Bars & Clubs

DJ Snowhite hosts this gathering of urban poets and aspiring hip-hop stars every Tuesday in the confines of the dark, rectangular club Zanzibar. An assemblage of youth gathers to compete, unleashing prepared and extemporaneous raps and other poetry that ranges in quality from borderline brilliant to painfully lame. The Spam Allstars attempt to accommodate the performers with music to suit their spoken words. The atmosphere is supportive of all types of risk-taking and experimentation, with spontaneous poetry slams occurring inside and outside the club. On those occasions when the band and a performer click, Faatland Tuesdays achieves the sublime.

"My bartending skills? Yeah, sure, everybody gets a glass," quips Warren, known variously as "Butch" or "Beamer." So modest. Twenty years at the Taurus and you figure he's got the fundamentals down. But sitting opposite this drinkslinger is anything but routine. He has turned the skill of bartending into the entertainment of improv theater. Every day he transmutes into a different character of his own imagining. A random stop at the Taurus on a Tuesday evening finds him wearing a sign reading "Happy Infant Safety Week." He's sporting a long-eared Goofy hat, a pacifier dangling from each of the ears. Two pairs of eyeglass frames are perched on his nose. And he has bandages, crossed in a cartoon-style X, on his cheeks. "I found my proper niche in life," the 63-year-old exults. "Where else could I make a living doing what I do and not be locked up?" He's a former actor who found bartending more suited to his tastes. "Here I can be an actor every day." He consults Chase's Calendar of Events to come up with a theme for the day. The week before his infant-safety incarnation included Audubon's birthday. For that Warren wore a bird hat and bird mask. As he scans ahead to the next week, he becomes excited by the prospects, including the Kentucky Derby, Togo Independence Day, and Tourist Day. "After a long day at work, people come in and see me and pretty much leave the seriousness behind them," Warren notes.

"My bartending skills? Yeah, sure, everybody gets a glass," quips Warren, known variously as "Butch" or "Beamer." So modest. Twenty years at the Taurus and you figure he's got the fundamentals down. But sitting opposite this drinkslinger is anything but routine. He has turned the skill of bartending into the entertainment of improv theater. Every day he transmutes into a different character of his own imagining. A random stop at the Taurus on a Tuesday evening finds him wearing a sign reading "Happy Infant Safety Week." He's sporting a long-eared Goofy hat, a pacifier dangling from each of the ears. Two pairs of eyeglass frames are perched on his nose. And he has bandages, crossed in a cartoon-style X, on his cheeks. "I found my proper niche in life," the 63-year-old exults. "Where else could I make a living doing what I do and not be locked up?" He's a former actor who found bartending more suited to his tastes. "Here I can be an actor every day." He consults Chase's Calendar of Events to come up with a theme for the day. The week before his infant-safety incarnation included Audubon's birthday. For that Warren wore a bird hat and bird mask. As he scans ahead to the next week, he becomes excited by the prospects, including the Kentucky Derby, Togo Independence Day, and Tourist Day. "After a long day at work, people come in and see me and pretty much leave the seriousness behind them," Warren notes.

It's been some time since a DJ called Sugar Dick worked the decks in South Beach haunts such as the Whiskey, Sinatra Bar, and Barrio. Rene Lecour has dropped the Dick, kept the Sugar, and continues to expand his reach. Along with his spinning at Bar Room on Wednesdays, the Living Room on Fridays, Liquid on Saturdays and Mondays, and Chaos on Sundays, there's Sugar's Tuesday-night gig, Home Cookin' at Groove Jet, the pièce de résistance of his schedule. On that night Sugar gets out of the booth and puts his turntables in the backroom to cut, scratch, and lay down tracks behind his Afro-Latin ensemble, the South City Funk Mob. Joining Sugar in the Funk Mob are a pair of percussionists, a horn section, and any number of musical guests who stop by and contribute to the freestyle jams. And in these "God is a DJ" days of techno, drum and bass, new rave, rock and rave, house, hard house, progressive house, posthouse, and trance, this turntablist says his favorite stuff to spin is "anything soulful." Sweet.

It's been some time since a DJ called Sugar Dick worked the decks in South Beach haunts such as the Whiskey, Sinatra Bar, and Barrio. Rene Lecour has dropped the Dick, kept the Sugar, and continues to expand his reach. Along with his spinning at Bar Room on Wednesdays, the Living Room on Fridays, Liquid on Saturdays and Mondays, and Chaos on Sundays, there's Sugar's Tuesday-night gig, Home Cookin' at Groove Jet, the pièce de résistance of his schedule. On that night Sugar gets out of the booth and puts his turntables in the backroom to cut, scratch, and lay down tracks behind his Afro-Latin ensemble, the South City Funk Mob. Joining Sugar in the Funk Mob are a pair of percussionists, a horn section, and any number of musical guests who stop by and contribute to the freestyle jams. And in these "God is a DJ" days of techno, drum and bass, new rave, rock and rave, house, hard house, progressive house, posthouse, and trance, this turntablist says his favorite stuff to spin is "anything soulful." Sweet.

The burnished wood interior, the power-suited clientele, and the eight-dollar cheeseburgers might seem to push JohnMartin's out of the realm of the neighborhood dive, but for those who live or work in the Gables and environs, this Emerald Isle-theme joint actually does serve primarily as the local watering hole. The Irish pub, founded ten years ago by John Clarke and Martin Lynch, delivers an abundant beer selection, stick-to-your-ribs food (the secret phrase is meat loaf), Irish music four nights per week, single-malt Scotch nights (mmmm), and the essential convivial atmosphere. It might seem that Gables financiers and attorneys are more welcome than others are, given the throngs of them knocking back a few during happy hour. The truth is that the plebeians of Gabledom enjoy hoisting a pint at JohnMartin's just as much as the next lawyer.

The burnished wood interior, the power-suited clientele, and the eight-dollar cheeseburgers might seem to push JohnMartin's out of the realm of the neighborhood dive, but for those who live or work in the Gables and environs, this Emerald Isle-theme joint actually does serve primarily as the local watering hole. The Irish pub, founded ten years ago by John Clarke and Martin Lynch, delivers an abundant beer selection, stick-to-your-ribs food (the secret phrase is meat loaf), Irish music four nights per week, single-malt Scotch nights (mmmm), and the essential convivial atmosphere. It might seem that Gables financiers and attorneys are more welcome than others are, given the throngs of them knocking back a few during happy hour. The truth is that the plebeians of Gabledom enjoy hoisting a pint at JohnMartin's just as much as the next lawyer.

It's almost a cliché but nonetheless true that a worth-its-salt neighborhood tavern should feel like a second home. For most people that means slightly messy, a bit worn, with items reflecting the dweller's personality affixed to the walls. The Bamboo Inn has been around for about 60 years and it has all of the above in spades. The walls are cluttered with platitudes along the lines of the one proclaiming, "Beer, so much more than just a breakfast drink." Off in the corner sits a battered piano, relegated to service as a shelf for a row of paperback romance novels. A pool table (of course there's a pool table) is the centerpiece of the room. Some of the aged bar's regulars double as an informal country band that performs when the mood strikes. If the mood doesn't strike, turn to the Bamboo Inn's stellar jukebox, which, at ten cents per play, evokes a grand sense of nostalgia regardless of the music selected. A rarely used spare room completes the picture of a gathering place that feels like home.

It's almost a cliché but nonetheless true that a worth-its-salt neighborhood tavern should feel like a second home. For most people that means slightly messy, a bit worn, with items reflecting the dweller's personality affixed to the walls. The Bamboo Inn has been around for about 60 years and it has all of the above in spades. The walls are cluttered with platitudes along the lines of the one proclaiming, "Beer, so much more than just a breakfast drink." Off in the corner sits a battered piano, relegated to service as a shelf for a row of paperback romance novels. A pool table (of course there's a pool table) is the centerpiece of the room. Some of the aged bar's regulars double as an informal country band that performs when the mood strikes. If the mood doesn't strike, turn to the Bamboo Inn's stellar jukebox, which, at ten cents per play, evokes a grand sense of nostalgia regardless of the music selected. A rarely used spare room completes the picture of a gathering place that feels like home.

