Best Of Miami® 2001 Winners
Bars & Clubs
Attitude-drenched bars full of the sleek and beautiful have become redundant. The most glamorous gay hangout for slumming: The Laundry Bar. Not entirely devoid of South Beach pretension, it's the kind of place where unassuming nerds can breathe easily alongside narcissistic muscle boys while waiting for their clothes to come clean. High-tech décor rules, but flip-flops and surfer shorts outnumber the Kenneth Cole getups. Sassy types can bring a pillowcase full of their most provocative undies to clean in the predawn hours. Those who prefer to air their dirty laundry at home can just sit at the bar and shoot the breeze with a healthy contingent of lesbians -- an increasing rarity in the gay bar scene. Veteran South Beach bartender Dot Larkin (formerly of Club Deuce and the now-defunct West End) will keep you awash in alcohol. A happy-hour special offers two-for-one drinks until 8:00 p.m. daily, and until 9:30 p.m. on Wednesdays.
South Beach may be slipping as a club hot spot, but it's not Opium's fault. The Asian-theme restaurant south of Fifth Street transmogrifies late at night into the raunchy, ostentatious epicenter of superficial glitz. Opium has emerged as the very best place for middle-age men to display their topless table-dancing (and often teenage) trophy chicks. Ergo the waitstaff at street-level Café Tabac, located directly below the joint, is inured to the unusual. "On Halloween," one waitress told us, "there was a woman who came down here in a completely transparent garbage bag, wearing no underwear and no bra. She pointed to a tear in her plastic bag and asked if we had a stapler." Suitably sutured, the reveler scurried upstairs, back into the still-breathing soul of South Beach.
Lola, light of my night, fire of my martinis. My gin, my elbow. How your bar resembles the beautiful hull of a little wooden ship. How we sail, suspended from the gunwales through the mists that come from the hidden swirls of the DJ-magicians. There is water, water, everywhere, but everyone prefers alcoholic beverages. O Captain! My Captain! We need another round! Exult O pool table and rack O balls! Where lies the land to which yon ship must go? One with no cover charges or attitude from velvet-rope power-trippers. (And these are not the only martinis that we may share, my Lola.)
It's almost a disservice to call Norman's steaks, sandwiches, salads, and appetizers "bar food." The term implies food for an empty stomach and churning head (or is it the other way around?), and Lord knows anything that'll soak up that last drink or two you shouldn't have had usually qualifies as good eats in the wee hours of the morning. Norman's offerings, on the other hand, are just plain delicious: caesar and caprese salads, mahi-mahi fingers (lightly battered and fried), tenderloin sandwiches, black Angus burgers, and chicken Philly cheese sandwiches, in addition to the usual bar fare. Feel like having an honest-to-goodness sit-down dinner? Try the filet mignon, porterhouse chops, or grilled fresh fish. And don't worry, you've got all night to work up an appetite -- the kitchen stays open until 2:00 a.m.
When the delicate beauties of fall and winter descend on South Beach like migrating swans, a lot of people want their attention. It can all get a little overwhelming. To relax they need a low-key atmosphere. The Monday-night party called the Beehive inside Penrod's cavernous beachside structure is just the place. After all, most working stiffs don't go out on Mondays, so the pretty pixies can cavort in relative abandon. The sand-in-your-sandals vibe also helps take the mood down a notch. It's a good night to kick back, have a beer, and forget the world is watching. So if you go, remember: Don't stare.
Banyan tree, very pretty. And the mixed drinks are sweet. But the fruit of the banyan? You definitely do not want to eat that. You, however, have come to this tree not to eat but to quench your thirst, breathe fresh air, and marvel at our beautiful little toxic river. Were it not for the neon stripes of the elevated Metrorail line and the colorful Bank of America tower aglow in the distance, you might think you were in Baton Rouge. Enjoy this quiet postindustrial oasis on the fringes of downtown Miami while it lasts, because just across the water lies one of the preferred sites for a new baseball stadium. Which means that one day you might hear a crowd roar in the distance and a conversation at the bar much like this:
"Ouch! This here banyan tree's droppin' its fruit."
"That weren't no banyan fruit. That was a baseball!"
Sarah Vaughan's soulful voice floats in the air. Behind the immaculately kept bar, a smiling sprite of a girl snaps her fingers along with the bass. Crispy, as she's known to locals, is holding court. Best known for pouring drinks at the former 821 on Lincoln Road, Crispy, at first the bar back, filled in for the absent after-hours help one New Year's Eve and never hauled ice again. Although she has shaken and stirred at many Miami establishments, she seems a perfect fit at the Raleigh, concocting cocktails with equal parts sass and class. No ordinary girl, Crispy is a paragon of style. Her graying dreadlocks sway across the middle of her back. Her dazzling grin brightens the dimly lit room. Enter her bar and you immediately are put at ease by her comfortable manner. If you become a steady customer, you may even hear about the holograms she once was fond of producing in her spare time. Perhaps she'll even invite you to one of her famous oceanside clambakes.
Sarah Vaughan's soulful voice floats in the air. Behind the immaculately kept bar, a smiling sprite of a girl snaps her fingers along with the bass. Crispy, as she's known to locals, is holding court. Best known for pouring drinks at the former 821 on Lincoln Road, Crispy, at first the bar back, filled in for the absent after-hours help one New Year's Eve and never hauled ice again. Although she has shaken and stirred at many Miami establishments, she seems a perfect fit at the Raleigh, concocting cocktails with equal parts sass and class. No ordinary girl, Crispy is a paragon of style. Her graying dreadlocks sway across the middle of her back. Her dazzling grin brightens the dimly lit room. Enter her bar and you immediately are put at ease by her comfortable manner. If you become a steady customer, you may even hear about the holograms she once was fond of producing in her spare time. Perhaps she'll even invite you to one of her famous oceanside clambakes.
Just past Mile Marker 104, this Key Largo hangout overlooking Florida Bay is a superior spot to hoist a brew with "hog" aficionados. On most weekends pot-bellied, tattooed daddies park themselves at the bar eager to talk about 'Nam, women, and the open road. Instead of wearing leather, Levi's, and boots, they shoot the breeze in shorts, tank tops, and sandals. A rather lengthy ride for a belt, the Caribbean Club extends twenty miles beyond biker strongholds Alabama Jack's and Last Chance Saloon. But motorcycling is all about the journey, right?
Best Bingo Break
Martini Bar at the Miccosukee Resort and Gaming Center
Up the escalator from the flashing lights and ringing soundtrack of the gaming center, just outside the all-you-can-eat buffet, is a watering hole filled with low tables, comfy purple chairs, and a sleek fake black-marble bar. The studiedly swank, friendly bartenders and promptly replenished bowls of peanuts are not the attraction, though. What lends the spot charm is the easy intimacy shared by strangers thrown together unexpectedly. The Martini Bar is not a destination, not the reason people visit this monolith on the edge of the Everglades. It's a means of escape. Husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, relatives, and folks from the more than 100 conventions that book this location annually drop in here. Some are waiting for a pal or partner to finish a heavy bingo run. Others are taking a break from a lecture and looking to unwind. Maybe knowing that the person on the next barstool knows nothing about them, or maybe looking to kill time, strangers strike up conversations. On a long-distance bus trip, people spill their life stories. Here there isn't time, so the conversation and emotion are kept to a minimum. Also missing: exhaust fumes and grimy rest stops. You can disembark anytime you're ready.
