Treasury Secretary Ambushed by China-Linked Activists in D.C. Restaurant

Paul Riverbank, 12/19/2025Treasury Secretary confronted by CODEPINK at dinner; protests over US sanctions spark D.C. debate.

“We want to make an announcement!” DiNucci declared, her words carrying across the tiled room as she called out Scott Bessent, the Treasury Secretary, who—by all appearances—would have preferred a low-key dinner. Instead, his table became the stage, as CODEPINK’s protest took center light. She pointed at him—not with malice, but conviction—accusing him of presiding over deadly U.S. sanctions. “Six hundred thousand annual deaths,” DiNucci quoted from The Lancet, locking eyes with Bessent as diners looked on, forks suspended midair.

The reaction was as mixed as the menu. A few diners shrank behind napkins; some stared openly, others just seemed annoyed at the interruption. You could see a couple at the window, previously deep in a whispered argument about their son's math homework, widen their eyes—not at the accusation, but the audacity.

Bessent, caught between indignation and disbelief, didn’t remain a silent target. He raised his own glass, a brief glint of sarcasm in his eyes. “You are ignorant, and you have no idea how ignorant you are,” he shot back—a clumsy echo of the drama around him. Someone on the far side of the room clapped, hesitantly. It fizzled out.

Moments like these aren’t rare for CODEPINK, whose pink banners and bold interruptions have become a fixture in the city, from Capitol Hill hearings to diplomatic receptions. This group, revived in no small part by funds from Chinese entrepreneur Neville Singham (his wife Jodie Evans co-founded the group), seems to thrive where tension runs high. Critics often point to their funding sources, but the group, true to form, brushes aside the scrutiny.

Sanctions are a blunt policy tool, no matter which side of the argument you stand on. Ask a Treasury official on a good day and they’ll recite a list: Iranian paramilitaries, cartel leaders, arms brokers. The logic—squeeze the enablers, not the public. But CODEPINK’s retort is consistent: sanctions don’t discriminate between trafficker and sick child, they say, and the numbers seem to haunt every encounter.

The restaurant staff found themselves in a familiar bind—do you intervene in an unscripted political theater, or is that picking a side? For a while, no one did either. In the end, Bessent gathered his coat and departed—whether from protest fatigue, managerial inertia, or a disappointing entrée remains uncertain. “The food sucked anyway,” muttered a friend of his on the way out, only half-joking.

Later, some patrons insisted CODEPINK had overstepped by storming a private meal, blurring protest into harassment. Others quietly exchanged views at the bar, suggesting that public officials shouldn’t expect to slip unnoticed into a DC night, not with policies on their backs and protest movements always nearby.

This kind of scene—awkward, raw, unresolved—is becoming Washington’s new normal. The city’s power brokers dine alongside the discontented, and the boundaries between policymaker and public have worn thin. At Reveler’s Hour, nobody came just to watch a political confrontation, but few will forget it. On another night, in another corner, the conversation will undoubtedly begin again.

On a quiet weeknight in Adams Morgan, the gentle swirl of conversation at Reveler's Hour didn't last. Few diners glanced up at first when Olivia DiNucci stood, glass in hand. The rhythm of forks paused only briefly; she had to raise her voice to cut through the late evening clatter.“We want to make an announcement!” DiNucci declared, her words carrying across the tiled room as she called out Scott Bessent, the Treasury Secretary, who—by all appearances—would have preferred a low-key dinner. Instead, his table became the stage, as CODEPINK’s protest took center light. She pointed at him—not with malice, but conviction—accusing him of presiding over deadly U.S. sanctions. “Six hundred thousand annual deaths,” DiNucci quoted from The Lancet, locking eyes with Bessent as diners looked on, forks suspended midair.The reaction was as mixed as the menu. A few diners shrank behind napkins; some stared openly, others just seemed annoyed at the interruption. You could see a couple at the window, previously deep in a whispered argument about their son's math homework, widen their eyes—not at the accusation, but the audacity.Bessent, caught between indignation and disbelief, didn’t remain a silent target. He raised his own glass, a brief glint of sarcasm in his eyes. “You are ignorant, and you have no idea how ignorant you are,” he shot back—a clumsy echo of the drama around him. Someone on the far side of the room clapped, hesitantly. It fizzled out.Moments like these aren’t rare for CODEPINK, whose pink banners and bold interruptions have become a fixture in the city, from Capitol Hill hearings to diplomatic receptions. This group, revived in no small part by funds from Chinese entrepreneur Neville Singham (his wife Jodie Evans co-founded the group), seems to thrive where tension runs high. Critics often point to their funding sources, but the group, true to form, brushes aside the scrutiny.Sanctions are a blunt policy tool, no matter which side of the argument you stand on. Ask a Treasury official on a good day and they’ll recite a list: Iranian paramilitaries, cartel leaders, arms brokers. The logic—squeeze the enablers, not the public. But CODEPINK’s retort is consistent: sanctions don’t discriminate between trafficker and sick child, they say, and the numbers seem to haunt every encounter.The restaurant staff found themselves in a familiar bind—do you intervene in an unscripted political theater, or is that picking a side? For a while, no one did either. In the end, Bessent gathered his coat and departed—whether from protest fatigue, managerial inertia, or a disappointing entrée remains uncertain. “The food sucked anyway,” muttered a friend of his on the way out, only half-joking.Later, some patrons insisted CODEPINK had overstepped by storming a private meal, blurring protest into harassment. Others quietly exchanged views at the bar, suggesting that public officials shouldn’t expect to slip unnoticed into a DC night, not with policies on their backs and protest movements always nearby.This kind of scene—awkward, raw, unresolved—is becoming Washington’s new normal. The city’s power brokers dine alongside the discontented, and the boundaries between policymaker and public have worn thin. At Reveler’s Hour, nobody came just to watch a political confrontation, but few will forget it. On another night, in another corner, the conversation will undoubtedly begin again.