When friends visit Los Angeles and ask where they should go, I often recommend the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel. If you go, you’re likely to see an A-list celebrity. The reason for this is that you can’t just walk in off the street. The lounge is tucked behind the lobby of the hotel. Most of the restaurant is located on a leafy patio with white tablecloths and formal dinner service. The bar is oak, and you get the feeling that you should be wearing a jacket before you sit down.

Reaching the hotel requires an awkward turn off Sunset Boulevard and a drive up a long, winding driveway. At the top, young valets in white polo shirts and trousers with the Beverly Hills Hotel logo greet you, looking like extras from a 1960s beach comedy. It isn’t cheap, and for the faint of heart, it can feel a little intimidating. “What did I do to deserve a 22-year-old blonde parking my car with a smile?”

Lately, I’ve been telling people that Pacific Palisades is the Polo Lounge of Los Angeles. There are no freeways nearby, and the only way in or out is Sunset Boulevard. Locals might navigate the winding eucalyptus-lined streets from Santa Monica Canyon, but outsiders need to know where they’re going and plan to go there.

Physically, Pacific Palisades resembles a high-end Mayberry, with a hint of salt water in the air. Nestled between Malibu and Santa Monica, it is name-checked in “Surfin’ USA.” Growing up in Santa Monica, I always found the Palisades a bit intimidating, too—richer, less urban, out of reach. I had a feeling the girls who lived there were out of my league, though I’m married to one now.