The cigar craze is over. So what's a cigar bar to do? Become part of the nightclub scene, of course. Havana Cigar Emporium and Lounge boasts disco dancing, hot salsa, DJ nights, and even live music. Just as an aside, a cigar store is stocked with 20,000 stogies. (None from Cuba though, as the establishment's name implies.) More fun can be had at blackjack and pool tables and at the two smoker-friendly full liquor bars. Actually the entire place is smoker-friendly, thanks in part to state-of-the-art air filter systems that keep patrons' heads clear of noxious clouds. "We are the new millennium in cigar bars," notes general manager Vito Viscito. As Jim Carrey's character in The Mask would say, the place is literally "smokin'!"
With co-owner/manager Eric Omores at the helm, Bash ushered in a short-lived era of relatively un-self-conscious enjoyment when it opened in April 1993. "I guess what made it great was the mix of people. Back then everybody just wanted to have fun," the Senegal-born, France-raised Omores recalls wistfully. "It was nothing pretentious." The space expanded the VIP-room concept and initiated many theme nights. Omores and his partners (including Simply Red frontman Mick Hucknall and, in the early years, actor Sean Penn and nightlife impresario Alexis Ogurik) sold the club this year. He already had moved on to open Nikki Beach Club and then Pearl with Tommy Pooch. But, says Omores, Bash will always be special to him: "It did leave a print in the history of nightclubs on South Beach."
Since opening in April 2000 in downtown Miami, Club Space has lured throngs of South Beach regulars across the causeway. Created from four warehouses, Space, true to its name, offers more than 9000 square feet of dance floor. The door staff -- firm, polite, and unhindered by the essential Beach ego -- remains as cool as the cavernous joint, which stays chilled even when fully packed, thanks to a powerful air-conditioning unit. Developing a reputation for importing internationally known DJ talent for special events, the club hosted the URB magazine/Giant Step party during this year's Winter Music Conference, where Roni Size, the undisputed King of Jungle, kicked his dirty beats for a capacity crowd. A 24-hour liquor license ensures never-ending festivities. This March Space's first neighborhood competitor, Fuel, debuted. Time will tell if downtown has space enough for two.
Attitude-drenched bars full of the sleek and beautiful have become redundant. The most glamorous gay hangout for slumming: The Laundry Bar. Not entirely devoid of South Beach pretension, it's the kind of place where unassuming nerds can breathe easily alongside narcissistic muscle boys while waiting for their clothes to come clean. High-tech décor rules, but flip-flops and surfer shorts outnumber the Kenneth Cole getups. Sassy types can bring a pillowcase full of their most provocative undies to clean in the predawn hours. Those who prefer to air their dirty laundry at home can just sit at the bar and shoot the breeze with a healthy contingent of lesbians -- an increasing rarity in the gay bar scene. Veteran South Beach bartender Dot Larkin (formerly of Club Deuce and the now-defunct West End) will keep you awash in alcohol. A happy-hour special offers two-for-one drinks until 8:00 p.m. daily, and until 9:30 p.m. on Wednesdays.
For such a simple drink, the gimlet has a salty history. This classic cocktail was delivered into the annals of mixology by British sailors who stirred together medicinal rations of Rose's lime juice and gin, discovering that it was possible to catch a nice buzz and ward off scurvy in one swing of the boom. The sailors probably didn't enjoy their libation shaken with ice, though, the preferred preparation method today. Author Raymond Chandler probably did, doing for the gimlet what Ian Fleming did for the martini. In the 1953 mystery The Long Goodbye, a character declares: "A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose's lime juice, and nothing else. It beats martinis hollow." Not quite. Since we're fortunate to be moored in a place with an abundance of limes and no threat of scurvy, there's no reason to ruin a gimlet with the cloying flavor of Rose's. Joe's Stone Crab Restaurant has improved upon the original recipe with refreshing results. Their gimlet boasts fresh-squeezed lime juice, a little sugar syrup, and gin shaken with ice. Created in a handsome mahogany bar reminiscent of a dignified gentlemen's club, Joe's version delivers a tart bang that feels as right as Big Ben. A gimlet the way those British sailors could only have dreamed.
Alas for lovers of Haitian compas music, McArthur International Café, with its weekly roster of local and national compas acts, is no more. Roots fans, however, can still find choice vodou rhythms and balladry at old standby Tap Tap. Venerable singer-songwriter (and former Port-au-Prince mayor) Manno Charlemagne is a regular presence on Saturday nights. Fridays bring a shifting set of rasin musicians including Papaloko of Loray Mistik and Richard LaGuerre, formerly of Boukan Ginen, accompanied on vodou feast days by dancers from local troupes such as Sosyete Koukouy. Beneath the watchful eyes of the lwa peering down from the colorful murals, patrons fueled by Barbancourt rum punch can practice their yanvalou and conga steps late into the night.
This sleek little steel-and-chrome number with flashing lights offers the most eclectic selection of tunes in town. There are contemporary Top 40 hits by the likes of Marc Anthony, Lauryn Hill, and, yes, Christina Aguilera; some gems from Motown's golden era; a smattering of country (Patsy Cline, George Strait); and a surprise or two (Elvis Presley's "Rock-A-Hula Baby"). The real reason to sidle up to this machine, though, may be its assortment of big band, swing, and Tin Pan Alley classics: Artie Shaw, Tommy Dorsey, Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, and Tony Bennett are all well represented. The best part? This juke hasn't swallowed a quarter in years. The music is on the house.
Hialeah Goth diva/performance artist Viva hosts a campy night of sex and song that would make Britney Spears jealous. Belt out tunes from the hefty book of cheesy pop and ballads. Pick from Viva's collection of feather boas, wigs, and strap-on dildos and fondle them as you croon. But try to behave: She and her Gothic devotees razz sprightly singers with their antics, punishing hecklers and gagging boys and girls with duct tape onstage. Catch the show Friday nights at Churchill's and Tuesday nights at Underland Privat -- if you dare.
A million-dollar renovation undertaken last August by owner Aurelio Rodriguez added a gourmet kitchen, back-yard stage, and air conditioning for VIPs, yet this rustic roadhouse retains all its long-standing open-air charm. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, La Covacha remains South Florida's best bet for classic and contemporary salsa as well as the latest in merengue and vallenato. Sunday rocks as hard as ever, with Latin alternative bands blaring for a young Latin-American crowd. And any day at La Covacha is ideal for noted visiting national acts to launch their music among the stars.
