Bars & Clubs

On Saturday nights the microphone stands open until the last poet drops. And what the street wordsmiths throw down is nothing short of a verbal pipe bomb -- homemade and packed with angst, sexual longing, and political rage. Billed as a night of poetry for the strong and conscious soul, this poetry jam often goes until 5:00 a.m., the evening suffused with the sweet smell of incense, vegetarian soul food, and a bazaar of scented oils and artwork for sale. Musicians take the stage between poets, and often improvise in the background during a reading. If you are burning with a message, this would be the place to release it to the universe.

Sometimes the magic is simply in the place. No matter what you call it. No matter how lively Thursday nights get with all those boisterous kids. Fridays and Saturdays after midnight at this little place on the corner of Calle Ocho and SW 22nd Avenue -- with the lights down low and Luis Bofill at the microphone channeling Beny Moré -- today is just like yesterday. All the love you've every felt, all the arms that have ever held you, every kiss still worth remembering comes back to you. Go ahead, slide your hand down his back. Brush your lips across the nape of her neck. Nobody's watching. And if they are, they're smiling.

Your generic Cheers-type bar -- a neighborhood hangout that could be located in Anywhereville, USA -- feels fine most of the time. But when you want a brew at a bar that screams, "Hey, this here's Florida!" there's only one place in Miami: Jimbo's. Which isn't actually a bar. Officially it's a bait shop, tucked away at Shrimpers' Lagoon on Virginia Key. Unofficially it's an authentic time warp, a ramshackle compound of boats and trailers and derelict cars crowded around an assortment of brightly colored shacks (backdrops for fashion shoots), outdoor tables, and as mixed a crowd as you'll find anywhere. It's been there nearly 50 years, which makes it a venerable institution in a place like South Florida. And it's all presided over by the ageless Jim Luznar, easily identified by baseball cap and perpetual stogie. For sale: live bait, smoked fish, and lots of cold beer. For free: a delightfully pleasant menagerie of fisherfolk, models, suit-and-tie businessmen on extremely extended lunch breaks, weekend bikers, and a full range of locals looking to sit by the water, maybe fish a little, watch the wandering chickens, play some bocce on Jimbo's two open-air courts, bask in the warm weather with a brew, chat about this and that with complete strangers, and just be there.

Miami is a late-night kind of place, so it makes more sense for happy hours to begin late. At Fox's little den of iniquity, it's two-for-one on whatever you're drinking (barring the top shelf and imported beer), from 11:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. on Tuesday and Saturday nights. "It's standing-room-only, honey -- a lot of fun," assures the bartender in her smoke-deepened cackle. Fox's is a timeless, crimson-hued twilight zone, the darkened Fifties lounge of beat poets and deadbeats, of those looking for their future ex-wives, of slumming college students and aging hipsters. Slip down low into the deep booths. Enjoy the sounds of the free house jukebox, which admirably covers every era since the place was founded in 1946. Have a drink. Have two. (Fox's also hosts a conventional happy hour from 4:00 to 6:30 p.m. every day.) Hours: 11:00 a.m. to 2:00 a.m., Monday through Saturday; 5:00 p.m. to midnight Sunday. Hungry? Fox's prime-rib special is way cool.

Not everyone is destined for fame and glory, but at this quintessential karaoke club, one can sure as heck pretend. Here the extremely vocally challenged rub shoulders with the karaoke fanatics, and anyone with the nerve to get up on the raised stage in front of the tipsy and boisterous crowd on the dance floor is guaranteed to be rewarded -- with at least a few minutes of fame and a great adrenaline rush. The club boasts over 18,000 songs in several languages (although a manual count has not officially been conducted), which are displayed in a well-lit and less chaotic corner of the bar for serious browsing. And for the musically talented who prefer to keep their mouths shut, the owner/host -- who dresses like Elvis but otherwise keeps a low profile, making his presence known from a dark corner of the bar only via brief spoken interludes -- extends an open invitation to come up and jam on the drums, guitar, or any number of instruments onstage. Everyone may not be created equal, but at least at Studio, everyone is given a shot. Hours of operation are from 10:00 p.m. to 5:00 a.m. Karaoke is available seven days a week. No cover charge.