Sports Grill is as relaxed as a bettor on the upside of a fourth-quarter blowout. For seventeen years this casual bar -- with décor heavy on little plastic Bud dirigibles and Miami Heat logos -- has provided Kendall with a place to drink, eat, and watch televised sports (not necessarily in that order). There are eight television sets placed around the room and an electronic ticker that announces upcoming games. A couple of rows of picnic tables on raised platforms seat diners who can accompany pitchers of frosty suds with the standard bar fare of burgers, chili, conch fritters.... Foodwise Sports Grill scores most of its points for its chicken wings, which come in five varieties, including Miami Heats and Bar-B-Q Braves. The windows and doors are tinted so that the only time that matters inside the bar is when the next game begins.

Sports Grill is as relaxed as a bettor on the upside of a fourth-quarter blowout. For seventeen years this casual bar -- with décor heavy on little plastic Bud dirigibles and Miami Heat logos -- has provided Kendall with a place to drink, eat, and watch televised sports (not necessarily in that order). There are eight television sets placed around the room and an electronic ticker that announces upcoming games. A couple of rows of picnic tables on raised platforms seat diners who can accompany pitchers of frosty suds with the standard bar fare of burgers, chili, conch fritters.... Foodwise Sports Grill scores most of its points for its chicken wings, which come in five varieties, including Miami Heats and Bar-B-Q Braves. The windows and doors are tinted so that the only time that matters inside the bar is when the next game begins.

The Trap lives! God save the Trap! County commissioners (puritanical and hypocritical alike) mounted heated efforts to subdue adult entertainment throughout most of unincorporated Miami-Dade County, creating criminality based on certain geographical proximities. Miami's top topless joint has avoided this no-bare trap since it took effect in January. Owner Jim Robinson filed suit against the county, blocking enforcement of the ordinance, which would have shut the Trap (and other nudie bars in the county's domain). Thank the higher powers a man stands among us willing to fight for the fundamental right to see naked honeys strut around a pole in high heels for money. The Trap is a venerable and upright institution where there's never a cover (charge, that is) and beer comes at reasonable prices. The eclectic gang of bartenders -- Sky, Patty, Amanda, and Dolly among them -- provide bonus entertainment with their sarcastic wisecracking, while the club's dancers reveal themselves to be as friendly as they are sexy. They arouse the interest of customers that include cops and bikers, lawyers and lobbyists, and, of course, a few political candidates. The bottom line: The Trap is the kind of place that helps Miami stand firmly among the top party towns on the continent. Long may she writhe.

The Trap lives! God save the Trap! County commissioners (puritanical and hypocritical alike) mounted heated efforts to subdue adult entertainment throughout most of unincorporated Miami-Dade County, creating criminality based on certain geographical proximities. Miami's top topless joint has avoided this no-bare trap since it took effect in January. Owner Jim Robinson filed suit against the county, blocking enforcement of the ordinance, which would have shut the Trap (and other nudie bars in the county's domain). Thank the higher powers a man stands among us willing to fight for the fundamental right to see naked honeys strut around a pole in high heels for money. The Trap is a venerable and upright institution where there's never a cover (charge, that is) and beer comes at reasonable prices. The eclectic gang of bartenders -- Sky, Patty, Amanda, and Dolly among them -- provide bonus entertainment with their sarcastic wisecracking, while the club's dancers reveal themselves to be as friendly as they are sexy. They arouse the interest of customers that include cops and bikers, lawyers and lobbyists, and, of course, a few political candidates. The bottom line: The Trap is the kind of place that helps Miami stand firmly among the top party towns on the continent. Long may she writhe.

The bodies on the bar -- dancing, prancing around your drinks, or leaning down to give you a better view -- are fine. But so is the atmosphere, which is pleasantly relaxed. The go-go boys are not averse to cozying up to patrons, who in turn are not averse to slipping bills into tiny G-strings. And the drinks are as generously proportioned as the men on display. There's the obligatory big-screen video pulsating with standard dance-hall tunes, and a pool area out back. But the main attraction, naturally, is the barely dressed boys, who strut their stuff on Mondays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Sunday is reserved for amateur strip night. It's all aimed at men, but women are welcome too -- the bartender and dancers make sure of that. Ladies, if you haven't already, give it a go.

The bodies on the bar -- dancing, prancing around your drinks, or leaning down to give you a better view -- are fine. But so is the atmosphere, which is pleasantly relaxed. The go-go boys are not averse to cozying up to patrons, who in turn are not averse to slipping bills into tiny G-strings. And the drinks are as generously proportioned as the men on display. There's the obligatory big-screen video pulsating with standard dance-hall tunes, and a pool area out back. But the main attraction, naturally, is the barely dressed boys, who strut their stuff on Mondays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Sunday is reserved for amateur strip night. It's all aimed at men, but women are welcome too -- the bartender and dancers make sure of that. Ladies, if you haven't already, give it a go.

Tap Tap owner Gina Cunningham wanted to offer karaoke to her customers, but she wasn't about to set the scene for a bunch of schmaltz-lovers crooning "Feelings." Enter James Small, the James Brown of karaoke. A bus driver from Fort Lauderdale, Small appears at Tap Tap on occasional weekend nights, sporting a leather vest over his muscled chest and toting his soulful karaoke machine, outfitted with R&B and rock hits. The Tap Tap crowd (an international mix of artists, journalists, and assorted passersby) responds accordingly. Someone struts like Mick Jagger on top of the bar while singing "Sexual Healing"; a many-accented and heavily inebriated chorus joins together on "Imagine"; a Haitian laundry worker who speaks no English shakes maracas to the beat of "Don't Worry, Be Happy." If you never thought karaoke could be cool, this might change your mind.

Tap Tap owner Gina Cunningham wanted to offer karaoke to her customers, but she wasn't about to set the scene for a bunch of schmaltz-lovers crooning "Feelings." Enter James Small, the James Brown of karaoke. A bus driver from Fort Lauderdale, Small appears at Tap Tap on occasional weekend nights, sporting a leather vest over his muscled chest and toting his soulful karaoke machine, outfitted with R&B and rock hits. The Tap Tap crowd (an international mix of artists, journalists, and assorted passersby) responds accordingly. Someone struts like Mick Jagger on top of the bar while singing "Sexual Healing"; a many-accented and heavily inebriated chorus joins together on "Imagine"; a Haitian laundry worker who speaks no English shakes maracas to the beat of "Don't Worry, Be Happy." If you never thought karaoke could be cool, this might change your mind.

Hear the one about the guy who ate piles of raw fish, guzzled vats of booze, listened to karaoke all night -- and didn't throw up? He didn't blow his bankroll, either, because he mixed these hedonistic and gastronomically treacherous delights at the Tokyo Club, one of the Beach's great defenders of kitschy fun, all-you-can-eat sushi, all-you-can-drink weekends, and (ahem) karaoke. The daily sushi feast goes for $11.99, the weekend eat-and-drink combo is a mere $20 ($15 for women). Sushi, shots, and sing-alongs might sound like a joke, but the Japanese find nothing funny about it. As for the Tokyo Club's patrons, they can barely contain their pleasure.

Hear the one about the guy who ate piles of raw fish, guzzled vats of booze, listened to karaoke all night -- and didn't throw up? He didn't blow his bankroll, either, because he mixed these hedonistic and gastronomically treacherous delights at the Tokyo Club, one of the Beach's great defenders of kitschy fun, all-you-can-eat sushi, all-you-can-drink weekends, and (ahem) karaoke. The daily sushi feast goes for $11.99, the weekend eat-and-drink combo is a mere $20 ($15 for women). Sushi, shots, and sing-alongs might sound like a joke, but the Japanese find nothing funny about it. As for the Tokyo Club's patrons, they can barely contain their pleasure.

It was a dark day in June when creditors and city regulators forced Ira Cohen and his son Danny to shutter the venerable 1800 Club. Long a favorite watering hole of scribblers, flatfoots, and politicos, the 1800 Club was a noir cave of a bar with all the comfort of a living room but half the light. A year into their lease, the Cohens' questionable management, epitomized by the manager himself disappearing to Vegas for almost a month, took its toll. By late spring the waitresses had mutinied and quit en masse. The Ader family, which has owned the bar since William Ader, Jr., built it in 1955, refused to walk away from the joint. They brought in Richard Mixon, who supervised a hurried overhaul in an attempt to reopen by November in time for basketball season and the clientele drawn to nearby Heat games. The kitchen was steam-cleaned. Workers sandblasted 40-plus years of nicotine off the walls, instantly rendering the place twice as bright. Mixon made his deadline, but the NBA went on strike. Nonetheless patrons began to trickle back. Eventually basketball's moneyed players returned to their hardwood floors. The 1800 Club was back in business like a hack reporter with a freshly sharpened pencil. We breathed a sigh of relief and ordered another round.