What? A hip club to go to? Yeah, just head over to Washington Avenue. There's a slew of them. Well, yeah, you have to wait in a line for a while, but just 30, 40 minutes. An hour tops. What's that? You're on the guest list? You know Gerry? Oh, your friend knows Ken? That's nice. In that case those glamorous little security guards may only make you wait fifteen minutes at their fabulous velvet ropes. But you'll probably get in eventually, and then the cover charge is usually only about twenty bucks. Yes, sometimes even when you're on the list! Well, no, that twenty doesn't include any drinks. But they're only eight or ten bucks a pop. Have fun! Oh, you're inviting me to come along? Thanks, but nah, I'm just not in the mood. Have a great time! (Pssst. Hey, cutie. Let's get out of this nightmare. Say what? There's a cool place over on the west side of the island, down by the bay? You mean Purdy? Let's take this cab. I like Purdy because it's, like, totally mellow. But not too mellow. You're right. And it's Wednesday, which is live-music night. You know what else is cool? There's never a cover. And they, like, pride themselves on that. Oh, it's Thursday? Well, then there'll probably be some decent DJs groovin' on. I've got the first round. We can hang out on one of the couches. Maybe shake our booties a little over by the shag rug. What? You, like, always sit on the couch under the lava lamps and African masks? That's, like, totally where I always sit.)
This one's a joke, right? There are no lesbian bars here. Sure a few girls' nights occur around town, but no permanent place exists for all the Sapphic sisters to gather over drinks. (Apparently the gals don't bring in as much money as the gaggles of shirtless boys, or maybe we're all just spending too much time at home -- nesting.) Girls in search of girls should support the Women's National Basketball Association. Buy season tickets to the Miami Sol home games and start cruising the Chivas Regal or the two Budweiser bars at the arena. Face it, you'll find more lesbians at the Sol games than in all of Miami's gay bars combined on any given night. Now, now, heterosexual sports fans, relax; you have nothing to fear. We are neither recruiting nor converting. Everyone really is at the arena to enjoy the game. Catching up with your friends at half-time or making some new ones? That's just a bonus.
Bolivian transplant Mario Irusta had a look in mind when he bought a rundown bar in the rundown neighborhood known as Wynwood. He wanted to improve the place but not so much that you'd notice. Clean but not antiseptic. His plan worked. Except for the worn terrazzo dance floor, everything in the place is relatively new, yet looks as if it has been there forever. The interior décor consists of dark woods, including the water-stained paneling and the bar itself, illuminated from underneath at night. Red barstools are upholstered in vintage Sixties vinyl. The cash register appears old and battered as do some of the crusty customers. The jukebox features an odd mix of genres: Honduran dance music, country and western, Mexican rural, and standard rock and roll. Irusta says the joint's name has something to do with a romance and a dream. His dream perhaps: that customers will come in for a drink and fall in love with his comfortable little locale.
At six ounces it's not the most generous pour in town. And at eleven dollars a pop, it's certainly no bargain. But about a year ago Nemo, a first-rate restaurant with a highly creative kitchen and a lovely ambiance, changed its martini presentation in a way that deserves recognition. After complaints from customers that their martinis were losing their chill before the last drop (a common predicament in the subtropics, especially if you dine on Nemo's open-air patio), staffers sought a solution. The result: A chilled-cone glass embellished with the garnish of your choice and accompanied by a miniature ice bucket holding a small carafe. Inside the carafe is your hypothermic gin (or vodka for heathens) and hint of vermouth. Voilà! Pour at your own pace and with assurance that the gin (or vodka for heathens) can be returned to ice for prolonged cooling without dilution. A truly elegant method of preserving the delicate essence of this most sophisticated of cocktails.
They say Calle Ocho is coming back. If they spent a Saturday night at La Reina, they'd see Calle Ocho has stayed pretty much where it's been for the past 40 years, right here in funky Little Havana, the first stop on many immigrants' road to the American dream. They drift in as the night progresses: the Honduran brothers looking to down a few beers (signs all over warn in Spanish: NO BEER SERVED WITHOUT FOOD, an accommodation to a past police crackdown on bars masquerading as cafeterias -- sort of like this one), dance with a waitress, and maybe find a chica to make them forget the ones they left behind in San Pedro Sula. The ancient Cuban man in a jacket and fedora who'll spend the night guaracheando like he's back in Pinar del Río, Latin classics blaring from the jukebox. The mysterious white-haired man, who sips beer and coffee while musing to himself in a Slavic language, as though attempting to maintain proficiency in the midst of so many Latin tongues. A young couple with babies, two or three women with young children. Nothing so far to get the Honduran brothers' hopes up. But the night is young. Long past midnight everyone's dancing under the fluorescent lights. Even though the customers will straggle out when 2:00 a.m. rolls around, many will be back first thing in the morning, lounging around a sidewalk table and watching the American dream unfold before them in all its mixed-up, faded glory.
Neighborhood bars are supposed to be friendly, and nothing's friendlier than the price of a bottle of beer at Zeke's: two dollars. Not just any beer, either. Zeke's selection includes more than 100 brews, everything from Samuel Adams Summer Wheat to Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout, from Dos Equis to Cerveza India. You name the country, and it's probably represented on the menu. Zeke's is especially deserving of recognition this year because it marks the reinstatement of the two-dollar-per-bottle policy. Five years ago, when Zeke's first opened, idiosyncratic owner Victor J. Deutsch garnered a reputation for his "beer garden" by charging that paltry sum. Then reality set in (the joint is on Lincoln Road, for crying out loud), and Deutsch set a still extremely reasonable price of three dollars for his bottled beers and four dollars for his pints. But last year Deutsch went off his medication again, God bless him, and down went the prices. Good cheap brew is not the only thing that makes this place convivial. Outside seating means friends passing by are likely to stop and knock one back with you. The bartenders may not be much to look at, but they sure are nice. And if you hang out there long enough, they're likely to call you if they haven't seen you in a while -- just to make sure everything's okay.
If not for the lighted beer signs in the windows, it would be easy to miss this low-lying roadhouse on a commercial stretch of U.S. 1 just north of sleepy Miami Shores. To say that the Uke is little more than a bar isn't a putdown; it's an accurate description of the space. The interior is taken up almost completely by a long, wood, U-shape bar. With barely enough room left over for a pool table and jukebox, the Uke is the place to go when you feel like bending an elbow and rubbing shoulders with the masses. No microbrews here: Bud on tap, half-a-dozen other big-batch brands in the cooler. All of it cold and cheap. Save my seat.