Meander up and down Washington Avenue on a Saturday night and there's no shortage of clubbing options -- from small and loungy to sprawling and manic. There's even a host of nightspots across the Bay attempting to give South Beach a run for its late-night money. But if you're looking to dance -- period -- crobar remains a sure bet for a sweaty night out. The door policy, while hardly anything-goes, is still relatively relaxed (by Beach standards, at least). Guys, bring a girl, leave the Guido look at home, and you should have little problem clearing the doorstaff. And once you've hurdled the velvet rope, you'll find marquee-name DJs utilizing crobar's top-notch PA to keep the gyrating crowd working it out on the dance floor 'til dawn. Just slide into the middle of it all, tip your head back, and let yourself go. After all, that's why you hit South Beach in the first place, right?

It started in 1946 as a bait shack. Then it began serving fish sandwiches. Then the menu expanded. Then the bait was phased out and a bar added. Today the bar is still there. So is the food. And so is the Old Cracker spirit of the original establishment launched by Anne Gordon. Her late son Mike didn't change much in the many years he ran the place, and his offspring decided to leave well enough alone. Smart. So there it endures, a long memory hunkered down hard by the Intracoastal on the north side of the 79th Street Causeway. To walk inside is to step back in time. The walls of knotty pine. The old photos here and there. The views out over the water. The feeling that you're always welcome here, no matter who you are, what your age, what time of day, what day of the week. Amble up to the bar in the front room, grab a stool, and ponder the possibilities. Martini? Manhattan? Whiskey neat? You could while away hours here watching the sky go from blue to black. People have been doing it for more than half a century.

Tuna's has been described as North Miami-Dade's best-kept secret. Its bar certainly is underappreciated, a neighborhood tavern in a community forced to gather on the neon strip of Biscayne Boulevard. By opening outward onto Maule Lake Marina, Tuna's waterfront views manage to convey some of the beauty that brought so many of us down here in the first place. Tuna's hops to a lively happy hour while the sun sets on boats sailing up the Intracoastal. Late into the night live music inspires dancing both inside and outside on the patio. Couples canoodle in quiet spaces tucked here and there. The restaurant serves fresh fish and stone crabs (in season) to those in search of a good meal. Best of all, the bar stays open until 2:00 a.m., which, in this neck of the woods, is way late. Let the secret escape.

A big, sturdy mahogany bar, handsome wood interiors, and Diana Krall on the sound system lends Jake's a New York ambiance. Or the wide-open space of the place, the booths along one wall, and a pool table can make you think Old Florida. Whatever. Local restaurateur Patrick Gleber -- he also owns Tobacco Road and Fishbone Grille -- says he has tried to create a place where you might stop in for a drink and stay for dinner. The menu offers reasonably priced comfort food -- meat loaf, for example, or a sixteen-ounce strip steak for $11.99. On tap: Bass, Guinness, and Sierra Nevada for about $3.50 a pint, or a dollar less than that during daily happy hour, from 3:00 to 7:00 p.m. On Thursdays a DJ spins jazz, and brunch is served on Sundays.

The Bohemian barrio of Wynwood keeps burgeoning, thanks to the efforts of people like Mario Irusta, who has brought a kind of noir whimsy to the neighborhood with this place. He derived the seemingly random name from an old shopping mall called Ten Last Shoes he happened upon years ago in a one-street town in Nevada. Irusta, who hails from Bolivia, has drawn an eclectic crowd to this popular Honduran hangout by presenting karaoke on Tuesdays and hip instrumental DJ sounds on Fridays. On other days it's a laid-back neo-cantina where the clack of pool balls mixes with the strains of crooner Luis Miguel, salsera Olga Tañon, and rockers Pearl Jam emanating from the jukebox.

This big, often teeming room is a popular oasis for Doral area denizens and has the community feel of a European beer hall. Watch televised sports, play pool and foosball, or heck, talk to your Doralian neighbors (or new acquaintances, since this part of town is ever-more packed with newcomers from South and Central America). The U-shaped bar seems half a kilometer long, which is good because that means ample points of access even during the hustle and bustle of happy hour. The bartenders will rattle off more domestic and import draft beers than you can shake a stick at. And the liquor choices are abundant, right down to the single-malt Scotches. Order from the quality raw bar and you just might make some new friends. Last call is 1:30 a.m. every night.