It was a dark day in June when creditors and city regulators forced Ira Cohen and his son Danny to shutter the venerable 1800 Club. Long a favorite watering hole of scribblers, flatfoots, and politicos, the 1800 Club was a noir cave of a bar with all the comfort of a living room but half the light. A year into their lease, the Cohens' questionable management, epitomized by the manager himself disappearing to Vegas for almost a month, took its toll. By late spring the waitresses had mutinied and quit en masse. The Ader family, which has owned the bar since William Ader, Jr., built it in 1955, refused to walk away from the joint. They brought in Richard Mixon, who supervised a hurried overhaul in an attempt to reopen by November in time for basketball season and the clientele drawn to nearby Heat games. The kitchen was steam-cleaned. Workers sandblasted 40-plus years of nicotine off the walls, instantly rendering the place twice as bright. Mixon made his deadline, but the NBA went on strike. Nonetheless patrons began to trickle back. Eventually basketball's moneyed players returned to their hardwood floors. The 1800 Club was back in business like a hack reporter with a freshly sharpened pencil. We breathed a sigh of relief and ordered another round.

The rock scene in Miami isn't exactly overwhelming. In fact it's barely even a scene. But alas there is Churchill's, that dingy, down-to-earth, ultra-British multipurpose pub so often lauded here. It's the place to catch surf-punk legends Agent Orange, experimental rock bands such as Melt Banana and Blonde Redhead, the balls-to-the-walls rock and roll of Nashville Pussy or the Belmont Playboys, the acoustic touch of Diane Ward, and the noise of Rat Bastard and the Laundry Room Squelchers (to name a few). Virtually every local band is welcome to play at Churchill's, and most do. None of which is revelation: Over the past five years, a period when there were other rock clubs around, the unpretentious spot in Little Haiti topped this category four times, with good reasons, including its huge selection of beers and bottom-of-the-barrel prices. The Church offers laissez-faire rock (and drinking and partying) at its grittiest. Proprietor Dave Daniels says that after 40 years in the entertainment business, a lack of musical philosophy propels Churchill's. "I don't like so much of the music, so I don't regulate it from that point of view," Daniels declares. And now getting to Churchill's may be even easier than ever. Daniels recently overhauled an English double-decker bus, and he says that given the right circumstances, he'll provide round-trip transportation for groups of fans.

The rock scene in Miami isn't exactly overwhelming. In fact it's barely even a scene. But alas there is Churchill's, that dingy, down-to-earth, ultra-British multipurpose pub so often lauded here. It's the place to catch surf-punk legends Agent Orange, experimental rock bands such as Melt Banana and Blonde Redhead, the balls-to-the-walls rock and roll of Nashville Pussy or the Belmont Playboys, the acoustic touch of Diane Ward, and the noise of Rat Bastard and the Laundry Room Squelchers (to name a few). Virtually every local band is welcome to play at Churchill's, and most do. None of which is revelation: Over the past five years, a period when there were other rock clubs around, the unpretentious spot in Little Haiti topped this category four times, with good reasons, including its huge selection of beers and bottom-of-the-barrel prices. The Church offers laissez-faire rock (and drinking and partying) at its grittiest. Proprietor Dave Daniels says that after 40 years in the entertainment business, a lack of musical philosophy propels Churchill's. "I don't like so much of the music, so I don't regulate it from that point of view," Daniels declares. And now getting to Churchill's may be even easier than ever. Daniels recently overhauled an English double-decker bus, and he says that given the right circumstances, he'll provide round-trip transportation for groups of fans.

You've spent hours sweltering on the sidewalk, climbing on a chair, hopping on a table, jumping up and down. At last you've made eye contact with the door gorilla/bouncer. As the crimson velvet ropes part, you thank the nightlife gods that your Versace suit is black. Better to mask the sweat stains dampening your armpits. Fork over twenty bucks, stroll through the doors, you're in. Swagger to the VIP room, where your buddy said he'd meet you. But which VIP room? There are three. You check out the front ground-floor area, where the artfully arranged couches artfully show no sign of him. You head to the back of the club, home of two more VIP rooms. He's not in the ground-level area, but actor Samuel L. Jackson, South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone, and comedians Chris Rock and David Alan Grier are nonchalantly hanging out there. Soon you spot your friend on the second floor, high above the hoi polloi. He's smiling, sipping champagne, talking to, gulp, comely models/gorgeous actresses: Daisy Fuentes, Fran Drescher, Jennifer Lopez, all tilting back their heads while laughing at his jokes. The stocky sentry at the foot of the stairs eyes you suspiciously. He knows you're a no one. You protest: You are someone. Plus your friend upstairs is expecting you. Bouncer knows the drill: Everyone's someone. And everyone's friend is up in the VIP room. You offer him a Jackson, a Grant, even a Franklin. He doesn't flinch. You see, you may have the cash. You just don't have the cachet.

You've spent hours sweltering on the sidewalk, climbing on a chair, hopping on a table, jumping up and down. At last you've made eye contact with the door gorilla/bouncer. As the crimson velvet ropes part, you thank the nightlife gods that your Versace suit is black. Better to mask the sweat stains dampening your armpits. Fork over twenty bucks, stroll through the doors, you're in. Swagger to the VIP room, where your buddy said he'd meet you. But which VIP room? There are three. You check out the front ground-floor area, where the artfully arranged couches artfully show no sign of him. You head to the back of the club, home of two more VIP rooms. He's not in the ground-level area, but actor Samuel L. Jackson, South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone, and comedians Chris Rock and David Alan Grier are nonchalantly hanging out there. Soon you spot your friend on the second floor, high above the hoi polloi. He's smiling, sipping champagne, talking to, gulp, comely models/gorgeous actresses: Daisy Fuentes, Fran Drescher, Jennifer Lopez, all tilting back their heads while laughing at his jokes. The stocky sentry at the foot of the stairs eyes you suspiciously. He knows you're a no one. You protest: You are someone. Plus your friend upstairs is expecting you. Bouncer knows the drill: Everyone's someone. And everyone's friend is up in the VIP room. You offer him a Jackson, a Grant, even a Franklin. He doesn't flinch. You see, you may have the cash. You just don't have the cachet.

"You're not here to pick up a girl. This is not a pick-up joint," warns Frank Hunt, manager of Peg's. "This is more like 1950, if you went into a pool place and knew everybody. You come in here if you want to have fun." Peg's is fourteen Ivan Simonis-felted, regulation-size (nine-and-a-half-foot) tables of old-school pool. The kind of place where the regulars all bring their own sticks. Where the clean-up boy nurses his own dreams of going pro, and shoots like he's well on his way. The place even hosts some pros, like "Super Mario" Cruz, who works out there regularly. ("It's like family around here," Cruz offers.) The parlor offers beer, wine, and pizza, but, Hunt notes, "we sell more [bottled] water than anything." Novices won't feel intimidated. Heck, they have a "Terrible Players Eight-Ball Tournament." Though not conducive to picking up a date, Peg's caters to anyone looking to pick up some pointers. Hunt will give you the lowdown on stance, grip, and sighting. Then he'll politely leave you alone to sink that shot, or just sink.

"You're not here to pick up a girl. This is not a pick-up joint," warns Frank Hunt, manager of Peg's. "This is more like 1950, if you went into a pool place and knew everybody. You come in here if you want to have fun." Peg's is fourteen Ivan Simonis-felted, regulation-size (nine-and-a-half-foot) tables of old-school pool. The kind of place where the regulars all bring their own sticks. Where the clean-up boy nurses his own dreams of going pro, and shoots like he's well on his way. The place even hosts some pros, like "Super Mario" Cruz, who works out there regularly. ("It's like family around here," Cruz offers.) The parlor offers beer, wine, and pizza, but, Hunt notes, "we sell more [bottled] water than anything." Novices won't feel intimidated. Heck, they have a "Terrible Players Eight-Ball Tournament." Though not conducive to picking up a date, Peg's caters to anyone looking to pick up some pointers. Hunt will give you the lowdown on stance, grip, and sighting. Then he'll politely leave you alone to sink that shot, or just sink.