Time slows at the Pelican Nest. In this old oasis disguised as a warehouse, regulars tend to sit at the end of the bar where an upside-down skiff hovers above. Long ago they noticed that because the boat is upside down, all the gear, including two big burlap bags marked "Colombian," is in various stages of falling out. No need to duck, though. Its contents are defying gravity, thanks to the talented artist who put the darn thing together. You, too, will notice these things. At the moment, though, you might be distracted by other matters. The Budweiser and black and tan arrive quickly in front of you. The pool table, on an upstairs balcony overlooking the small dining area, beckons. Your stomach growls. ("The smoked fish dip gets a lot of compliments," notes bartender Sherry.) Your ears ring, courtesy of bands like Peach Black, whose CD includes "Loosing You" [sic], "Rosa Linda," and other rock originals taking Cutler Ridge by storm. After the music ends, some joker at the bar gets up, grabs the guitarist's Stratocaster, and sings his own rendition of "All Along the Watchtower" with impunity. When the hour has gotten late, and time speeds up again, there is a way outta there: west to the turnpike (exit 13) or east to South Dixie Highway.
After bartenders in Coral Gables call the last round, many of them make their way to The Bar for nightcaps. There is no better endorsement for a watering hole than one from the mixologist class. But if you need another, check out the beer selection. The Bar boasts 10 brands of brew on tap and 21 in bottles, plus a wide variety of liquor. A serviceable menu of standards features four kinds of hamburgers, a decent chicken sandwich, and mozzarella sticks that don't bathe your fingers in grease. Tunes that range from Sinatra to Kid Rock stack the jukebox. On Saturdays live music rocks the room. Above it all is an air of comfort that makes The Bar's steady clientele treat the joint like a second home.
Candy Caramelo, the hostess so nice she named herself twice (caramelo is Spanish for candy), zings one-liners and double-entendres from the stage of Club Tropigala Wednesday through Sunday nights. "This is not fat," she says, showing off her hefty figure, barely concealed by a teddy and feathery robe. "This is filet mignon." Then she winks and pulls some unsuspecting patron up to the stage, burying his face in her prodigious bosom to the delight of the crowd. Candy has been having fun with cabaret and nightclub audiences since the Fifties, and she doesn't mind telling you about her career in between jiggles, wiggles, and giggles. So sit back, order a mojito, and enjoy show biz the way it used to be. Just remember: Sit too close to the stage and there's a good chance you'll end up in Candy's, er, act.
They call it "old-school" at Shantel's Lounge in Liberty City, where each week a group of African-American musicians, who have played jazz, blues, oldies, and soul around Miami, gathers to jam. Other music makers and singers are welcome to join the horns, keyboards, and drums that rock the room. During a spoken-word segment, about ten poets deliver short readings, ranging from brilliant rants on the African diaspora, to rap-a-logues, to embarrassingly bad Barry White-style schlocky bedroom whisperings. On the first Sunday of the month, Shantel's offers barbecue, collard greens, pigeon peas, rice, and other fixings for three dollars. The songs, the words, and the friendly conversation are free.
The Fifties: Miami Beach was the sun-and-fun capital of the world. The postwar cocktail nation was in full swing, and Morris Lapidus was creating what he called an "architecture of joy." The Lapidus-designed Eden Roc opened in 1956 and is considered a classic example of MIMo, or Miami Modernism. It's also still the best place anywhere to enjoy an adult beverage or two. The bar and the hotel lobby in which it sits, recently restored to its midcentury splendor, are an ode to the kind of sophistication that existed only in the movies. A sculpted canopy, supported by fluted columns that rise to the ceiling, hovers above a sunken oasis filled with plump couches and chairs upholstered in regal gold and deep purple. Grecian-style statues and fleur-de-lis floor designs accent the room. Sun and moonlight filter through the sheer curtains of a curved window-wall overlooking the pool. Just when you think nothing could be more perfect, martinis and mixed drinks arrive in stately glassware while a house piano player offers a song of love from another time. God bless and comfort Morris Lapidus.
Best Place To Get Wasted While Getting Religion
Astor Place Bar & Grill
Sip a flute of Champagne Laurent-Perrier Brut at $15 a pop. Nibble on a stack of silver-dollar wild-mushroom pancakes served with a delicate balsamic vinegar syrup. Sit back in your chair and settle into a happy sunlit Sunday groove. Under the influence of tasty food and effervescent drink, the mind kind of dilates during the Astor's gospel brunch. When Maryel Epps arrives still wearing her choir gown direct from performing at Unity on the Bay, you want her to move you, shake you, take over your spirit and make it soar. It's a decidedly decadent experience. Maryel is jazzing up "Amazing Grace," and you're downing yet another glass of bubbly. Somehow it works. You leave Astor Place feeling a little lighter, transported. Too bad you can only be saved once a week, from noon to 2:30 p.m. on Sunday.
We can't help but be enchanted each time we stroll into La Paloma, its European kitsch reminiscent of every postwar Jewish grandma's apartment. Splendid displays of owner Maria Staub's antique Baccarat crystal, Limoges china, and objects such as dolls and clocks accent the decor. Live trios and orchestras often contribute to the sedate ambiance of the plush lounge and bar areas. When you're tempted to take a spin around the room, don't forget to place your Manhattan on the bar first. Spill something down your honey's back and the spell will be broken.
Isaiah Brock, the proprietor of Club New Year's Eve, deserves some kind of medal. He already has the mettle. The self-determined Coconut Grove native has overcome a variety of hardships since opening his classy little cocktail joint in 1993, a few years after ending a 25-year career with the U.S. Air Force. For example Brock has had to deflect the mercurial passions of the area's youths, some of whom wanted the dance floor to feature less R&B and more randy rap. (They once proffered their request by kicking in the front door.) He also has had to encourage middle-age folk to step around those hanging out in front of the club, i.e., the sidewalk, and come inside. But the western stretch of Grand Avenue, which has the proud distinction of being one of the toughest strips in the county, has mellowed over the past year. It has gone from being outright hostile toward outsiders to downright mildly antagonistic. And while the area's microeconomy peps up along with the mood, Brock's little liquor-to-go window next door keeps his enterprise afloat. He also came up with another clever idea: He makes the club available for private gatherings. Ingenious. The bar is long, cocktail prices are low, and the dance floor is ripe for good old-fashioned booty-shaking.
It has been a long time since Miami's blood truly moved to the beat of rock and roll. Most serious touring rockers never seem to make it south of Orlando. Plenty of ink in these pages has been spilled bemoaning this sad situation. The slim pickings have led us in previous years to rightly celebrate the only two real rock and roll clubs in Miami: Tobacco Road and Churchill's Hideaway. The Road won last year, and Churchill's has walked away with the honor five times. So this year we decided to go back to the roots of rock and roll -- the blues -- to find a winner. It's a well-trodden path. There was a time in Eric Clapton's life when he wouldn't talk to people ignorant of the music of Robert Johnson. That's not a problem at Satchmo, a bar that is aware of the past and tries mightily to live up to its revered name. With live blues (and sometimes jazz) filling the room practically every day of the week, this Coral Gables eatery serves red-hot music and whimsically named meals like Hoochie Coochie Primavera in a pleasant setting. So lighten up, Miami, there is no need to sell our souls to the Devil and drive up to the crossroads of Central Florida just yet.