This veteran steak house may look stiff and formal, and the patrons may appear stuffy and overfed. But if you think that's all there is to this place, then you haven't been downstairs and outside, where an oceanfront bar serves a group of regulars who arrive in shorts and, well, usually leave in them, too. A big destination for South Beach restaurant-industry personnel, here many of the patrons and staff are on a first-name, first-serve basis. Indeed in the best of traditions, this is the kind of neighborhood bar where everybody really does know your name -- and your business -- at least until the third round or so, that is.

It would have been easy to go to South Beach or the Grove with this category, two areas filthy with gin joints and beer halls, all staffed by popular, and always busy, pourers and shakers. But because those who sit and wait also serve, we've decided instead to acknowledge the grunts, those bartenders who are the backbone of South Florida's -- and America's -- saloon industry. Bartenders like Maria Lara, who, day after day, flicks the lights on at the Roof Top Lounge, an eighth-floor hotel bar with a spectacular wraparound view of the Miami and Miami Beach skylines, a pretty little island bar in the middle of the room, and empty chairs. Lots and lots of empty chairs. It's not Maria's fault. The Howard Johnson Hotel in which the bar is located just isn't the kind of place people off the street wander into. Guests are mostly families on vacation or conventioneers with busy schedules. Get the picture? Not exactly the New York City subway at rush hour. But Maria opens the doors most every day at 3:00 p.m. and leaves them open till about 11:00 p.m., later if anybody has a hankering to keep drinking or talking. She mixes a mean Manhattan and, if you ask real nice, she might even let you pop a cassette from your pocket into the house stereo. So to her and to all others like her, we say: Thanks for always leaving a light on.

Restaurateur Joe Allen, who operates dining establishments in Paris, London, New York, Los Angeles, and Miami Beach, knows his way around a bar. In January 1999, nine months after his popular local eatery opened, he told the Herald's Meg Laughlin: "Life is a cruel joke. But less cruel and more of a joke when you're in a good bar." Of course his casually sophisticated Miami Beach outpost is more than just a bar. It's a darn good restaurant too. Which is essential in our reckoning of the best places to find well-made martinis. This is axiomatic: The better the restaurant, the better the martini. In Joe Allen's case, that formula has the added advantage of specific instructions in the preparation of this most stylish and delicate of cocktails. Those instructions come from Mr. Allen's very active partner in the Beach venture, Mario Rubeo, who practically lives at the restaurant, greets every regular by name, and also knows his way around a bar. Here's the Joe Allen/Mario Rubeo secret recipe: Fill a glass shaker to the top with ice. Pour in six ounces of liquor (only heathens ask for anything but top-shelf gin) and no more than a whiff of extra-dry vermouth if requested. Take two long-handled metal spoons and begin mashing the ice, up and down. Do this with gusto for approximately ten seconds. In the process the spoons splinter off chips of ice that melt into the liquor and chill it simultaneously. After ten seconds the ice will be somewhat compacted. Top off the shaker with fresh ice, cover with a strainer, and pour into a chilled cone. The fresh ice provides a second cooling filter for the liquid without diluting it. Bits of the chipped ice will float to the top in a light, crusty sheen. Add the desired garnish and serve immediately. At Joe Allen this splendor in the glass will set you back $9.75 for premium liquor or $7.75 poured from the well.

There are two ways to survive as a tourist-town bar: specialize in one thing or cut loose and try everything. SoBe staple Twist unloads the queer-club crate when delivering its weekly party favors. Be it billiards in the lounge, a variety of DJs handling multiple dance floors, impromptu drag queens, or fresh eye candy, this watering hole is a tropical spa for locals and tourists needing the place to soothe before or after emptying their pockets at the cover-charge clubs. Often peaking around 3:00 a.m., its location is choice for those up to doing the town properly. With great drink specials, a friendly and competent bar staff, more rooms than most know about, and a variety of hired strippers at the Bungalow Bar, Twist is a great turn on the gay-circuit map.

All right, so their Sunday-night lesbian party, Purdy Girl, fizzled. That doesn't mean this funky joint lacks that estrogen-to-estrogen thing. Any Miami lesbian worth her MAC lipstick knows that if she's going to look for a chica, she's gotta deal with bi-girls. And Purdy, with its couches full of adventurous young women, screams Anne Heche. So if you're bored with nesting and want to satisfy a girl's curiosity, check out this lava-lamp lounge. Be assured, young lipstick lesbians, your main competition lies in the grown-up frat boys who don't know nearly as much about women as you do. And if you do get something going with a nice and naughty girl, Frankie and Johnny's, a friendly gay bar, is just around the corner.