Penrod's has shed its frat-house décor of neon beer signs and emerged as a refined spot on Mondays for those "in the industry" (acting, fashion, modeling) and those who enjoy watching those in the industry. The credit goes to two young promoters, Ted and Linley (to maintain a fashionable mystique, both declined to divulge their last names), who ran the funky Lincoln Road bar the Beehive. They closed that project this past fall and in November re-formed the Beehive into a one-nighter inside this well-worn South Beach club. "We had to do a lot of work," Ted says. "Basically I had to get rid of everything that reminded me of spring break." The mostly open-air beach-side site lends itself to a kind of rustic elegance. Now the genetically blessed flock here, attracted by the laid-back, sand-in-your-shoes atmosphere. Along with the finest from Elite and Ford, Al Pacino, Cameron Diaz, and Oliver Stone have stopped by to quaff a few. "The models like it here because they can wear their flip-flops," Ted explains, adding that the earthiness helps keep away urban predators. "There aren't a bunch of 50-year-old European men flashing wads of bills trying to hit on them."

Penrod's has shed its frat-house décor of neon beer signs and emerged as a refined spot on Mondays for those "in the industry" (acting, fashion, modeling) and those who enjoy watching those in the industry. The credit goes to two young promoters, Ted and Linley (to maintain a fashionable mystique, both declined to divulge their last names), who ran the funky Lincoln Road bar the Beehive. They closed that project this past fall and in November re-formed the Beehive into a one-nighter inside this well-worn South Beach club. "We had to do a lot of work," Ted says. "Basically I had to get rid of everything that reminded me of spring break." The mostly open-air beach-side site lends itself to a kind of rustic elegance. Now the genetically blessed flock here, attracted by the laid-back, sand-in-your-shoes atmosphere. Along with the finest from Elite and Ford, Al Pacino, Cameron Diaz, and Oliver Stone have stopped by to quaff a few. "The models like it here because they can wear their flip-flops," Ted explains, adding that the earthiness helps keep away urban predators. "There aren't a bunch of 50-year-old European men flashing wads of bills trying to hit on them."

If you happen to be a buffed Crunch regular with fashion-model modalities, score is exactly what you'll do here. The beauty of this ten-month-old Lincoln Road hot spot, however, is the fact that there's plenty of room for discretion. Even celibacy. With its mix of wildly varied theme nights and block parties, Score-ing's fun for everyone: boys, girls, doms, subs, butches, femmes, drag queens, autos, and yes, even heteros. With standard SoBe techno/house and standard SoBe beauty boys, Score manages to create a neighborly atmosphere in the cold and elitist South Beach scene. Regulars and staff are on a first-name basis. And if size matters, don't be deceived by outward appearances. Although barely noticeable from the street, the club takes on John Holmesian proportions inside. An anteroom is dominated by a large circular bar with stools for those who simply want to sit and drink. The side wall and windows looking out on Lincoln Road are lined by comfy sofas, plus chairs and tables for the lounge crowd. The next room, which features two more bars and a sunken dance floor, is for cruising, perusing, and dancing only. From an upstairs area one can peer at the light-tripping orgy below, or shoot a game of pool. It doesn't end there. Upstairs there's yet another back room with bar, this one surprisingly well-lighted. We suggest taking prospective one-night-stands there before deciding whether to take them home.

If you happen to be a buffed Crunch regular with fashion-model modalities, score is exactly what you'll do here. The beauty of this ten-month-old Lincoln Road hot spot, however, is the fact that there's plenty of room for discretion. Even celibacy. With its mix of wildly varied theme nights and block parties, Score-ing's fun for everyone: boys, girls, doms, subs, butches, femmes, drag queens, autos, and yes, even heteros. With standard SoBe techno/house and standard SoBe beauty boys, Score manages to create a neighborly atmosphere in the cold and elitist South Beach scene. Regulars and staff are on a first-name basis. And if size matters, don't be deceived by outward appearances. Although barely noticeable from the street, the club takes on John Holmesian proportions inside. An anteroom is dominated by a large circular bar with stools for those who simply want to sit and drink. The side wall and windows looking out on Lincoln Road are lined by comfy sofas, plus chairs and tables for the lounge crowd. The next room, which features two more bars and a sunken dance floor, is for cruising, perusing, and dancing only. From an upstairs area one can peer at the light-tripping orgy below, or shoot a game of pool. It doesn't end there. Upstairs there's yet another back room with bar, this one surprisingly well-lighted. We suggest taking prospective one-night-stands there before deciding whether to take them home.

Dolphins coach Jimmy Johnson has a careerlong knack for assembling winning organizations, though paradoxically they often choke on game day. But you can't lose visiting the coach's beachside establishment at the Eden Roc. Whatever your game a pair of big screens and about 25 standard sets ensure an unobstructed view. Monitor the action from a table or barstool on the sprawling outside deck. Or if your head gets too hot -- like Jimmy's sometimes does -- situate yourself in the air-conditioned, windowy rooms inside. A fairly new entrance from the public parking lot just north of the hotel allows you to dodge the valet system. (If you wanted to spend a fortune parking, you would have gone to Pro Player Stadium.) Happy hour is from 4:00 to 7:00 p.m. Thursday to Sunday and Caribbean-flavor live music follows. Best of all, if you get frustrated with the game, you can just stroll a few steps to the beach and jump in the ocean. There are probably Sundays on the gridiron when Jimmy feels like doing just that.

Dolphins coach Jimmy Johnson has a careerlong knack for assembling winning organizations, though paradoxically they often choke on game day. But you can't lose visiting the coach's beachside establishment at the Eden Roc. Whatever your game a pair of big screens and about 25 standard sets ensure an unobstructed view. Monitor the action from a table or barstool on the sprawling outside deck. Or if your head gets too hot -- like Jimmy's sometimes does -- situate yourself in the air-conditioned, windowy rooms inside. A fairly new entrance from the public parking lot just north of the hotel allows you to dodge the valet system. (If you wanted to spend a fortune parking, you would have gone to Pro Player Stadium.) Happy hour is from 4:00 to 7:00 p.m. Thursday to Sunday and Caribbean-flavor live music follows. Best of all, if you get frustrated with the game, you can just stroll a few steps to the beach and jump in the ocean. There are probably Sundays on the gridiron when Jimmy feels like doing just that.

Sounds like a vaudeville team, but this spot actually stocks hundreds of cigars imported from the Canary Islands. And it's a cool, high-ceilinged, relaxing place in which to puff away. But the number of folks actually smoking seems to be dwindling these days. Good thing Condal & Peñamil mixes a sweet-tart sangría and serves a pleasant, if pricey, cheese platter. The staff's hospitality -- and this is South Beach -- cannot be questioned, nor the proximity of the outdoor tables to the action on Lincoln Road. When the cigar trend finally dies, Condal & Peñamil should survive. Then we can only hope swing dancing goes the way of the stogie.

Sounds like a vaudeville team, but this spot actually stocks hundreds of cigars imported from the Canary Islands. And it's a cool, high-ceilinged, relaxing place in which to puff away. But the number of folks actually smoking seems to be dwindling these days. Good thing Condal & Peñamil mixes a sweet-tart sangría and serves a pleasant, if pricey, cheese platter. The staff's hospitality -- and this is South Beach -- cannot be questioned, nor the proximity of the outdoor tables to the action on Lincoln Road. When the cigar trend finally dies, Condal & Peñamil should survive. Then we can only hope swing dancing goes the way of the stogie.

Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo. Welcome to homeboy heaven. You've seen the cars with low-profile tires and booming bass rolling from Hialeah and Kendall to South Beach. You've seen the cars' passengers with pants drooping off their butts while their gold fronts glitter through defiant smirks. Cream is the ultimate destination of all those young yo-yos. The only thing that outweighs the testosterone in this joint: gold chains. Ain't nothing but a g-thang, dawg.

Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo. Welcome to homeboy heaven. You've seen the cars with low-profile tires and booming bass rolling from Hialeah and Kendall to South Beach. You've seen the cars' passengers with pants drooping off their butts while their gold fronts glitter through defiant smirks. Cream is the ultimate destination of all those young yo-yos. The only thing that outweighs the testosterone in this joint: gold chains. Ain't nothing but a g-thang, dawg.

If bar food everywhere was as good as it is at Tobacco Road, beer drinkers would be even fatter than they already are. The Road slings the nonliquid staples: burgers, nachos, chili, French fries, wings. Except everything is done to chin-wiping excess. Prime example: four kinds of burgers with names (Death, Mega) that convey a Mad Max spirit of gluttony. There are two types of fries and five ways to order a chicken sandwich. Appetizers drop to discount rates during happy hour (5:00 to 7:00 p.m.). After midnight when one needs extra party fuel, the prices on the big-ticket items (T-bone steak, rib eye sandwich, filet mignon) dip to six bucks. But what truly makes the Road's food the finest around are the weekday specials. What other bar offers (beginning on Monday and running until Thursday) perfectly prepared rack of lamb, lobster, spaghetti with meatballs, and steak, each under ten bucks? Combine an abundance of munchables with kicking live music and a superb selection of libations and that swelling gut seems a small price to pay.