It's the bathroom tile that truly tells you the folks at Corbett's take their sports very seriously. Not that you would have to unzip your pants to figure this out. The NASCAR schedule on the front wall gives a strong hint, as do more than a dozen televisions. Logically all manner of sporting recreation is available, including foosball, pinball, pool tables, and dart boards. A glass case exhibits a variety of dart accessories for sale. Banners hanging on the walls salute local heroes of the fields, hardwood, and ice. What is decidedly un-sports bar-like is the alcohol selection, which features 23 flavors of schnapps. No average little sports joint buried in the back of an innocuous strip mall carries this varied a stock of liquor: eighteen kinds of rum, sixteen single-malt scotches, and how about a different shot of tequila each day for more than three weeks? Quality comfort food is plentiful, which is all a true sports fan experiencing hunger pangs really wants. A clear message of Corbett's priorities also can be found in the beer special. Six-dollar pitchers of domestic draft beer are available to softball teams in uniform and to anyone else during hometown-team sporting events. But if you still remain unconvinced of Corbett's sports bona fides, and all those pitchers have warranted a leak, just notice the bands of garish Miami Hurricane orange-and-green tile that the bathroom, er, sports.
Enjoyment of this charming dive bar may be aided by citizenship in a Central American nation. Or by appreciation for soccer, the sport the regulars pile in to watch on the big-screen TV, sitting on wooden benches and listening to the play-by-play on a makeshift SurroundSound system anchored by bullhorns bolted to the ceiling. Yet even someone unfamiliar with the back roads of Tegucigalpa can -- and should -- enjoy the camaraderie, the ice-cold beer, and what we assure you is the best steak sandwich anywhere on the planet.
Lola, light of my night, fire of my martinis. My gin, my elbow. How your bar resembles the beautiful hull of a little wooden ship. How we sail, suspended from the gunwales through the mists that come from the hidden swirls of the DJ-magicians. There is water, water, everywhere, but everyone prefers alcoholic beverages. O Captain! My Captain! We need another round! Exult O pool table and rack O balls! Where lies the land to which yon ship must go? One with no cover charges or attitude from velvet-rope power-trippers. (And these are not the only martinis that we may share, my Lola.)
For such a simple drink, the gimlet has a salty history. This classic cocktail was delivered into the annals of mixology by British sailors who stirred together medicinal rations of Rose's lime juice and gin, discovering that it was possible to catch a nice buzz and ward off scurvy in one swing of the boom. The sailors probably didn't enjoy their libation shaken with ice, though, the preferred preparation method today. Author Raymond Chandler probably did, doing for the gimlet what Ian Fleming did for the martini. In the 1953 mystery The Long Goodbye, a character declares: "A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose's lime juice, and nothing else. It beats martinis hollow." Not quite. Since we're fortunate to be moored in a place with an abundance of limes and no threat of scurvy, there's no reason to ruin a gimlet with the cloying flavor of Rose's. Joe's Stone Crab Restaurant has improved upon the original recipe with refreshing results. Their gimlet boasts fresh-squeezed lime juice, a little sugar syrup, and gin shaken with ice. Created in a handsome mahogany bar reminiscent of a dignified gentlemen's club, Joe's version delivers a tart bang that feels as right as Big Ben. A gimlet the way those British sailors could only have dreamed.
Enjoyment of this charming dive bar may be aided by citizenship in a Central American nation. Or by appreciation for soccer, the sport the regulars pile in to watch on the big-screen TV, sitting on wooden benches and listening to the play-by-play on a makeshift SurroundSound system anchored by bullhorns bolted to the ceiling. Yet even someone unfamiliar with the back roads of Tegucigalpa can -- and should -- enjoy the camaraderie, the ice-cold beer, and what we assure you is the best steak sandwich anywhere on the planet.
At six ounces it's not the most generous pour in town. And at eleven dollars a pop, it's certainly no bargain. But about a year ago Nemo, a first-rate restaurant with a highly creative kitchen and a lovely ambiance, changed its martini presentation in a way that deserves recognition. After complaints from customers that their martinis were losing their chill before the last drop (a common predicament in the subtropics, especially if you dine on Nemo's open-air patio), staffers sought a solution. The result: A chilled-cone glass embellished with the garnish of your choice and accompanied by a miniature ice bucket holding a small carafe. Inside the carafe is your hypothermic gin (or vodka for heathens) and hint of vermouth. Voilà! Pour at your own pace and with assurance that the gin (or vodka for heathens) can be returned to ice for prolonged cooling without dilution. A truly elegant method of preserving the delicate essence of this most sophisticated of cocktails.
A million-dollar renovation undertaken last August by owner Aurelio Rodriguez added a gourmet kitchen, back-yard stage, and air conditioning for VIPs, yet this rustic roadhouse retains all its long-standing open-air charm. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, La Covacha remains South Florida's best bet for classic and contemporary salsa as well as the latest in merengue and vallenato. Sunday rocks as hard as ever, with Latin alternative bands blaring for a young Latin-American crowd. And any day at La Covacha is ideal for noted visiting national acts to launch their music among the stars.
It's the bathroom tile that truly tells you the folks at Corbett's take their sports very seriously. Not that you would have to unzip your pants to figure this out. The NASCAR schedule on the front wall gives a strong hint, as do more than a dozen televisions. Logically all manner of sporting recreation is available, including foosball, pinball, pool tables, and dart boards. A glass case exhibits a variety of dart accessories for sale. Banners hanging on the walls salute local heroes of the fields, hardwood, and ice. What is decidedly un-sports bar-like is the alcohol selection, which features 23 flavors of schnapps. No average little sports joint buried in the back of an innocuous strip mall carries this varied a stock of liquor: eighteen kinds of rum, sixteen single-malt scotches, and how about a different shot of tequila each day for more than three weeks? Quality comfort food is plentiful, which is all a true sports fan experiencing hunger pangs really wants. A clear message of Corbett's priorities also can be found in the beer special. Six-dollar pitchers of domestic draft beer are available to softball teams in uniform and to anyone else during hometown-team sporting events. But if you still remain unconvinced of Corbett's sports bona fides, and all those pitchers have warranted a leak, just notice the bands of garish Miami Hurricane orange-and-green tile that the bathroom, er, sports.
Alas for lovers of Haitian compas music, McArthur International Café, with its weekly roster of local and national compas acts, is no more. Roots fans, however, can still find choice vodou rhythms and balladry at old standby Tap Tap. Venerable singer-songwriter (and former Port-au-Prince mayor) Manno Charlemagne is a regular presence on Saturday nights. Fridays bring a shifting set of rasin musicians including Papaloko of Loray Mistik and Richard LaGuerre, formerly of Boukan Ginen, accompanied on vodou feast days by dancers from local troupes such as Sosyete Koukouy. Beneath the watchful eyes of the lwa peering down from the colorful murals, patrons fueled by Barbancourt rum punch can practice their yanvalou and conga steps late into the night.