Young unemployed hipster, you who've been pink-slipped from that career that promised to shoot you forever upward, there's no need to drink alone. Come to the place that promises skin and sin and delusion with the glow of its pink neon and cheerful surfer murals. The Bikini Bar beckons you into its mirthful malaise, but be aware that anything can happen within its North Beach confines. You may fall in love with one of the gorgeous barmaids who hail from Cali or Caracas. You might comfort a leathery one-eyed Cuban who cries on your shoulder, or you could just as easily duke it out with a sunburned Russian. But don't let the stone-faced macho posturing of this little joint fool you. This is just about the friendliest and most colorful place to enjoy a two-dollar Bud Light, guilt-free, after cashing that unemployment check. Located in the heart of what is known as Little Buenos Aires, you can bet you'll find a scrawny Argentine with hungry eyes to accompany you in a toast to the good old days when you had insurance. And with all the business that goes on in the bar's dark corners, you just may be on the -- ahem -- career track again.

Residents of the nearby neighborhoods hear the unmistakable sound every Thursday night. The vroom, vroom, vroom of motorcycles -- from lightning-fast Japanese models to lumbering Harley-Davidsons -- roaring their way down Bird Road toward, of all places, La Carreta Restaurant. It's there, in the parking lot, that bikers of all ages congregate from 9:00 p.m. until sometimes 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning -- not for drinking or carousing but for socializing. Anybody who rides is welcome. While it's not a club, some members of local motorcycle organizations attend. Begun with two or three enthusiasts around 1996, the group attracts scores of cycling aficionados who talk about everything from parts to politics. Lately the large number of bikes has forced them across the street to an expansive empty parking lot, but if among all the chatting, hunger or thirst happens to strike, satisfaction is just a few steps away.

It's Tuesday. Concert canceled. Need to hear some music. Need a beer. Need to park. Need to park for free. Need to dive into some fries. Need not to be alone. Tobacco Road. It doesn't matter if it's Wednesday or Friday either. There isn't another place in town you can be guaranteed all the above every night -- when that other thing falls through. Whatever the night, you'll likely bump into someone you know. You'll hear rock and Latin and folk. You'll have your choice of outdoor or indoor seating. You'll get a really good hamburger. You'll be fine.

Let's say you've been chasing some official or politician all day and you find yourself dazed on the 79th Street Causeway, and the sun is setting, the sweat is staining your car seat gray, and you just cock your wheel onto the parking lot and crunch onto the gravel. A long, cool vista past the Best Western to a kind of ship motif on the rear wharf. Blond girls with long legs who've flunked the Hooters test but are all the friendlier for it. A thick English pub glass slick with red hot sauce, black pepper, a crunchy green celery stalk, and holy vodka. There's one waitress who'll even crack an egg in there so you won't feel you're just drinking. They won't do that on South Beach.

Mary Klein, wife of Mac Klein, owner of the famed Mac's Club Deuce in South Beach, creates a social atmosphere like an English pub (Piccadilly's dark-wood, ornate interior even looks like a pub). That means you're quickly taken into the group: beauteous, hip Debra Douglas, the legendary former 1800 Club bartender; Karen Oltan, whose wicked humor and leather pants break hearts nightly; Rosie Hayes, the brilliant Kenyan hostess; and Linda Kaehler, the late-night bartender who will serve you beer and cosmopolitans and tell you about Hans Mancuse, the German former owner/cook, whose ghost still haunts the place. "No wind outside, chandelier starts swinging; pan of wrapped lasagna in the kitchen -- one neat square cut out! You switch off the lights, leave, and from outside you see a light go back on. Laugh if you will!" Soon you're part of all of this: smart women, great food, stiff drinks, and theater in a side room starting July 4.

Churchill's has been our winner over and over and over again, and we don't care if the sound system sucks or people get jacked in the parking lot or that the worst imaginable musicians play here as often as they want to. Some of the very best musicians play here too, from psychobilly fiends Southern Culture on the Skids to the rockabilly filly Rosie Flores. They come here for the same reason we do. It's dirty. It's dicey. It's democratic (if that's the word for it). It's owner Dave Daniels. It's chicks wrestling in Jell-O. It's rock and roll.