If bar food everywhere was as good as it is at Tobacco Road, beer drinkers would be even fatter than they already are. The Road slings the nonliquid staples: burgers, nachos, chili, French fries, wings. Except everything is done to chin-wiping excess. Prime example: four kinds of burgers with names (Death, Mega) that convey a Mad Max spirit of gluttony. There are two types of fries and five ways to order a chicken sandwich. Appetizers drop to discount rates during happy hour (5:00 to 7:00 p.m.). After midnight when one needs extra party fuel, the prices on the big-ticket items (T-bone steak, rib eye sandwich, filet mignon) dip to six bucks. But what truly makes the Road's food the finest around are the weekday specials. What other bar offers (beginning on Monday and running until Thursday) perfectly prepared rack of lamb, lobster, spaghetti with meatballs, and steak, each under ten bucks? Combine an abundance of munchables with kicking live music and a superb selection of libations and that swelling gut seems a small price to pay.

If yuppies were cars, what a jam we'd really be in. Every Friday afternoon thousands of stressed-out corporate types working off their office rage flood the block in front of this historic restaurant, an actual restored firehouse from the Twenties. Fortunately the only beeping to be heard emanates from the cell phones folks forgot to turn off. And though the riotous live music and free-flowing alcohol can make this happy hour seem like a weekly firetrap populated by stumbling drunks, keep in mind that the bartenders here wield fire hoses of a sort -- even if they do only squirt tonic.

If yuppies were cars, what a jam we'd really be in. Every Friday afternoon thousands of stressed-out corporate types working off their office rage flood the block in front of this historic restaurant, an actual restored firehouse from the Twenties. Fortunately the only beeping to be heard emanates from the cell phones folks forgot to turn off. And though the riotous live music and free-flowing alcohol can make this happy hour seem like a weekly firetrap populated by stumbling drunks, keep in mind that the bartenders here wield fire hoses of a sort -- even if they do only squirt tonic.

In the category of sports involving the launching of potentially dangerous projectiles at targets, skeet shooting seems to lately be eclipsing the more reasonable game of darts. But Miami-Dade still has a few dark corners where dartage remains the call of the day. The newfound passion for the shotgun arts is probably a mere fad, and a more expensive one than tossing the little fin-tailed arrows. Regrettably some of our favorite dart venues have only one board, to wit the Gables Pub at 270 Catalonia Avenue in Coral Gables and the Abbey Brewing Company at 1115 Sixteenth Street in Miami Beach. Others, like Tom's NFL Club in Miami Springs, have eight, but the arrow-chucking crowds are exponentially larger. Irish House posts two traditional dart boards (and one electronic) in a back corner that has plenty of elbow room. And at this friendly bar the only bull is the red one you're aiming for. Even if you can't hit a double-20 to save your life, you can distract yourself with smoked fish, burgers, and bargain-priced suds. The bar does not permit skeet shooting.

In the category of sports involving the launching of potentially dangerous projectiles at targets, skeet shooting seems to lately be eclipsing the more reasonable game of darts. But Miami-Dade still has a few dark corners where dartage remains the call of the day. The newfound passion for the shotgun arts is probably a mere fad, and a more expensive one than tossing the little fin-tailed arrows. Regrettably some of our favorite dart venues have only one board, to wit the Gables Pub at 270 Catalonia Avenue in Coral Gables and the Abbey Brewing Company at 1115 Sixteenth Street in Miami Beach. Others, like Tom's NFL Club in Miami Springs, have eight, but the arrow-chucking crowds are exponentially larger. Irish House posts two traditional dart boards (and one electronic) in a back corner that has plenty of elbow room. And at this friendly bar the only bull is the red one you're aiming for. Even if you can't hit a double-20 to save your life, you can distract yourself with smoked fish, burgers, and bargain-priced suds. The bar does not permit skeet shooting.

Motorcycle? Check. Open road? Check. What else does a biker need? Draft Buds are a buck, White Castle burgers are $1.75, and Marlboros go for twenty dollars per carton. Check, check, and check. Of course the Last Chance is more than a pit stop for biker provisions. It's a pit stop for bikers, many of whom kill the afternoon lounging around the parking lot, shooting the breeze, showing off their metal steeds, and recounting (for the millionth time) how the game warden came in one day, walked up to the canal, and shot the bar's winsome mascot, a fourteen-foot-long, blind, three-legged alligator. (We advise you to refrain from suggesting the warden may have been putting the beloved old thing out of its misery.) Not as rough-and-tumble as the term biker bar implies, the Last Chance nevertheless has all the necessary tough-guy trappings: a John Wayne-size rendering of the Jolly Roger emblazoned with the words Bikers Welcome, a gray and weathered edifice, and a sign that reads "No Whining." Although many travelers stop for supplies or just a breather, the bulk of the crowd is easy riders, some local and some tourists. All are welcome here. But if you're an oversize, blind, three-legged gator, think twice about hanging out for too long.

Motorcycle? Check. Open road? Check. What else does a biker need? Draft Buds are a buck, White Castle burgers are $1.75, and Marlboros go for twenty dollars per carton. Check, check, and check. Of course the Last Chance is more than a pit stop for biker provisions. It's a pit stop for bikers, many of whom kill the afternoon lounging around the parking lot, shooting the breeze, showing off their metal steeds, and recounting (for the millionth time) how the game warden came in one day, walked up to the canal, and shot the bar's winsome mascot, a fourteen-foot-long, blind, three-legged alligator. (We advise you to refrain from suggesting the warden may have been putting the beloved old thing out of its misery.) Not as rough-and-tumble as the term biker bar implies, the Last Chance nevertheless has all the necessary tough-guy trappings: a John Wayne-size rendering of the Jolly Roger emblazoned with the words Bikers Welcome, a gray and weathered edifice, and a sign that reads "No Whining." Although many travelers stop for supplies or just a breather, the bulk of the crowd is easy riders, some local and some tourists. All are welcome here. But if you're an oversize, blind, three-legged gator, think twice about hanging out for too long.

Club Mystique is a landmark of Latin Miami. Hidden in the airport Hilton, the space is big and dark, with quintessentially Scarface-era décor: sunken dance floor, prominent stage, cozy tables accented with wall mirrors. But while other clubs have come and gone, the neon-enhanced Mystique has kept the beat and kept the crowds coming. They come to dance. You'll see the fanciest footwork in the city here from Wednesday to Sunday. On Thursday nights Mystique offers free salsa dance classes, attracting a full house of committed students, from beginners to pros. They come back to show off their stuff on weekends, dancing to the house band or, occasionally, top Latin artists such as Gilberto Santa Rosa or Oscar de Leon. A tab at Mystique won't ruin you, and the dance floor is as accessible as the drinks are. Local Latin residents from various backgrounds, visitors from all over the Latin American map, and even non-Spanish speakers know this is the place to catch some Saturday night fiebre.

Club Mystique is a landmark of Latin Miami. Hidden in the airport Hilton, the space is big and dark, with quintessentially Scarface-era décor: sunken dance floor, prominent stage, cozy tables accented with wall mirrors. But while other clubs have come and gone, the neon-enhanced Mystique has kept the beat and kept the crowds coming. They come to dance. You'll see the fanciest footwork in the city here from Wednesday to Sunday. On Thursday nights Mystique offers free salsa dance classes, attracting a full house of committed students, from beginners to pros. They come back to show off their stuff on weekends, dancing to the house band or, occasionally, top Latin artists such as Gilberto Santa Rosa or Oscar de Leon. A tab at Mystique won't ruin you, and the dance floor is as accessible as the drinks are. Local Latin residents from various backgrounds, visitors from all over the Latin American map, and even non-Spanish speakers know this is the place to catch some Saturday night fiebre.