It's almost a disservice to call Norman's steaks, sandwiches, salads, and appetizers "bar food." The term implies food for an empty stomach and churning head (or is it the other way around?), and Lord knows anything that'll soak up that last drink or two you shouldn't have had usually qualifies as good eats in the wee hours of the morning. Norman's offerings, on the other hand, are just plain delicious: caesar and caprese salads, mahi-mahi fingers (lightly battered and fried), tenderloin sandwiches, black Angus burgers, and chicken Philly cheese sandwiches, in addition to the usual bar fare. Feel like having an honest-to-goodness sit-down dinner? Try the filet mignon, porterhouse chops, or grilled fresh fish. And don't worry, you've got all night to work up an appetite -- the kitchen stays open until 2:00 a.m.
With co-owner/manager Eric Omores at the helm, Bash ushered in a short-lived era of relatively un-self-conscious enjoyment when it opened in April 1993. "I guess what made it great was the mix of people. Back then everybody just wanted to have fun," the Senegal-born, France-raised Omores recalls wistfully. "It was nothing pretentious." The space expanded the VIP-room concept and initiated many theme nights. Omores and his partners (including Simply Red frontman Mick Hucknall and, in the early years, actor Sean Penn and nightlife impresario Alexis Ogurik) sold the club this year. He already had moved on to open Nikki Beach Club and then Pearl with Tommy Pooch. But, says Omores, Bash will always be special to him: "It did leave a print in the history of nightclubs on South Beach."
Best Bingo Break
Martini Bar at the Miccosukee Resort and Gaming Center
Up the escalator from the flashing lights and ringing soundtrack of the gaming center, just outside the all-you-can-eat buffet, is a watering hole filled with low tables, comfy purple chairs, and a sleek fake black-marble bar. The studiedly swank, friendly bartenders and promptly replenished bowls of peanuts are not the attraction, though. What lends the spot charm is the easy intimacy shared by strangers thrown together unexpectedly. The Martini Bar is not a destination, not the reason people visit this monolith on the edge of the Everglades. It's a means of escape. Husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, relatives, and folks from the more than 100 conventions that book this location annually drop in here. Some are waiting for a pal or partner to finish a heavy bingo run. Others are taking a break from a lecture and looking to unwind. Maybe knowing that the person on the next barstool knows nothing about them, or maybe looking to kill time, strangers strike up conversations. On a long-distance bus trip, people spill their life stories. Here there isn't time, so the conversation and emotion are kept to a minimum. Also missing: exhaust fumes and grimy rest stops. You can disembark anytime you're ready.
South Beach may be slipping as a club hot spot, but it's not Opium's fault. The Asian-theme restaurant south of Fifth Street transmogrifies late at night into the raunchy, ostentatious epicenter of superficial glitz. Opium has emerged as the very best place for middle-age men to display their topless table-dancing (and often teenage) trophy chicks. Ergo the waitstaff at street-level Café Tabac, located directly below the joint, is inured to the unusual. "On Halloween," one waitress told us, "there was a woman who came down here in a completely transparent garbage bag, wearing no underwear and no bra. She pointed to a tear in her plastic bag and asked if we had a stapler." Suitably sutured, the reveler scurried upstairs, back into the still-breathing soul of South Beach.
They call it "old-school" at Shantel's Lounge in Liberty City, where each week a group of African-American musicians, who have played jazz, blues, oldies, and soul around Miami, gathers to jam. Other music makers and singers are welcome to join the horns, keyboards, and drums that rock the room. During a spoken-word segment, about ten poets deliver short readings, ranging from brilliant rants on the African diaspora, to rap-a-logues, to embarrassingly bad Barry White-style schlocky bedroom whisperings. On the first Sunday of the month, Shantel's offers barbecue, collard greens, pigeon peas, rice, and other fixings for three dollars. The songs, the words, and the friendly conversation are free.
We can't help but be enchanted each time we stroll into La Paloma, its European kitsch reminiscent of every postwar Jewish grandma's apartment. Splendid displays of owner Maria Staub's antique Baccarat crystal, Limoges china, and objects such as dolls and clocks accent the decor. Live trios and orchestras often contribute to the sedate ambiance of the plush lounge and bar areas. When you're tempted to take a spin around the room, don't forget to place your Manhattan on the bar first. Spill something down your honey's back and the spell will be broken.
Hialeah Goth diva/performance artist Viva hosts a campy night of sex and song that would make Britney Spears jealous. Belt out tunes from the hefty book of cheesy pop and ballads. Pick from Viva's collection of feather boas, wigs, and strap-on dildos and fondle them as you croon. But try to behave: She and her Gothic devotees razz sprightly singers with their antics, punishing hecklers and gagging boys and girls with duct tape onstage. Catch the show Friday nights at Churchill's and Tuesday nights at Underland Privat -- if you dare.
If not for the lighted beer signs in the windows, it would be easy to miss this low-lying roadhouse on a commercial stretch of U.S. 1 just north of sleepy Miami Shores. To say that the Uke is little more than a bar isn't a putdown; it's an accurate description of the space. The interior is taken up almost completely by a long, wood, U-shape bar. With barely enough room left over for a pool table and jukebox, the Uke is the place to go when you feel like bending an elbow and rubbing shoulders with the masses. No microbrews here: Bud on tap, half-a-dozen other big-batch brands in the cooler. All of it cold and cheap. Save my seat.
The cigar craze is over. So what's a cigar bar to do? Become part of the nightclub scene, of course. Havana Cigar Emporium and Lounge boasts disco dancing, hot salsa, DJ nights, and even live music. Just as an aside, a cigar store is stocked with 20,000 stogies. (None from Cuba though, as the establishment's name implies.) More fun can be had at blackjack and pool tables and at the two smoker-friendly full liquor bars. Actually the entire place is smoker-friendly, thanks in part to state-of-the-art air filter systems that keep patrons' heads clear of noxious clouds. "We are the new millennium in cigar bars," notes general manager Vito Viscito. As Jim Carrey's character in The Mask would say, the place is literally "smokin'!"
Time slows at the Pelican Nest. In this old oasis disguised as a warehouse, regulars tend to sit at the end of the bar where an upside-down skiff hovers above. Long ago they noticed that because the boat is upside down, all the gear, including two big burlap bags marked "Colombian," is in various stages of falling out. No need to duck, though. Its contents are defying gravity, thanks to the talented artist who put the darn thing together. You, too, will notice these things. At the moment, though, you might be distracted by other matters. The Budweiser and black and tan arrive quickly in front of you. The pool table, on an upstairs balcony overlooking the small dining area, beckons. Your stomach growls. ("The smoked fish dip gets a lot of compliments," notes bartender Sherry.) Your ears ring, courtesy of bands like Peach Black, whose CD includes "Loosing You" [sic], "Rosa Linda," and other rock originals taking Cutler Ridge by storm. After the music ends, some joker at the bar gets up, grabs the guitarist's Stratocaster, and sings his own rendition of "All Along the Watchtower" with impunity. When the hour has gotten late, and time speeds up again, there is a way outta there: west to the turnpike (exit 13) or east to South Dixie Highway.