If it's Friday, it's Cotton Club night at this dive. The joint starts jumping around midnight. A little while later, depending on the number of shouts and stomps, the cozy club is leaping and rolling with the sounds of some of Miami's most accomplished jazz players. Jesse Jones, Jr. -- Liberty City's maestro of bop -- and his combo are the usual anchors, with occasional sets from featured singers. On the barstools old men dance funk to the heated jam sessions. At the tables local musicians and artists swing to the rhythms. If you are aching to taste what jazz might have been like during the Harlem Renaissance, this funky little speakeasy will cook it up. The club is testament to aficionados that bebop and blues are not confined to chrome interiors where the well-heeled listen motionless to the sermon of jazz. The Cotton Club serves its music with homey grit, friendly faces, and a free buffet.

Far removed from the rest of the nation, South Florida has always had difficulty attracting major musical acts in every genre, but these days the folks who play folk seem to flock here. At Homestead's Main Street Café, each Thursday is folk night. For the past year the eatery's Up-Close and Personal Concert Series has presented a relaxed evening of new or traditional music featuring folkies from in and around the area, as well as national artists traveling on the circuit. For a reasonable cover charge ranging from $10 to $15 (really big acts command $25), you can take in the congenial setting and enjoy the likes of Melanie, Jack Williams, Janis Ian, Annie Wenz, Roger Sprung, and Hal Wylie. Who would have guessed a short journey south could pack such ear-pleasing benefits.

Tom's is a low-key, friendly place to watch the game. Just about any game is usually playing on one of the bar's several well-placed televisions, although they favor the all-American triumvirate: football, basketball, and baseball. But if you are a golf or soccer nut and a good tipper, the bartender can usually be talked into switching to whatever obscure match you're interested in. Plus there are three pool tables, space for darts, bar tables, and several cushy booths for those who want to partake of the food. The clientele is a mix of regulars and travelers passing through to the airport, visible across the street. Tom's is open 11:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m. every day.

Although Spirit doesn't host Haitian parties every evening, this little nightclub on the west side of the airport sizzles and sweats most Friday and Saturday nights to the sounds of compas. The club is so well-known among Haitian promoters that it regularly books traveling acts like T-Vice, Sweet Micky, and Kreyol Kompas. Sometimes, around 5:00 a.m., as young Miami Haitians dance and sing and animatedly pump their arms, it seems as if the party will never end.

Saturday nights, when his cozy parrillada is just about full, Jorge "Papa Gallo" Sanchez, the Uruguayan owner of Zuperpollo, wedges his burly frame from behind the cash register and onto the restaurant's tiny stage. A big man with a giant personality, Sanchez easily dominates the room when he takes the mike and treats his guests to dramatic interpretations of tangos and folk songs from the pampas and the Rio de la Plata basin. His hearty vibrato easily overtakes the busy flow of waiters and loud conversations beneath the chintzy trellis. The songs are complex enough, with Sanchez hitting all the emotional nuances of the melancholy tunes, that one is glad to let go of dinner conversation to listen. But if you must talk, get there early -- otherwise you will be seated at a table in the middle of the room, and you'll have no choice but to participate in the best place to hear tango.

¡Coño! Two weeks before press time the damn club closes. Maybe we should have given it this award last year. Here's what we were going to say about Nostalgia: We've been holding out, waiting for the floor to get a little scruffy, the walls to get smoky, the barkeeps worn down, but Little Havana this will never be. Pepe Horta's club packs as much glamorama as it did when it first opened more than two years ago in its swanky, next-to-the-Forge digs. But we can't deny it any longer: This is the best place to find the best in Latin music and, best of all, to find it live. Once upon a time the house band Grupo Nostalgia alone was enough to justify a visit. Lately though the place has taken to hosting such a wide variety of acts that the only thing the artists crossing Nostalgia's stage have in common is quality and swing. Brand-new talent like the band Yenyere has found a home here, as have weary wanderers like Manolín. Peruvian crooner Gian Marco kicked off his U.S. career here and Cuban troubadour Amaury Gutierrez is a frequent visitor. Latin rock has its place, whether it's skanking hard like Argentina's La Mosca or waxing lyrical like Miami's own Bacilos. And we have to admit, the setting could not be more fitting for breathtaking performances by such monsters of jazz as Paquito D'Rivera or for the elegant retro turn of Federico Britos's recently formed Danzon by Six. To say nothing of giving shelter to the Songwriters-in-the-Round monthly showcase. We might just have to get used to all the glitz.

