinks were good and free until 11 p.m., as I learned at 11:10 p.m., when the fair-haired glasses-wearing guy next to me paid for his Whiskey Sour. He later invited me to a “right-wing trivia night” at another club, but when I followed up, he claimed misspeaking. “It’s actually a nonpartisan members’ club,” he texted. Another patron I met, Sam (an actor that declined to share his last name), said he paid $57 for two cocktails after the open bar ended — a reminder that the free drinks were a perk of the night, not the norm.
“Giving people something to do together is the easiest connector there is,” said Elaine Chamberlain, acting director of membership at Ned’s. “Something like ping-pong is perfect because anyone can join in, and suddenly you’re talking to someone new without needing a formal introduction.” While nobody really randomly joined in (Gioiello said there was a tourney sign-up form through which the founders spent 48 hours prior to the event picking players), the competition did foster close-talking in a crowded room.
Before the party, I noticed a telling detail in Ned’s membership pricing: while standard members pay $5,000 annually, under-30s pay a discounted $4,000, like reverse senior-citizen pricing. From a club that shares a founder with Soho House, and that I’d heard described as “like graduating from Soho House,” it’s a clear signal that Ned’s Club wants the next generation in the room. As Chamberlain said, “There’s no typical Ned’s Club member, and that’s the point…. We have a thriving under-30 community, and our programming is a huge draw for them.” Chamberlain described members as everything from “established leaders to emerging entrepreneurs and creatives” — a wide enough net for just about anyone to fit.
Still, why Ned’s for this party, after previous installments at downtown hotspots like Jean’s Lafayette, Night Club 101 and Acme? The move farther uptown didn’t seem to change the core of the party. “It’s always been private,” Gioiello said. Bounce lives on word of mouth — no one knows when or where the next one will be — so a members’ club, he said, “felt like a nice step up from our typical underground digs, but still matches the vibe.” According to Chamberlain, Ned’s has worked with Blu for years, and she played their Halloween party last year, “where every table sold out for her set and members raved about it for weeks.”
So here’s how the math maths: Blu and the Bounce crew get a gorgeous collection of rooms to celebrate her All Things Go set, All Things Go gets a buzzy kickoff and Ned’s Club gets a room full of 20-somethings experiencing firsthand why people join. The whole night is designed to make you want something, and I’d be remiss not to admit it worked. In my case, I wanted to get a little drunk and write a story about Gen Z’s alleged woeful ineptitudes. I got the former, for sure. I stayed until I was politely kicked out. The lights were up, the pong table long gone, along with all of the hosts, music and most of the guests.
“In the days where we’re all terrified of dying from AI and wondering what’s in store for us,” Gioiello said, “we think it’s special to have something unserious we can all look forward to enjoying together in the real world.”
So, does Gen Z need an activity-based icebreaker? Not really. Nobody I met was really talking about ping-pong — they were drinking, smoking outside, stealing pong balls and flirting. They talked about why they were there, who invited them and who else might show up. Give a room full of alleged antisocial 20-somethings something to be curious about, and they’ll talk until the lights come up (or, in my case, a little bit after that).
Future Thursdays will likely find me back in my favorite dark corners, doing the stand-around-and-drink routine. But considering that I didn’t have particularly high hopes for such a confusing invite, it was an unexpected pleasure. Even though I never picked up a paddle, I still made it to closing.
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