In 1937, about ten years before Hickey joined the other misfit dreamers in the saloon of Eugene O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh, El Toro Bar opened. Old-timers testify that the gin mill was a swell place in those early days, full of sunshine and happy anglers who hoisted brews and spewed fish tales after a day on the bay. In the years that ensued, though, the El Toro devolved along with the neighborhood, becoming a shabby (but still embracing) cave where ol' Hickey would've felt at home. The oak bar is pockmarked. The white acoustic-tile ceiling has been smoke stained to a cheap-cigar brown. Oddly placed mirrors hang slightly askew on the simulated-walnut walls, making the lines of the room appear tilted even to sober observers. The video slot machines wear grimy faces, the crimson tablecloths on the tiny tables emphasize the redness of the nose of the clown gazing from the faded circus poster over by the pool table. The bar's current owners promise change, including a new name (the Office). They promise live music, a menu of fresh bar chow, and dart tournaments with cash prizes. But for now El Toro retains a gloomy atmosphere appropriate for nursing some schnapps and a grudge, or for lounging comfortably with fellow negativists, all properly lubricated and hunkered down together, bemoaning whatever harsh stroke of fate sent them here and together beginning a long night's journey into day. You can park safely in the rear just past the sign that reads "ParkingVegetables" and beneath the commanding billboard that warns, "Winners Don't Drink and Drive."

In 1937, about ten years before Hickey joined the other misfit dreamers in the saloon of Eugene O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh, El Toro Bar opened. Old-timers testify that the gin mill was a swell place in those early days, full of sunshine and happy anglers who hoisted brews and spewed fish tales after a day on the bay. In the years that ensued, though, the El Toro devolved along with the neighborhood, becoming a shabby (but still embracing) cave where ol' Hickey would've felt at home. The oak bar is pockmarked. The white acoustic-tile ceiling has been smoke stained to a cheap-cigar brown. Oddly placed mirrors hang slightly askew on the simulated-walnut walls, making the lines of the room appear tilted even to sober observers. The video slot machines wear grimy faces, the crimson tablecloths on the tiny tables emphasize the redness of the nose of the clown gazing from the faded circus poster over by the pool table. The bar's current owners promise change, including a new name (the Office). They promise live music, a menu of fresh bar chow, and dart tournaments with cash prizes. But for now El Toro retains a gloomy atmosphere appropriate for nursing some schnapps and a grudge, or for lounging comfortably with fellow negativists, all properly lubricated and hunkered down together, bemoaning whatever harsh stroke of fate sent them here and together beginning a long night's journey into day. You can park safely in the rear just past the sign that reads "ParkingVegetables" and beneath the commanding billboard that warns, "Winners Don't Drink and Drive."

The word cocktails implies concinnity. No squeezing through huddled masses in order to elbow up to the bar. No jostled drinks. And there certainly should be no need for shouting. Piccadilly exists for civilized outings in refined surroundings. After ordering your libation at the bar, you can sit either in the lush courtyard amid parrots and plants, or inside by the cream-color baby grand piano. For special téte à tétes, request one of the corner booths in the dining room, where you can ensconce yourself behind a gold brocade curtain. In the heart of the Design District, Piccadilly draws an eclectic mix of bohemian and mainstream folk. Don't count on the quietude to last. So many people are drawn to such elegant cocktail emporiums that in time you'll have to squeeze through huddled masses....

The word cocktails implies concinnity. No squeezing through huddled masses in order to elbow up to the bar. No jostled drinks. And there certainly should be no need for shouting. Piccadilly exists for civilized outings in refined surroundings. After ordering your libation at the bar, you can sit either in the lush courtyard amid parrots and plants, or inside by the cream-color baby grand piano. For special téte à tétes, request one of the corner booths in the dining room, where you can ensconce yourself behind a gold brocade curtain. In the heart of the Design District, Piccadilly draws an eclectic mix of bohemian and mainstream folk. Don't count on the quietude to last. So many people are drawn to such elegant cocktail emporiums that in time you'll have to squeeze through huddled masses....

Ponce de León came to Florida desperately seeking the Fountain of Youth. It can now be found at Café Nostalgia, Little Havana's vintage Cuban music mecca. For lovers of Latin sounds, slow dancing is a way of life, and it has been clinically proven to keep them young. Just look at the glowing couples on the dance floor at Nostalgia, where romance reigns as singer Luis Bofill pours out a sentimental bolero in his liquid tenor. Unlike salsa, you don't have to learn any steps to slow dance. The dance floor courting ritual is intuitive, international, ageless. Even those who haven't slow danced since seventh grade can be instant pros: just hold your partner tight and rotate. Give in to the music, and feel as giddy as a teenager in the throes of first love.

Ponce de León came to Florida desperately seeking the Fountain of Youth. It can now be found at Café Nostalgia, Little Havana's vintage Cuban music mecca. For lovers of Latin sounds, slow dancing is a way of life, and it has been clinically proven to keep them young. Just look at the glowing couples on the dance floor at Nostalgia, where romance reigns as singer Luis Bofill pours out a sentimental bolero in his liquid tenor. Unlike salsa, you don't have to learn any steps to slow dance. The dance floor courting ritual is intuitive, international, ageless. Even those who haven't slow danced since seventh grade can be instant pros: just hold your partner tight and rotate. Give in to the music, and feel as giddy as a teenager in the throes of first love.

The herd mentality that led countless clueless to "rediscover" the martini, and which has resulted in untold thousands of badly made cocktails to be served here over the past several years -- that maddening mindlessness has finally reached its nadir. We point to three unrelated events as proof beyond doubt that the party is over. (And none too soon, we might add.) Item: Late last year a French liquor manufacturer rolled into town with something called Grey Goose vodka and proceeded to host a South Beach search for the best martini -- made with its own liquor, of course. Many witless dining and drinking enterprises participated, lemming-like. (Note to the knuckleheads: Authentic martinis can only be made with gin.) Item: A certain unnamed bar in a certain unnamed hotel, which has won this award four times, recently revealed just how far the mighty have fallen. The drink was ordered "very dry," which the bartender wrongly interpreted to mean no vermouth whatsoever. Needless to say, if it doesn't have at least a touch of vermouth, it isn't a martini. When this fact was brought to his attention, he summarily dumped in a thimbleful of vermouth and promptly ruined it, though he didn't seem to care, or even know what he'd done. Then came the bill: $11. Per drink. Enough said? Item: In December 1998 Miami Herald resident hipster Fred Tasker wrote this sentence, which his editors approved and the newspaper actually printed: "The martini is the latest really in thing among Beautiful People, if you believe the hype." Right you are, daddy-o. Connoisseurs of the world's most elegant cocktail may feel a bit sheepish about having momentarily wandered astray in the counterfeit world of chocolate martinis and fruit martinis and God knows what else. But the truth is you can go home again. In this case that means returning to a proper and confident American steak house along the lines of the Capital Grille, the Palm, Morton's, or Smith & Wollensky. For generations the martini has been held in the highest esteem at such establishments. Settle into a leather banquette, take a deep breath, and relax. Your martini is on its way.

The herd mentality that led countless clueless to "rediscover" the martini, and which has resulted in untold thousands of badly made cocktails to be served here over the past several years -- that maddening mindlessness has finally reached its nadir. We point to three unrelated events as proof beyond doubt that the party is over. (And none too soon, we might add.) Item: Late last year a French liquor manufacturer rolled into town with something called Grey Goose vodka and proceeded to host a South Beach search for the best martini -- made with its own liquor, of course. Many witless dining and drinking enterprises participated, lemming-like. (Note to the knuckleheads: Authentic martinis can only be made with gin.) Item: A certain unnamed bar in a certain unnamed hotel, which has won this award four times, recently revealed just how far the mighty have fallen. The drink was ordered "very dry," which the bartender wrongly interpreted to mean no vermouth whatsoever. Needless to say, if it doesn't have at least a touch of vermouth, it isn't a martini. When this fact was brought to his attention, he summarily dumped in a thimbleful of vermouth and promptly ruined it, though he didn't seem to care, or even know what he'd done. Then came the bill: $11. Per drink. Enough said? Item: In December 1998 Miami Herald resident hipster Fred Tasker wrote this sentence, which his editors approved and the newspaper actually printed: "The martini is the latest really in thing among Beautiful People, if you believe the hype." Right you are, daddy-o. Connoisseurs of the world's most elegant cocktail may feel a bit sheepish about having momentarily wandered astray in the counterfeit world of chocolate martinis and fruit martinis and God knows what else. But the truth is you can go home again. In this case that means returning to a proper and confident American steak house along the lines of the Capital Grille, the Palm, Morton's, or Smith & Wollensky. For generations the martini has been held in the highest esteem at such establishments. Settle into a leather banquette, take a deep breath, and relax. Your martini is on its way.

