Best Of :: Bars & Clubs
Long a glittery weekend salsa pit, Club Millennium now offers a welcome respite to Latin rockers who complain they get no respect in Miami. The Doral-area disco caters to the South American kids of the city's western suburbs with a Thursday-night series of the best Latin rock acts from Tijuana to Buenos Aires. Heavy on the frenzied sounds of the Southern Cone, the new era of Rock en Español began in January 2000 with Argentine underground institution Los Pericos. In March fellow porteño Fito Paez drew the biggest crowd to date. The fanatic exuberance of Fito-starved fans pissed off the formerly radical rocker as he tried to play a toned-down set of his best-loved tunes on piano with nothing but a bass accompaniment. Flapping his arms like a Muppet, Paez implored the crowd to shut the doors, indulge in an orgy, then listen quietly to his music in the postclimactic calm. Somebody set off the sprinkler system by waving his lighter in the air instead. One way or the other, Club Millennium is letting Miami get its Spanish-language rock off like never before.
This darkly hued downtown oasis is ideal for checking your investments while you quaff some refreshments. Sure it's a national chain with a gimmick: a news ticker. But at least it's an informative gimmick. Sit in air-conditioned elegance while the headlines and stock market updates whiz by on the wall. Somehow it's more exciting than watching television over the massive wooden bar. Steeped in sophistication the Capital Grille bar is cigar-friendly and aurally agreeable: A piano player jams nearby from Tuesday through Saturday. There is no happy hour to attract the boisterous riffraff, though you may get to observe how your neighbor at the bar reacts when he loses his shorts on those technology stocks.
Macabi's began as a retail store with one of the best tobacco selections around, as well as some of the best prices. But last June, after the nationwide cigar boom began to wane, owners Henry Vilar and Arturo Sosa transformed their showroom into a smoke room, complete with high-end liquors and cordials. Now, after picking out a hefty Arturo Fuente Hemingway (at seven dollars, not a bad price) in the walk-in humidor, you can settle into a plush chair, sip a Fonseca port, and depending on the night, enjoy music (Friday is latin jazz, Saturday is often blues) or games (Tuesday night the old-school fumadores gather to play dominoes).
Tucked into the extreme south end of downtown Coral Gables, this unassuming ranch-style edifice next to the Knights of Columbus hall has been called the Crown and Garter as well as the English Crown before its current owners gave it a more prosaic moniker a couple of years back. In its latest incarnation as the Gables Pub, it attracts a youngish crowd (more platform shoes, midriffs, and chain wallets than you'd find at your usual Gables gathering place) with its low-key atmosphere, tasty food, and Bass and Guinness on tap. (It skews a little younger on Wednesday's ladies' night and a little smellier on Thursday, when the rugby players show up.) Two narrow inside rooms and the outdoor concrete courtyard filled with tables make it more of a place to hang out than to pick up or throw down -- unless someone's throwing down her last ficha in one of the pitched domino battles that have been known to break out. One oddity: Despite the fact that the gringo quotient is no higher here than anywhere else in the Gables, the jukebox features a veritable rogues' gallery of the worst and the whitest. (Styx, anyone?) Yet the pub is so otherwise inviting, the patrons don't run screaming for the exits.
There's a saying that given enough time, even the town whore becomes respectable. That adage certainly applies to Tobacco Road, rapidly closing in on a century as one of Miami's most cherished watering holes. Once a notorious den of iniquity, the Road now has a family friendly vibe, or at least the atmosphere of an all-American frat party. Sure you'll still find plenty of cops swarming the premises, but unlike the Prohibition Era, these days they're there as (hopefully off-duty) customers. In fact wander out back to the open-air patio to catch a breeze off the river, and you're likely to come across several city prosecutors settling into a beer and a burger. Of course what draws the consistently packed crowds isn't just the locale, the brew, or the pub chow (solid as it may be); it's the music, which remains both very live and thankfully little more than spit-polished. Gaze upon the walls here and you'll spy framed posters immortalizing past Road gigs by protorocker legends such as John Lee Hooker, Bo Diddley, and Junior Wells, even outer-space soul-jazz visionary Sun Ra, all asserting that the "disco sucks" debate is far from over, at least in this joint. Veteran barflies may grouse that the booking policy is a bit less impressive on the talent front these days, but as last November's George Clinton date here proved, heavy hitters still occasionally grace the stage. Moreover Tobacco Road ensures a steady diet of roots-oriented outfits -- local and national, up-and-coming and unknown -- and continues to be a welcome home within which to wail away, providing a solid bet for an unpretentious, relaxed night out. In a city whose nightlife milieu increasingly is given over to tense stargazing, that says something.
Even if the Haitian music scene is dominated by men, Miami's best venue for live shows is powered by women. "The girls are in charge!" declares McArthur's social director Kathy Giddarie. Since March 1999 general manager Vivian Lazarre's female bartending crew has kept crowds of up to 800 compas fans happy. Out-of-town thrillers such as System, Sweet Mickey, and King Posse alternate with local favorites Zenglen and D-Zine on Friday and Sunday nights. Oldies night on Saturdays brings back the bands of yesteryear, from Haitian memory-makers to influential black acts such as the Temptations. Weekly dance contests put the fans in the spotlight. Since all that compas can work up an appetite, the kitchen is stocked with party foods, including conch fritters and the fried pork known as griot. Vive la femme!