Blame it on Midnight is a snapshot of the days when gay restaurants served also as insular haunts for drinking and carousing amid glittery décor that represented the playful soul of the community. Only in Palm Springs can the era be so fossilized, given its sizable demographic of GLBT folk who still keep a few Donna Summer and Sylvester albums in their haylofts.

What appears like a ’70s museum of gay ballroom blitz is actually just a few years old. Heavily strung colored lights and Japanese lanterns play off a riot of kitschy bric-a-brac plastered throughout the place to create a merry, retro atmosphere that attracts a full house on any given night. An ample bar bisects the blueprint between dining room and lounge for those preferring high-octane martinis to the semi-gourmet dinner fare. And in capturing a time when people were less cagey outside their social cliques, everyone here seems to know everyone.

Two potent cocktails and a corner booth put Mr. X and I in pure vacation mode. His Midnight Cosmos, made with grape juice instead of cranberry, shot straight to his medulla by the time he reached for the nearby container of Magic Markers. Scribbling sweet nothings on the bag-stock table coverings is highly encouraged.

A sampler tray of various fried appetizers got our dinner rolling – lime-chili chicken wings, onion rings, chicken-stuffed quesadilla and Coco Chanel Shrimp. The kitchen did an admiral job of soaking off the excess grease from these crispy victuals. More original was the Cream of Onion house soup, thickened with a touch of potato puree and a scant amount of cream. It was love at first slurp.

If you’ve ever eaten at Lips, expect the same caliber of food. Dishes are stamped with decent quality and a saving-grace spurt of imagination to satisfy the frequent supper crowd. The Blame it on Caesar salad takes on a liberal sprinkling of aged Parmesan cheese and comes with the option of anchovies. But the balsamic-shallot vinaigrette on our house salad tasted more contemporary.

From the entrée section, Mr. X expanded his horizons by opting for the Grilled Tilapia, a rising star among fish lovers that offers a mild taste and flaky texture. The perfectly cooked filet came “sauced” in lemon-butter, capers and a tad of fresh garlic, which was also evident in the accompanying mashed potatoes.

I chose the chef’s signature dish, called Chicken Supreme. The presentation was goopy, but the meal offered memorable flavors given its silky chicken-stock reduction infused with sautéed mushrooms and bacon particles. Mozzarella cheese tops off the pounded-out breast, replacing the fat lost from skinning. Our only complaint originated from the undercooked Brussels sprouts garnishing our plates, which we could barely pierce with our forks.

Other entrée selections include Seafood Ravioli with basil coulis, Angel Hair Pasta with Prawns, Homemade Turkey Meatloaf and some excellent Baby Back Ribs that I’ve ordered in the past. The “Humdingers” category offers burgers and sandwiches, which at the $10 mark would seem a little overpriced in less amusing restaurants.

The restaurant’s owners, three gay men, also run a smaller, fine-dining eatery, called Shame on the Moon in Rancho Mirage. But for visitors to the Coachella Valley with a nose for sniffing out the party scene, Blame it on Midnight clearly wins the prize.

By the time we got around to dessert, the dining room had filled to near capacity – a remarkable contrast compared to the quiet desert surroundings outside. At the urging of our sprightly waiter, we submitted to a high-caloric treat called Xango. It’s a crazy invention that involves a piece of cheesecake and bananas wrapped in pastry crust, and then the whole thing is deep-fried. Yikes! We headed straight to Palm Canyon Drive afterwards for a long essential walk without making it to midnight. Hearty food and sweet intoxicants took the blame.