As we polish off some chicken tinga and spicy pickled giardiniera served in a lunch-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, the camp ranger approaches.
He takes a seat at our table — flush as it is with faux lanterns and Capri-Sun juice pouches spiked with rum — here to verbally demonstrate the nuances of a raccoon’s mating call.
“It’s kind of a more subtle, but sensual, ‘aaaaaaaaagh,’ ” he explains, adopting a tone somewhere between seduction and intense gastrointestinal distress. “You gotta let it fall off the lips towards the end, there.”
Now it’s our turn, a Raccoon Communication Merit Badge on the line.
We let it rip.
“The way you were holding those vocals, you should be called ‘The Rac-Crooner,’ ” the ranger flatters us afterward. “Your merit in raccoon communications is hereby acknowledged.”
He then affixes a commemorative sticker to our pants leg — frankly, it feels well deserved.
And so it goes at Camp Palms, a new, interactive, ’80s-themed pop-up that promises “booze, s’mores & bad decisions” in a lakeside forest setting populated by chatty camp directors in green short-shorts, lusty camp counselors in even shorter jean shorts, a dancing Sasquatch and dudes playing inflatable saxophones.
The summer camp theme extends to the menu, which offers a high-end take on lowbrow favorites — The Wagyu Dog with bison chili and pickled jalapeño; the Band Camp Bento Box with fried truffle mac-and-cheese rounds — meant to be washed down with cocktails like the Red, White and Boom! (A glass of Prosecco garnished with a Bomb Pop).
It’s all fuel for campfire sing-alongs led by the aforementioned ranger (“No talent required; no talent preferred”), ghost stories in which mysterious spirits break into Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and group pledges to obey the code of Camp Palms (“I promise to laugh loudly, dance badly and make memories that I will barely remember tomorrow,” the room bellows in unison).
“I’m going to tell you something that your daddy probably never told you,” Camp Director Larry informs the packed house following the recital of said pledge. “I am proud of you.”
Before long, Larry has dropped by to share hand-drawn notebook sketches of Bigfoot, who later shows up in the flesh — or fur or whatever — strolling through the place for photo ops.
There’s a knowing, playful, cinematic absurdity to it all.
Think “Meatballs” meets beer meets “Wet Hot American Summer” — and then stop thinking entirely.
It only defeats the purpose here.
Camp Palms at the Palms opens at 5 p.m. Wednesdays to Sundays through July 31.
Contact Jason Bracelin at [email protected] or 702-383-0476. Follow @jasonbracelin76 on Instagram.