Unlike its homogeneous counterparts in South Beach, this ten-year-old danceteria doesn't cater to celebs and fashion slaves, or to the hype engendering such trendiness. Hell, the Kitchen doesn't even have a telephone. What the club has is a dedication to the dark side of nightlife, the Gothic ethos, those decadent delights of revelry no one will ever tell their grandchildren about. It's an undying vision dating back to the late Eighties when the Kitchen was in South Beach, a time when South Beach enjoyed its hipness heyday. As the carpetbaggers invaded, the Kitchen headed to the mainland, setting up shop in Coconut Grove and the Design District before settling in the Shores a couple of years ago. With nary a velvet rope or tourist in sight, the Kitchen remains Miami's reliably black-garbed island in a stormy sea of nightlife.

Unlike its homogeneous counterparts in South Beach, this ten-year-old danceteria doesn't cater to celebs and fashion slaves, or to the hype engendering such trendiness. Hell, the Kitchen doesn't even have a telephone. What the club has is a dedication to the dark side of nightlife, the Gothic ethos, those decadent delights of revelry no one will ever tell their grandchildren about. It's an undying vision dating back to the late Eighties when the Kitchen was in South Beach, a time when South Beach enjoyed its hipness heyday. As the carpetbaggers invaded, the Kitchen headed to the mainland, setting up shop in Coconut Grove and the Design District before settling in the Shores a couple of years ago. With nary a velvet rope or tourist in sight, the Kitchen remains Miami's reliably black-garbed island in a stormy sea of nightlife.

Tough shift. Good thing it's over ("zero-six" is code for "end of shift"). Now you need to get a bite to eat (known as a "twelve") and recover, right? ("QSL" in policese -- for "that's acknowledged.") You tore your pants tackling that fleeing suspect. Your sergeant's looking for you about the coffee stains on your report. And on top of it all, a detective from internal affairs wants to ask if you know anything about your ex-partner's new manse in Boca. You need to go somewhere safe. No better place than Chasers. On the floor below are the offices of a half-dozen PBA lawyers, enough to intimidate any IA detective. This allows you to eat your sirloin in peace. And unlike at civilian hangouts, you don't draw gawks just because you have guns and handcuffs swinging from your hips. Even though the place is open to the public, as far as you can see it's all blue and tan uniforms. You pig out, order a brew, kick back. So you'll have to buy a new pair of pants. So what? Your reports could be neater. And you know, now that you think about it, that is a pretty big oceanside house your partner built.

Tough shift. Good thing it's over ("zero-six" is code for "end of shift"). Now you need to get a bite to eat (known as a "twelve") and recover, right? ("QSL" in policese -- for "that's acknowledged.") You tore your pants tackling that fleeing suspect. Your sergeant's looking for you about the coffee stains on your report. And on top of it all, a detective from internal affairs wants to ask if you know anything about your ex-partner's new manse in Boca. You need to go somewhere safe. No better place than Chasers. On the floor below are the offices of a half-dozen PBA lawyers, enough to intimidate any IA detective. This allows you to eat your sirloin in peace. And unlike at civilian hangouts, you don't draw gawks just because you have guns and handcuffs swinging from your hips. Even though the place is open to the public, as far as you can see it's all blue and tan uniforms. You pig out, order a brew, kick back. So you'll have to buy a new pair of pants. So what? Your reports could be neater. And you know, now that you think about it, that is a pretty big oceanside house your partner built.

For reasons best left to the dark side of the imagination, many people firmly believe that 5:00 a.m. is an inappropriately early time for bars and nightclubs to shut their doors. Simply put, party till noon. Over the years clandestine postdawn haunts such as Hombre, Club X, Niva, and Jones Town remained confined to South Beach's shadow world. Then the Mix figured out that an establishment need only nix alcohol to legally stay open at any hour. That was more than a year ago. Since then three more clubs -- Pump, Fabrik, and Kit Kat -- have greeted the sun with open doors, helping to meet the increasing demand from revelers who seek a never-ending night. In the witching hours, vampiric partiers now have the right to feel the power of DJ David Padilla's moving sound system at the Mix, hang out with promoters Carlos and Jeff and their crew of boys at Pump, or float timelessly between Fabrik and Kit Kat. The clubs generally open about 4:00 a.m. and continue well past breakfast time.

For reasons best left to the dark side of the imagination, many people firmly believe that 5:00 a.m. is an inappropriately early time for bars and nightclubs to shut their doors. Simply put, party till noon. Over the years clandestine postdawn haunts such as Hombre, Club X, Niva, and Jones Town remained confined to South Beach's shadow world. Then the Mix figured out that an establishment need only nix alcohol to legally stay open at any hour. That was more than a year ago. Since then three more clubs -- Pump, Fabrik, and Kit Kat -- have greeted the sun with open doors, helping to meet the increasing demand from revelers who seek a never-ending night. In the witching hours, vampiric partiers now have the right to feel the power of DJ David Padilla's moving sound system at the Mix, hang out with promoters Carlos and Jeff and their crew of boys at Pump, or float timelessly between Fabrik and Kit Kat. The clubs generally open about 4:00 a.m. and continue well past breakfast time.

All anyone need say is that they're going to the Deuce for a drink. The rest is understood: reasonable prices liberally mixed with surreal circumstances. Proprietor Mac Klein says his is a neighborhood bar, a description that takes on new meaning in South Beach. The Deuce's patrons are generally a tolerant, open-minded lot: straight, gay, bi, transsexual, roughnecks, gentry, white trash, and geeks. Well, not too many geeks. The Deuce closes for only three hours per day, ready to set up anyone who needs a belt between 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. Klein says people go to his bar, the oldest in Miami Beach, for nostalgia, which he believes evokes a desire to consume alcohol. He says old patrons return because, "If you leave the Beach for ten years, and come back to the Deuce, everything will be the same. We never change anything. It'll be like you're ten years younger."

All anyone need say is that they're going to the Deuce for a drink. The rest is understood: reasonable prices liberally mixed with surreal circumstances. Proprietor Mac Klein says his is a neighborhood bar, a description that takes on new meaning in South Beach. The Deuce's patrons are generally a tolerant, open-minded lot: straight, gay, bi, transsexual, roughnecks, gentry, white trash, and geeks. Well, not too many geeks. The Deuce closes for only three hours per day, ready to set up anyone who needs a belt between 8:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. Klein says people go to his bar, the oldest in Miami Beach, for nostalgia, which he believes evokes a desire to consume alcohol. He says old patrons return because, "If you leave the Beach for ten years, and come back to the Deuce, everything will be the same. We never change anything. It'll be like you're ten years younger."

Mary Tudor, for whom this concoction was named, ruled over England and Ireland during the Sixteenth Century, re-establishing Catholicism and permitting rampant persecution. Much could be made of the cocktail's namesake, and, with a bit of effort, much can be made of the tomato-based cocktail itself. So why do we so often find generic product wearing this historically provocative moniker? If we wanted a routine drink, we'd order a screwdriver. We want a work of art. The folks at the Delano aspire to mastery. The recipe, which has been in the house for some time, calls for just-right amounts of topnotch ingredients: Meaty tomato juice supports horseradish, celery salt, and black pepper, and is properly garnished with a celery-stalk swizzle. It's hot stuff, likely to spur a slight cough and bring moisture to the eyes. But salvation always requires a bit of suffering.

Mary Tudor, for whom this concoction was named, ruled over England and Ireland during the Sixteenth Century, re-establishing Catholicism and permitting rampant persecution. Much could be made of the cocktail's namesake, and, with a bit of effort, much can be made of the tomato-based cocktail itself. So why do we so often find generic product wearing this historically provocative moniker? If we wanted a routine drink, we'd order a screwdriver. We want a work of art. The folks at the Delano aspire to mastery. The recipe, which has been in the house for some time, calls for just-right amounts of topnotch ingredients: Meaty tomato juice supports horseradish, celery salt, and black pepper, and is properly garnished with a celery-stalk swizzle. It's hot stuff, likely to spur a slight cough and bring moisture to the eyes. But salvation always requires a bit of suffering.

So what if you have to run a gauntlet of soon-to-be-sloshed college kids? The penny (yes, as in one cent) you'll pay for your brewski from 10:00 p.m. to midnight on Thursdays at this venerable reggae-oriented hangout makes minor the annoyances of addled youth. Urp!