For years Edgar V. has played the gracious host and properly set the turntables for many guest DJs claiming to be superstars. He's done it so well, in fact, that certifiable star Paul Van Dyk doesn't want anyone else opening for him. But now Edgar is proving he's ready to deliver the main course. He's patented a wax recipe for melting together the soaring anthems of Europe with the break beats of the States to form an edgy but smooth high-energy vibe that always shakes Miami's club floors. His two Trancemissions compilations effectively condense his stylishly acclaimed sets into bite-size dance gems. But to truly appreciate this rising DJ's dish, you have to experience him live. After great gigs at Space and Billboardlive, Edgar now spins at Liquid as the prestigious Saturday-night resident.

If you're a certain age it does your heart good to snarl, "Nine ball off the five in the side pocket!" and then crack the stick while young loons like the Laundry Room Squelchers or Dolly Rocket are ululating in the background, and the Youth Attitude crowd is teetering around the room in their six-inch, winkle-picker-heeled boots. Even when these kids shoot straight pool they drape themselves over the table languorously, style über alles, and invariably scratch, or make slacker shots, giggling like Rhesus monkeys. Being good at something -- singing, playing guitar, tending bar, shooting pool -- is retro and out. It registers as rehash from the wrong side of the hill. So it's fun to run the table and then ask the bartendress if you can have some quarters to play "Under My Thumb." Makes you feel like Brian Jones again.

Since the dawn of time, models have been in love with fur-covered chairs. Especially orange-red fur. That's one reason they flock to Pearl, located in deep-south South Beach. Designer Stephane Dupoux, a native of France, must have known about this mysterious phenomenon, for he placed such shaggy furniture around the purple-and-red neon aura of the second-floor bar of what was once Penrod's. Dupoux was also not clueless about the fact that models migrate toward retro-futuristic lounges that are luminescent orange and have curvaceous bars and extra-large white leather sofas. Who can explain this curiously magnetic attraction? Probably no one, but what matters is that it really exists. Proprietor Jack Penrod -- who reportedly shelled out $1.2 million for the makeover of his faded old cheeseburger and piña colada joint -- can vouch for it. But you, Monsieur Voyeur, only have to pay one one-hundred-thousandth of that ($12) for a dose of the bubbly. Go ahead, try your best to buy one of these exotic creatures a glass. (Or try tempting them with a bottle, which range in price from $100 to $3000.) But first you must penetrate the compound, which also houses the voyeur-friendly, open-air Nikki Beach Club. Tip for males who are not models and who are not tight with Mr. Penrod's promotional partners, Tommy Pooch and Eric Omores: Dress distinctively, think creatively, and you might pass muster at the velvet rope. Otherwise you'll have to settle for the scanned snapshots accessible online at www.vbcstudios.com/clients/ pearl.shtml.

The meager buck you have to kill between bands won't buy a beer. Pinball and Ms. Pac-Man wreak havoc with your sore shoulder. No patience for the pool table; you've already poked one too many a sloshed patron with your cue tonight. What's left? A couple of songs on the jukebox. The Rolling Stones, the Beatles, Al Green, Nirvana, the Who, even Sammy Davis, Jr. and Sinatra are all there. But it's discs by active and retired local musicians -- who graced Churchill's stage many a time -- that offer a much-needed education to those unschooled in the Miami scene of yore. An eponymous pre-major-label album by this city's onetime country girl, Mary Karlzen, waits to be taken for a spin. The now-dissolved Goods' mock-rock opera Five Steps to Being Signed continues to thumb its nose at the music industry. The best sampler of past glory, though, can be heard on the 1993 compilations Music Generated by Geographical Seclusion and Beer and Sun Brewed Action Music. Recorded in this very club, they offer a showcase for old-timers such as Charlie Pickett, Kreamy 'Lectric Santa, I Don't Know, Quit, Holy Terrors, and the Chant. Sure a dollar doesn't go very far anymore, but for a few good songs from the good old days? That's a sound investment.

