Asher on Aspen: The Peninsula effect

Stepping into The Peninsula Beverly Hills felt like walking onto a movie set mid-scene — all soft lighting, white roses, and the faint perfume of old money. Everything gleamed: the marble floors, the crystal chandeliers, even the smiles. A bellman materialized from nowhere, gliding off with my luggage as if rehearsed. I stood in the middle of the lobby, caught between disbelief and delight, thinking that reality had never looked quite this polished.

Joining me for this surreal weekend was my sweet friend Sophia — a local Angeleno who once called Aspen home before trading powder days for palm trees. She swept into the hotel like she owned the place — little black dress, kitten heels, and a sort of glamorous ease that only comes from knowing exactly who you are. There’s something about her that just fits in Beverly Hills — unhurried, radiant, perfectly composed. “This place suits you,” she said with a grin as she dropped her overnight bag on the sofa. I wasn’t sure if she meant me or herself. Probably both.

Our Grand King Deluxe Room was a five-star fantasy come to life — French doors flinging open to a king bed dressed in the kind of sheets that make you question every thread count you’ve ever owned. Beyond them, a private patio waited — complete with a bubbling fountain and patio furniture so plush it could’ve hosted an entire cocktail party. It felt like a secret garden designed exclusively for lounging and lingering. The Peninsula doesn’t do subtlety. Everything was lush, intentional, and unnervingly perfect — the kind of perfection that borders on madness.

The hotel itself is a temple of Renaissance grandeur — 195 guest rooms, 38 suites, and 18 private villas nestled amid tropical gardens. It’s been both Forbes Five Star and AAA Five Diamond since the early ’90s, and you can feel that legacy pulsing through every polished surface. Guests float around in linen and quiet confidence. No one rushes here. They even have a thing called “Peninsula Time” — a policy that lets you check in and out whenever you damn well please. It’s dangerously seductive, this idea that the clock bends just for you.

That night, we dined at The Belvedere, the hotel’s French-Mediterranean restaurant and a long-time Beverly Hills power table. Sophia and I ordered Cucumber Martinis, bright and herbal, while the chef — a charismatic mad scientist of flavor — came out to meet us.

“Let me surprise you,” he said, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’ll send out my favorites, I promise.”

He started with a charred Caesar salad, which sounded seemingly ordinary but might have ruined all future Caesars for me. Charred lettuce — crisp and smoky — tangled with shavings of Parmesan and roasted Brussels sprouts that crackled with umami. Then came the scallops with artichokes — delicate, buttery bites that made me question what a scallop is really supposed to taste like.

“We grow these artichokes on the roof,” he said.

Of course they did. Even the vegetables here have a penthouse.

Next: Carrot Bolognese, completely vegan, entirely divine. No meat, no dairy — just slow-cooked carrots masquerading as decadence.

“This one’s become a signature,” the chef said, watching our faces as the flavor hit.

Then came the lobster — pulled from its shell, paired with a house-made biscuit (a cheeky nod to Red Lobster), drenched in melted tomatoes, garlic, and guilt. It stopped all conversation — just forks, eyes closed, and the quiet hum of collective bliss.

We finished the savory portion with a buttery steak filet that melted across the tongue — rich, glazed, and impossibly tender. Then came dessert, a crème brûlée that cracked with precision — caramelized sugar giving way to a soft, sea-salted custard so smooth it bordered on narcotic. Beside it sat a glossy, cherry-shaped dome filled with cherry mousse. Beautiful, yes — but in the shadow of that brûlée, merely decorative.

The next morning, we rose late — the kind of lazy, decadent late only a hotel this exquisite can justify — and wandered up to the rooftop pool. The sun burned white against a flawless blue sky as Sophia and I sank into loungers, cocktails in hand, soaking up the easy rhythm of nowhere to be. Around us, the scene was peak Beverly Hills surrealism: movie producers on phone calls about “scripts with heart,” perfectly styled women flipping through novels they clearly weren’t reading, a father-and-son duo from Houston insisting that Vail was somehow better than Aspen, and a silver-haired man in aviators announcing to anyone who would listen that “Palm Springs is dead.”

By the end of our stay, I felt like a princess in a fever dream, floating between garden pathways and rooftop cocktails, personalized pillowcases monogrammed with my initials tucked neatly into my suitcase.

The Peninsula Beverly Hills isn’t just a hotel — it’s a shimmering mirage of old Hollywood indulgence. A place where time slows, service anticipates, and every detail hums with quiet luxury. It’s where fantasy becomes tangible, at least for a weekend. And as I drove away, I caught myself glancing back at the grand entrance — just to make sure it had actually happened.

Because it all felt far too perfect to be real.