So what if you have to run a gauntlet of soon-to-be-sloshed college kids? The penny (yes, as in one cent) you'll pay for your brewski from 10:00 p.m. to midnight on Thursdays at this venerable reggae-oriented hangout makes minor the annoyances of addled youth. Urp!

On South Beach the happiest hour used to be midnight, and any party that occurred in daylight hours was known as a tea dance. That's before locals added years, pounds, and day jobs to their lives, and realized they couldn't a) start drinking at 11:00 a.m., or b) stop drinking at 11:00 a.m. Recognizing the Beach's changing demographics, the National almost single-handedly reintroduced the idea of the traditional happy hour, and we are so grateful to get drunk at a reasonable time of day, we'll do anything to keep them in business. Including ordering two-for-one cosmopolitans, feasting on the complimentary buffet (which usually includes a fresh vegetable crudité along with more fattening fried goodies), relaxing in the overstuffed swivel chairs in the Deco Lounge, and boogying to the overly loud disco beat booming from the speakers. Happy to oblige.

On South Beach the happiest hour used to be midnight, and any party that occurred in daylight hours was known as a tea dance. That's before locals added years, pounds, and day jobs to their lives, and realized they couldn't a) start drinking at 11:00 a.m., or b) stop drinking at 11:00 a.m. Recognizing the Beach's changing demographics, the National almost single-handedly reintroduced the idea of the traditional happy hour, and we are so grateful to get drunk at a reasonable time of day, we'll do anything to keep them in business. Including ordering two-for-one cosmopolitans, feasting on the complimentary buffet (which usually includes a fresh vegetable crudité along with more fattening fried goodies), relaxing in the overstuffed swivel chairs in the Deco Lounge, and boogying to the overly loud disco beat booming from the speakers. Happy to oblige.

On New Year's Eve, with crowds of tourists swarming Lincoln Road, Zeke's owner Victor Deutsch closed early. "Too many problems," the erstwhile engineer said. Friends protested, not because there was a lack of bars to visit, but because they wanted to see Zeke's profit from the surge in activity. "We're a locals' bar," Deutsch told his supporters. "We're not sprinters, we're marathon runners." Deutsch keeps his formula simple: dozens of beers on tap and in bottles, each for three dollars. He has no lack of loyal patrons. The interior, with its long, inviting bar, makes for a perfect hangout. But why linger inside? The bonus is that after you acquire your beer, you can carry it out to a table on Lincoln Road. Shazaam! Now you're just like one of the fatcat tourists paying for the privilege of alfresco accommodations at the restaurant next door. On Wednesdays, however, prime time is inside as South Park airs. The place fills, and you better not think of engaging in idle conversation. On that night, Deutsch and manager Tobin Wehrle do not suffer gladly any jabbering. Wehrle, possibly the gruffest bartender who watches cartoons, won't even feign politeness when he orders you outside unless you cut the yappin'. "Don't cause problems," Wehrle says.

On New Year's Eve, with crowds of tourists swarming Lincoln Road, Zeke's owner Victor Deutsch closed early. "Too many problems," the erstwhile engineer said. Friends protested, not because there was a lack of bars to visit, but because they wanted to see Zeke's profit from the surge in activity. "We're a locals' bar," Deutsch told his supporters. "We're not sprinters, we're marathon runners." Deutsch keeps his formula simple: dozens of beers on tap and in bottles, each for three dollars. He has no lack of loyal patrons. The interior, with its long, inviting bar, makes for a perfect hangout. But why linger inside? The bonus is that after you acquire your beer, you can carry it out to a table on Lincoln Road. Shazaam! Now you're just like one of the fatcat tourists paying for the privilege of alfresco accommodations at the restaurant next door. On Wednesdays, however, prime time is inside as South Park airs. The place fills, and you better not think of engaging in idle conversation. On that night, Deutsch and manager Tobin Wehrle do not suffer gladly any jabbering. Wehrle, possibly the gruffest bartender who watches cartoons, won't even feign politeness when he orders you outside unless you cut the yappin'. "Don't cause problems," Wehrle says.

Like any great one-nighter, the Garden changes its themes and alters its tunage weekly. But the campfire, it's a regular. It stays. No other once-a-week fling offers such diversity, such comfort, and the opportunity to roast (complimentary) marshmallows. Of course the fabulousness of the setting doesn't hurt. The Garden promoters set their Friday night party at the Albion, with its sand-filled sun deck and its raised swimming pool, which features portholes so partiers can ogle the underwater action without getting wet. It makes for a fresh-air, low-stress confab that runs until 2:00 a.m., just perfect for that warm-up cocktail before things really get cooking in South Beach.

Like any great one-nighter, the Garden changes its themes and alters its tunage weekly. But the campfire, it's a regular. It stays. No other once-a-week fling offers such diversity, such comfort, and the opportunity to roast (complimentary) marshmallows. Of course the fabulousness of the setting doesn't hurt. The Garden promoters set their Friday night party at the Albion, with its sand-filled sun deck and its raised swimming pool, which features portholes so partiers can ogle the underwater action without getting wet. It makes for a fresh-air, low-stress confab that runs until 2:00 a.m., just perfect for that warm-up cocktail before things really get cooking in South Beach.

This old shack would be just another old shack were it not for the year-round Christmas lights, the puffer fish mounted on the wall behind the bar, the two aged pool tables, and the melting pot of a jukebox that plays Hank Williams, Jr., Derek and the Dominoes, and Counting Crows in the span of a few minutes. Not to mention the Budweiser drafts for $1.50 each, the Baby Burgers for 75 cents, and the free barbecued grub for horseshoe-competition contestants every second Sunday of the month. Saturday nights feature pool tournaments and pucker shooters (a schnapps flavored with grape juice, apple sour, and Cheri-Beri). But the best thing about this Thirties-era former trading post is the no-nonsense clientele. "That's why I came down here, you know? To find real people," declares a real guy from New York to a local woman two stools away. Hasn't found one in her. Smirks she: "I used to like you."

This old shack would be just another old shack were it not for the year-round Christmas lights, the puffer fish mounted on the wall behind the bar, the two aged pool tables, and the melting pot of a jukebox that plays Hank Williams, Jr., Derek and the Dominoes, and Counting Crows in the span of a few minutes. Not to mention the Budweiser drafts for $1.50 each, the Baby Burgers for 75 cents, and the free barbecued grub for horseshoe-competition contestants every second Sunday of the month. Saturday nights feature pool tournaments and pucker shooters (a schnapps flavored with grape juice, apple sour, and Cheri-Beri). But the best thing about this Thirties-era former trading post is the no-nonsense clientele. "That's why I came down here, you know? To find real people," declares a real guy from New York to a local woman two stools away. Hasn't found one in her. Smirks she: "I used to like you."

DJ Snowhite hosts this gathering of urban poets and aspiring hip-hop stars every Tuesday in the confines of the dark, rectangular club Zanzibar. An assemblage of youth gathers to compete, unleashing prepared and extemporaneous raps and other poetry that ranges in quality from borderline brilliant to painfully lame. The Spam Allstars attempt to accommodate the performers with music to suit their spoken words. The atmosphere is supportive of all types of risk-taking and experimentation, with spontaneous poetry slams occurring inside and outside the club. On those occasions when the band and a performer click, Faatland Tuesdays achieves the sublime.

To stand out a jukebox must be like an aural smorgasbord: variety along with abundance. Sampling Miami's pay-to-play fare suggests most are pretty good. That's because they all seem to have the same pretty good selections. Lost Weekend's Rowe is always evolving and boasts a veritable feast of varied artists. This machine is loaded with the standard Rolling Stones, Doors, and Jimi Hendrix fodder, but slots are also filled by Erykah Badu, D'Angelo, Portishead, Propellerheads, Barry White, Fatboy Slim, Sneaker Pimps, Aretha Franklin, Jane's Addiction, and Frank Sinatra. And those are just the appetizers.

To stand out a jukebox must be like an aural smorgasbord: variety along with abundance. Sampling Miami's pay-to-play fare suggests most are pretty good. That's because they all seem to have the same pretty good selections. Lost Weekend's Rowe is always evolving and boasts a veritable feast of varied artists. This machine is loaded with the standard Rolling Stones, Doors, and Jimi Hendrix fodder, but slots are also filled by Erykah Badu, D'Angelo, Portishead, Propellerheads, Barry White, Fatboy Slim, Sneaker Pimps, Aretha Franklin, Jane's Addiction, and Frank Sinatra. And those are just the appetizers.