It's saying something that the best night out in Miami unfolds far from the clogged swath of Washington Avenue's clubland. Forget about velvet ropes, overpriced drinks, canned beats, and -- most of all -- the kind of preening folks you've been trying to avoid since high school. In fact forget about South Beach altogether. Instead hit the causeways in reverse and head for the heart of Little Havana. There, at Hoy Como Ayer (formerly the hallowed ground of Café Nostalgia), owners Fabio Diaz and Eduardo Llama turn Thursdays over to the Ministry of Culture -- the duo of Erik Fabregat and Ralph de Portilla -- and their Fuácata party. Inside, the Spam Allstars regularly throw down a sweaty jam of funky turntablism and percussive salsa for a refreshingly diverse crowd that's much too concerned with dancing and simply soaking up the vibe to worry about posing. And really, isn't that the whole point of clubbing in the first place?

Yes, you can walk into a bar in New York or Los Angeles and order a mojito. The bartender will probably know what you're asking for and might even try to make you one. But only Miami can truly claim the mojito as its own. For local Cubans the drink (whose exact origins are difficult to pinpoint but nonetheless are undeniably Cuban) is a taste of home and an historical symbol, less a fashionable trend than a cultural fixture. For young Miami carousers, regardless of origin, it has become a popular cocktail that offers a more refreshing and refined alternative to rum's other "tropical" siblings such as piña coladas and daiquiris. Miami bartenders know you can't compromise on the recipe: crushed ice, rum, fresh-squeezed lime juice, white sugar, fresh yerbabuena, and a splash of soda water must be combined in just the right proportions. Just any sprig of mint won't do; it must be yerbabuena, crushed by hand to release its essence. Bartenders of all stripes take pride in preparing their special versions and competing for ownership of the perfect mojito. But this is Miami. Best leave the mojitos to the Cubans.

This venerable establishment, located on the east bank of the Intracoastal under the bridge that carries NE 163rd Street over the water, might appear at first glance to be more Jersey Turnpike than old Miami. But don't be fooled. The Lagoon, a combination marina/restaurant, has been open for business since the Thirties, when goodfellas like Al Capone used to drop in for a nightcap on their way home from an evening of nightclubbing, illegal gambling, or maybe just whacking some guy. The times, the clientele, and the drink menu have all changed since then but the aura, like the old-fashioned knotty-pine décor, remains. Don't believe us? Drop in one evening and order a house specialty. One of the high-octane, tiki concoctions (we recommend the Suffering Bastard, so named because if you didn't feel that way before you ordered it, you will after you drink it). Then step out onto the Lagoon's waterfront deck. Take a look around. Dark. Quiet. Secluded. You'll almost wish you had a body to hide.

Granted, you might not want to be sitting in one of the two VIP lounges upstairs at Rumi until the restaurant does its reverse-Cinderella act. At 11:30 p.m. or thereabouts the Murphy bed that plops down in the downstairs dining room signifies the transition from restaurant to club. At that point, if you want a table, a champagne purchase is requisite. So you may as well bluff, or genuinely be allowed to venture upstairs, where the view is much better, especially if there happens to be a woman in a low-cut dress designed by her plastic surgeon standing beneath you -- and there always is such a woman. So what exactly are the perks? The usual assortment of models, celebrities, and others who have been seriously favored by Mother Nature, along with the paparazzi and other members of the media who, generally speaking, haven't been so generously favored. In addition there'll be quicker service and the goodwill that comes from folks who not only know they've been invited to the party, they believe they're first on the list.

Sometimes the magic is simply in the place. No matter what you call it. No matter how lively Thursday nights get with all those boisterous kids. Fridays and Saturdays after midnight at this little place on the corner of Calle Ocho and SW 22nd Avenue -- with the lights down low and Luis Bofill at the microphone channeling Beny Moré -- today is just like yesterday. All the love you've every felt, all the arms that have ever held you, every kiss still worth remembering comes back to you. Go ahead, slide your hand down his back. Brush your lips across the nape of her neck. Nobody's watching. And if they are, they're smiling.

Your generic Cheers-type bar -- a neighborhood hangout that could be located in Anywhereville, USA -- feels fine most of the time. But when you want a brew at a bar that screams, "Hey, this here's Florida!" there's only one place in Miami: Jimbo's. Which isn't actually a bar. Officially it's a bait shop, tucked away at Shrimpers' Lagoon on Virginia Key. Unofficially it's an authentic time warp, a ramshackle compound of boats and trailers and derelict cars crowded around an assortment of brightly colored shacks (backdrops for fashion shoots), outdoor tables, and as mixed a crowd as you'll find anywhere. It's been there nearly 50 years, which makes it a venerable institution in a place like South Florida. And it's all presided over by the ageless Jim Luznar, easily identified by baseball cap and perpetual stogie. For sale: live bait, smoked fish, and lots of cold beer. For free: a delightfully pleasant menagerie of fisherfolk, models, suit-and-tie businessmen on extremely extended lunch breaks, weekend bikers, and a full range of locals looking to sit by the water, maybe fish a little, watch the wandering chickens, play some bocce on Jimbo's two open-air courts, bask in the warm weather with a brew, chat about this and that with complete strangers, and just be there.