This one's a joke, right? There are no lesbian bars here. Sure a few girls' nights occur around town, but no permanent place exists for all the Sapphic sisters to gather over drinks. (Apparently the gals don't bring in as much money as the gaggles of shirtless boys, or maybe we're all just spending too much time at home -- nesting.) Girls in search of girls should support the Women's National Basketball Association. Buy season tickets to the Miami Sol home games and start cruising the Chivas Regal or the two Budweiser bars at the arena. Face it, you'll find more lesbians at the Sol games than in all of Miami's gay bars combined on any given night. Now, now, heterosexual sports fans, relax; you have nothing to fear. We are neither recruiting nor converting. Everyone really is at the arena to enjoy the game. Catching up with your friends at half-time or making some new ones? That's just a bonus.
They say Calle Ocho is coming back. If they spent a Saturday night at La Reina, they'd see Calle Ocho has stayed pretty much where it's been for the past 40 years, right here in funky Little Havana, the first stop on many immigrants' road to the American dream. They drift in as the night progresses: the Honduran brothers looking to down a few beers (signs all over warn in Spanish: NO BEER SERVED WITHOUT FOOD, an accommodation to a past police crackdown on bars masquerading as cafeterias -- sort of like this one), dance with a waitress, and maybe find a chica to make them forget the ones they left behind in San Pedro Sula. The ancient Cuban man in a jacket and fedora who'll spend the night guaracheando like he's back in Pinar del Río, Latin classics blaring from the jukebox. The mysterious white-haired man, who sips beer and coffee while musing to himself in a Slavic language, as though attempting to maintain proficiency in the midst of so many Latin tongues. A young couple with babies, two or three women with young children. Nothing so far to get the Honduran brothers' hopes up. But the night is young. Long past midnight everyone's dancing under the fluorescent lights. Even though the customers will straggle out when 2:00 a.m. rolls around, many will be back first thing in the morning, lounging around a sidewalk table and watching the American dream unfold before them in all its mixed-up, faded glory.
This sleek little steel-and-chrome number with flashing lights offers the most eclectic selection of tunes in town. There are contemporary Top 40 hits by the likes of Marc Anthony, Lauryn Hill, and, yes, Christina Aguilera; some gems from Motown's golden era; a smattering of country (Patsy Cline, George Strait); and a surprise or two (Elvis Presley's "Rock-A-Hula Baby"). The real reason to sidle up to this machine, though, may be its assortment of big band, swing, and Tin Pan Alley classics: Artie Shaw, Tommy Dorsey, Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, and Tony Bennett are all well represented. The best part? This juke hasn't swallowed a quarter in years. The music is on the house.
After bartenders in Coral Gables call the last round, many of them make their way to The Bar for nightcaps. There is no better endorsement for a watering hole than one from the mixologist class. But if you need another, check out the beer selection. The Bar boasts 10 brands of brew on tap and 21 in bottles, plus a wide variety of liquor. A serviceable menu of standards features four kinds of hamburgers, a decent chicken sandwich, and mozzarella sticks that don't bathe your fingers in grease. Tunes that range from Sinatra to Kid Rock stack the jukebox. On Saturdays live music rocks the room. Above it all is an air of comfort that makes The Bar's steady clientele treat the joint like a second home.
Neighborhood bars are supposed to be friendly, and nothing's friendlier than the price of a bottle of beer at Zeke's: two dollars. Not just any beer, either. Zeke's selection includes more than 100 brews, everything from Samuel Adams Summer Wheat to Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout, from Dos Equis to Cerveza India. You name the country, and it's probably represented on the menu. Zeke's is especially deserving of recognition this year because it marks the reinstatement of the two-dollar-per-bottle policy. Five years ago, when Zeke's first opened, idiosyncratic owner Victor J. Deutsch garnered a reputation for his "beer garden" by charging that paltry sum. Then reality set in (the joint is on Lincoln Road, for crying out loud), and Deutsch set a still extremely reasonable price of three dollars for his bottled beers and four dollars for his pints. But last year Deutsch went off his medication again, God bless him, and down went the prices. Good cheap brew is not the only thing that makes this place convivial. Outside seating means friends passing by are likely to stop and knock one back with you. The bartenders may not be much to look at, but they sure are nice. And if you hang out there long enough, they're likely to call you if they haven't seen you in a while -- just to make sure everything's okay.
Just past Mile Marker 104, this Key Largo hangout overlooking Florida Bay is a superior spot to hoist a brew with "hog" aficionados. On most weekends pot-bellied, tattooed daddies park themselves at the bar eager to talk about 'Nam, women, and the open road. Instead of wearing leather, Levi's, and boots, they shoot the breeze in shorts, tank tops, and sandals. A rather lengthy ride for a belt, the Caribbean Club extends twenty miles beyond biker strongholds Alabama Jack's and Last Chance Saloon. But motorcycling is all about the journey, right?
Candy Caramelo, the hostess so nice she named herself twice (caramelo is Spanish for candy), zings one-liners and double-entendres from the stage of Club Tropigala Wednesday through Sunday nights. "This is not fat," she says, showing off her hefty figure, barely concealed by a teddy and feathery robe. "This is filet mignon." Then she winks and pulls some unsuspecting patron up to the stage, burying his face in her prodigious bosom to the delight of the crowd. Candy has been having fun with cabaret and nightclub audiences since the Fifties, and she doesn't mind telling you about her career in between jiggles, wiggles, and giggles. So sit back, order a mojito, and enjoy show biz the way it used to be. Just remember: Sit too close to the stage and there's a good chance you'll end up in Candy's, er, act.
The Fifties: Miami Beach was the sun-and-fun capital of the world. The postwar cocktail nation was in full swing, and Morris Lapidus was creating what he called an "architecture of joy." The Lapidus-designed Eden Roc opened in 1956 and is considered a classic example of MIMo, or Miami Modernism. It's also still the best place anywhere to enjoy an adult beverage or two. The bar and the hotel lobby in which it sits, recently restored to its midcentury splendor, are an ode to the kind of sophistication that existed only in the movies. A sculpted canopy, supported by fluted columns that rise to the ceiling, hovers above a sunken oasis filled with plump couches and chairs upholstered in regal gold and deep purple. Grecian-style statues and fleur-de-lis floor designs accent the room. Sun and moonlight filter through the sheer curtains of a curved window-wall overlooking the pool. Just when you think nothing could be more perfect, martinis and mixed drinks arrive in stately glassware while a house piano player offers a song of love from another time. God bless and comfort Morris Lapidus.
