MAJONG HAS ENTERED ITS GLOW-UP ERA

Well, it’s official! Mahjong has entered its glow-up era.

Not loudly. Not officially. Just quietly enough that you start to notice it everywhere—whispered about at school pickup, scheduled into calendars with alarming sincerity, mentioned the way people once mentioned book clubs or, what was that other thing called?? Oh yeah, pickleball...

It's just, the thing is, I don’t think mahjong asked for any of this.

For decades, it thrived quietly. Folding tables. Hums of discontent. Coffee clatches clutching their clackers. Mahjong didn’t need branding. It wasn’t trying to be cute. It just… was.

You didn’t learn mahjong. You were absorbed into it. Slowly. Against your will. Usually by someone with very strong opinions about the card.

But apparently, 2026 is the Year of the Mahj!! If you haven’t been invited to a “tiles and tonic” night yet, you probably will be—right around the time your yoga instructor starts referring to herself as a “tile girlie.” The dress code is simple: ancient Eastern tradition meets Borscht Belt meets Hamptons outdoor kitchen. Got it??

But look—who wouldn’t love a game that’s gone from ho-hum to Park Avenue chic. Sleek racks. Curated tiles that cost more than my first car. A “buffet” of silver bowls filled with salty treats from William Poll. “Beginner mahj” workshops with waitlists longer than most colleges.

New Yorkers love a good refresh.

Everyone insists it’s casual, but nothing about the room is casual. Mini Birkins are placed carefully. Shearling coats are draped with intention. Everyone says they’re new. No one actually is.

And I’m not immune. I love structured socializing. I love anything that gets me out of my house and into a room where the sugary snacks aren’t my responsibility. But sometimes, watching mahjong get swanky and posh feels like watching your grandmother get a spray tan—technically possible, but why?

And, yes ladies, sumptuous dinner parties are fine but it feels ambitious to try and make this game elegant. I mean, can you imagine Lee Radziwill sitting at La Cote Basque screaming, “Two crack! Three bam!” “Soap!”? Methinks not. Not because she was above having a good time, but because real polish never announces itself this loudly.

Quick historical interlude before someone gently corrects me between Pilates and pickup: mahjong’s origins are actually in 19th-century China, not Westchester. It’s traveled farther than any of us this summer, and with way less luggage—which makes it even funnier that we’re now acting like we just discovered it somewhere between our NAD shot and getting our roots done. Turning it into a lifestyle trend doesn’t change what it is. It just gives it better accessories.

But let’s be honest—nothing activates the Upper East Side quite like the possibility of a seating chart.

Which is probably why I recognize all of this so easily. I notice where I’m sitting. I notice who’s hosting. I tell myself it’s just a game—and then find myself hoping there’s still a fourth next week, or that someone doesn’t suddenly “have a conflict.”

Mahjong may be in its glow-up era. Or maybe this is just what happens when something social gets a little overdressed and starts believing its own press.

Either way, I’ll be there. Sitting. Playing. Paying attention.Trying not to look like I am.