Tucked just off the boulevard, behind a line of palms and a quiet sense of discretion, The Colony Palms Hotel carries a history that feels almost improbable in the desert light.

Originally opened in 1936 as the Colonial House, the property began as a private club under the direction of Al Wertheimer—complete with a hidden speakeasy and a past that still lingers in the architecture. By the late 1940s, it had evolved into the Howard Manor, drawing a steady rhythm of Hollywood names—Sinatra, Gable, Lombard—who came for the same reasons people still do: privacy, atmosphere, and a certain kind of ease.

Today, that history has been refined rather than erased. The space holds onto its Spanish-Colonial bones while softening into something quieter, more modern. It doesn’t ask for attention—it rewards it.

Lunch at the Colony Club unfolds slowly. Palm shadows stretch across striped loungers, the pool reflects just enough movement, and the table settles into the kind of light that makes everything feel considered.

The burrata arrives simply—heirloom tomatoes, a clean finish, nothing unnecessary. It’s the kind of dish that works because of where you are, not in spite of it.

Observed in the world, refined for the table.