When the delicate beauties of fall and winter descend on South Beach like migrating swans, a lot of people want their attention. It can all get a little overwhelming. To relax they need a low-key atmosphere. The Monday-night party called the Beehive inside Penrod's cavernous beachside structure is just the place. After all, most working stiffs don't go out on Mondays, so the pretty pixies can cavort in relative abandon. The sand-in-your-sandals vibe also helps take the mood down a notch. It's a good night to kick back, have a beer, and forget the world is watching. So if you go, remember: Don't stare.
Bolivian transplant Mario Irusta had a look in mind when he bought a rundown bar in the rundown neighborhood known as Wynwood. He wanted to improve the place but not so much that you'd notice. Clean but not antiseptic. His plan worked. Except for the worn terrazzo dance floor, everything in the place is relatively new, yet looks as if it has been there forever. The interior décor consists of dark woods, including the water-stained paneling and the bar itself, illuminated from underneath at night. Red barstools are upholstered in vintage Sixties vinyl. The cash register appears old and battered as do some of the crusty customers. The jukebox features an odd mix of genres: Honduran dance music, country and western, Mexican rural, and standard rock and roll. Irusta says the joint's name has something to do with a romance and a dream. His dream perhaps: that customers will come in for a drink and fall in love with his comfortable little locale.
What? A hip club to go to? Yeah, just head over to Washington Avenue. There's a slew of them. Well, yeah, you have to wait in a line for a while, but just 30, 40 minutes. An hour tops. What's that? You're on the guest list? You know Gerry? Oh, your friend knows Ken? That's nice. In that case those glamorous little security guards may only make you wait fifteen minutes at their fabulous velvet ropes. But you'll probably get in eventually, and then the cover charge is usually only about twenty bucks. Yes, sometimes even when you're on the list! Well, no, that twenty doesn't include any drinks. But they're only eight or ten bucks a pop. Have fun! Oh, you're inviting me to come along? Thanks, but nah, I'm just not in the mood. Have a great time! (Pssst. Hey, cutie. Let's get out of this nightmare. Say what? There's a cool place over on the west side of the island, down by the bay? You mean Purdy? Let's take this cab. I like Purdy because it's, like, totally mellow. But not too mellow. You're right. And it's Wednesday, which is live-music night. You know what else is cool? There's never a cover. And they, like, pride themselves on that. Oh, it's Thursday? Well, then there'll probably be some decent DJs groovin' on. I've got the first round. We can hang out on one of the couches. Maybe shake our booties a little over by the shag rug. What? You, like, always sit on the couch under the lava lamps and African masks? That's, like, totally where I always sit.)
Banyan tree, very pretty. And the mixed drinks are sweet. But the fruit of the banyan? You definitely do not want to eat that. You, however, have come to this tree not to eat but to quench your thirst, breathe fresh air, and marvel at our beautiful little toxic river. Were it not for the neon stripes of the elevated Metrorail line and the colorful Bank of America tower aglow in the distance, you might think you were in Baton Rouge. Enjoy this quiet postindustrial oasis on the fringes of downtown Miami while it lasts, because just across the water lies one of the preferred sites for a new baseball stadium. Which means that one day you might hear a crowd roar in the distance and a conversation at the bar much like this:
"Ouch! This here banyan tree's droppin' its fruit."
"That weren't no banyan fruit. That was a baseball!"
Best Place To Get Wasted While Getting Religion
Astor Place Bar & Grill
Sip a flute of Champagne Laurent-Perrier Brut at $15 a pop. Nibble on a stack of silver-dollar wild-mushroom pancakes served with a delicate balsamic vinegar syrup. Sit back in your chair and settle into a happy sunlit Sunday groove. Under the influence of tasty food and effervescent drink, the mind kind of dilates during the Astor's gospel brunch. When Maryel Epps arrives still wearing her choir gown direct from performing at Unity on the Bay, you want her to move you, shake you, take over your spirit and make it soar. It's a decidedly decadent experience. Maryel is jazzing up "Amazing Grace," and you're downing yet another glass of bubbly. Somehow it works. You leave Astor Place feeling a little lighter, transported. Too bad you can only be saved once a week, from noon to 2:30 p.m. on Sunday.
Isaiah Brock, the proprietor of Club New Year's Eve, deserves some kind of medal. He already has the mettle. The self-determined Coconut Grove native has overcome a variety of hardships since opening his classy little cocktail joint in 1993, a few years after ending a 25-year career with the U.S. Air Force. For example Brock has had to deflect the mercurial passions of the area's youths, some of whom wanted the dance floor to feature less R&B and more randy rap. (They once proffered their request by kicking in the front door.) He also has had to encourage middle-age folk to step around those hanging out in front of the club, i.e., the sidewalk, and come inside. But the western stretch of Grand Avenue, which has the proud distinction of being one of the toughest strips in the county, has mellowed over the past year. It has gone from being outright hostile toward outsiders to downright mildly antagonistic. And while the area's microeconomy peps up along with the mood, Brock's little liquor-to-go window next door keeps his enterprise afloat. He also came up with another clever idea: He makes the club available for private gatherings. Ingenious. The bar is long, cocktail prices are low, and the dance floor is ripe for good old-fashioned booty-shaking.
It has been a long time since Miami's blood truly moved to the beat of rock and roll. Most serious touring rockers never seem to make it south of Orlando. Plenty of ink in these pages has been spilled bemoaning this sad situation. The slim pickings have led us in previous years to rightly celebrate the only two real rock and roll clubs in Miami: Tobacco Road and Churchill's Hideaway. The Road won last year, and Churchill's has walked away with the honor five times. So this year we decided to go back to the roots of rock and roll -- the blues -- to find a winner. It's a well-trodden path. There was a time in Eric Clapton's life when he wouldn't talk to people ignorant of the music of Robert Johnson. That's not a problem at Satchmo, a bar that is aware of the past and tries mightily to live up to its revered name. With live blues (and sometimes jazz) filling the room practically every day of the week, this Coral Gables eatery serves red-hot music and whimsically named meals like Hoochie Coochie Primavera in a pleasant setting. So lighten up, Miami, there is no need to sell our souls to the Devil and drive up to the crossroads of Central Florida just yet.
Since opening in April 2000 in downtown Miami, Club Space has lured throngs of South Beach regulars across the causeway. Created from four warehouses, Space, true to its name, offers more than 9000 square feet of dance floor. The door staff -- firm, polite, and unhindered by the essential Beach ego -- remains as cool as the cavernous joint, which stays chilled even when fully packed, thanks to a powerful air-conditioning unit. Developing a reputation for importing internationally known DJ talent for special events, the club hosted the URB magazine/Giant Step party during this year's Winter Music Conference, where Roni Size, the undisputed King of Jungle, kicked his dirty beats for a capacity crowd. A 24-hour liquor license ensures never-ending festivities. This March Space's first neighborhood competitor, Fuel, debuted. Time will tell if downtown has space enough for two.
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