Orchestral music soars as light leapfrogs a map of the world, words in stark white materializing: “A new social network is rising up …”

It’s not a trailer for a summer blockbuster. It’s a YouTube promo for Le Dîner en Blanc, the planet-hopping, charmingly fussy “epicurean phenomenon” that began as one man’s picnic in 1988. He is François Pasquier, a Parisian who just wanted to reconnect with friends after being abroad. Apparently, there were a lot of them. So he asked everyone to: 1. Meet in a public park. 2. Bring their own everything. 3. Dress head-to-toe in white so they could find each other. Over the years his concept has grown some heads (and fabulous hats), turning into an international organization headquartered in Canada in 2012 and having spread to more than 70 cosmopolitan cities and seduced over 100,000 revelers into what The New York Times dubbed a “refined flash-mob feast.”

I knew it was about to happen in Las Vegas and I knew I wouldn’t be invited. Fundamental to Le Dîner is the notion that you have to know someone to even know it’s on, and the intrigue continues right up to the event, as the white-clad throng carrying tables and chairs and picnic baskets and dishes and decorations is bussed to the secret backdrop du jour, where they set up and make merry for an evening before vanishing without so much as a crouton left behind. Kinda like bizarro fancy-pants Burning Man.

Of course, as the phenom has grown, so have vectors for random people to get in on the fun. You can pay a fee to register to be on a waiting list, but keep in mind that past participants are favored. I just happened to be available on Sunday night when the Weekly’s dining guru—who actually does know people—was not. (Also, it’s hard to convince dudes of the joys of white pants.) I’d heard the buzz, and I wanted in on the napkin-waving magic.

Being in on it requires some effort, starting with wardrobe. The first rule is that white isn't necessarily white. Ivories and creams are not allowed, and neither are accessories in any other hue. My date rationally decided not to fear the color police, daring to wear a cream-colored gown and gold sandals. I, however, now own white jeans and formal shoes and this white-china bulldog wearing a lopsided crown. I even bought white Tic Tacs, and I don’t like that flavor! As frivolous as it was to spend much time or money on such things, the Home Goods cashier was delighted to hear what possessed me to buy the bulldog.

On April 17, it all came together on the curb of Aria’s porte-cochère. It was easy to find our group (Pasquier, you genius), though plenty of partygoers were wearing black shoes and ivory shifts and tan jackets. No color police. Just my ginormous new white tote, the purse equivalent of a wedding dress I'll probably never wear again. But it was a classy barge for our dishes, glasses and utensils (disposables are forbidden) plus table accents, trash bags, extra layers and those Tic Tacs. My date and I were both amazed the straps didn’t break on our short jaunt from Aria through the Monte Carlo out to the street, where a station stocked with tables, chairs and picnic baskets awaited.

The digital marquee on the new T-Mobile Arena welcomed Le Dîner en Blanc, but the party is always under the stars, so I knew we were heading for the adjacent Park’s plaza and its 40-foot sentry “Bliss Dance,” straight out of actual Burning Man and wired with gorgeous lighting effects. Colored tape on the ground directed the arrangement of tables brought in by more than 1,000 guests bussed from meeting spots around the Valley, and row by row the feast took shape. People busted out silk tablecloths, full-on candelabras, fresh-cut flowers, garlands of feathers—all manner of white flourishes to distinguish their pieces of this Strip milestone. While a few off-theme accessories sneaked in, the diners were mostly outfitted in crisp white, whether it was slacks with a breezy button-up or a designer lace frock with a gossamer fascinator. From the DJ in her egg-shaped cage to the acrobats performing on twisted-metal art to the servers shepherding chilled white wine, everyone looked the part.

Once the tables were set and the drinks were flowing, an announcer welcomed us to Le Dîner, and asked that we raise our napkins high and wave them like mad to signal the start of the feast. Having epically failed to bring napkins, I waved my shawl while my date looked down at her dishtowel and decided to just watch. Our lovely tablemates to the left had brought their own picnic, essentially the entire deli counter from Whole Foods (you gotta love a woman who puts a knife, a fork and a whole wedge of cheese on her plate). Many other guests had done the same, not only lugging equipment but also homemade ceviche and roast chickens and brownies with compote. No wonder some people had walked in with rolling luggage and restaurant crates.

My date and I opted for a picnic composed by the event’s resident catering company Gourmet Celebrations, and it kicked off with a board of hard and soft cheeses mingled with apricots, cranberries and fig spread, a rainbow of olives, macadamia nuts and pepitas and fresh crudités like baby yellow carrots and ripe tomatoes for dipping in a Mason jar of hummus drizzled with olive oil. Another jar contained a rustic pasta salad with herbs and Parmesan and velvety roasted peppers. Then came cold slices of perfectly cooked beef and green and white (of course) asparagus salad with tangy mushrooms, bacon, raw red onions and toasted sesame seeds. Baguettes were flying. My date got down on a simple ham and cheese sandwich on airy bread, balancing the dense bite with a spinach and lentil salad topped with shaved radishes and the kind of Champagne vinaigrette you want to drink. There was a rice dish flavored with pickled white asparagus that I couldn’t stop eating. But somehow I still envied the spread for the MGM Resorts International executives next door. It was a little surreal being part of their shindig.

As the sun sank and “Bliss Dance” began glowing red and electric-blue, we nibbled crispy puffs of meringue and macarons flaked with gold. Servers handed out the fire-safe Vegas version of the original Parisian sparkler—fiber-optic wands—and the announcer roused us again to raise our arms and christen the dance party. The DJ answered with a volume boost and some sick beats, and the Park turned into a mass of blinking lights and bodies. Around us, performers spun glowing hula hoops, and passersby on the sidewalk gaped at the spectacle.

The execution wasn’t flawless. There were small logistical hiccups, understandable given the scale. But the mood never dipped. It felt like we were all at an awesome wedding, strangers offering each other food and drinks (thanks to our tablemates for the bubbly), cheering on each other’s sexy or adorably bad dance moves and having real conversations. If Pasquier’s original picnic was about breaking bread with old friends, this party forced me to make a few new ones.

As my date and I wove through the still-happening scene out to the quiet street, I didn’t mind the weight of our picnic remnants. And when a tourist approached and breathlessly said he had to know what the big white party was about, it felt pretty cool to be able to tell him.