Miami is a late-night kind of place, so it makes more sense for happy hours to begin late. At Fox's little den of iniquity, it's two-for-one on whatever you're drinking (barring the top shelf and imported beer), from 11:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. on Tuesday and Saturday nights. "It's standing-room-only, honey -- a lot of fun," assures the bartender in her smoke-deepened cackle. Fox's is a timeless, crimson-hued twilight zone, the darkened Fifties lounge of beat poets and deadbeats, of those looking for their future ex-wives, of slumming college students and aging hipsters. Slip down low into the deep booths. Enjoy the sounds of the free house jukebox, which admirably covers every era since the place was founded in 1946. Have a drink. Have two. (Fox's also hosts a conventional happy hour from 4:00 to 6:30 p.m. every day.) Hours: 11:00 a.m. to 2:00 a.m., Monday through Saturday; 5:00 p.m. to midnight Sunday. Hungry? Fox's prime-rib special is way cool.

Not everyone is destined for fame and glory, but at this quintessential karaoke club, one can sure as heck pretend. Here the extremely vocally challenged rub shoulders with the karaoke fanatics, and anyone with the nerve to get up on the raised stage in front of the tipsy and boisterous crowd on the dance floor is guaranteed to be rewarded -- with at least a few minutes of fame and a great adrenaline rush. The club boasts over 18,000 songs in several languages (although a manual count has not officially been conducted), which are displayed in a well-lit and less chaotic corner of the bar for serious browsing. And for the musically talented who prefer to keep their mouths shut, the owner/host -- who dresses like Elvis but otherwise keeps a low profile, making his presence known from a dark corner of the bar only via brief spoken interludes -- extends an open invitation to come up and jam on the drums, guitar, or any number of instruments onstage. Everyone may not be created equal, but at least at Studio, everyone is given a shot. Hours of operation are from 10:00 p.m. to 5:00 a.m. Karaoke is available seven days a week. No cover charge.

Meander up and down Washington Avenue on a Saturday night and there's no shortage of clubbing options -- from small and loungy to sprawling and manic. There's even a host of nightspots across the Bay attempting to give South Beach a run for its late-night money. But if you're looking to dance -- period -- crobar remains a sure bet for a sweaty night out. The door policy, while hardly anything-goes, is still relatively relaxed (by Beach standards, at least). Guys, bring a girl, leave the Guido look at home, and you should have little problem clearing the doorstaff. And once you've hurdled the velvet rope, you'll find marquee-name DJs utilizing crobar's top-notch PA to keep the gyrating crowd working it out on the dance floor 'til dawn. Just slide into the middle of it all, tip your head back, and let yourself go. After all, that's why you hit South Beach in the first place, right?

It started in 1946 as a bait shack. Then it began serving fish sandwiches. Then the menu expanded. Then the bait was phased out and a bar added. Today the bar is still there. So is the food. And so is the Old Cracker spirit of the original establishment launched by Anne Gordon. Her late son Mike didn't change much in the many years he ran the place, and his offspring decided to leave well enough alone. Smart. So there it endures, a long memory hunkered down hard by the Intracoastal on the north side of the 79th Street Causeway. To walk inside is to step back in time. The walls of knotty pine. The old photos here and there. The views out over the water. The feeling that you're always welcome here, no matter who you are, what your age, what time of day, what day of the week. Amble up to the bar in the front room, grab a stool, and ponder the possibilities. Martini? Manhattan? Whiskey neat? You could while away hours here watching the sky go from blue to black. People have been doing it for more than half a century.

Tuna's has been described as North Miami-Dade's best-kept secret. Its bar certainly is underappreciated, a neighborhood tavern in a community forced to gather on the neon strip of Biscayne Boulevard. By opening outward onto Maule Lake Marina, Tuna's waterfront views manage to convey some of the beauty that brought so many of us down here in the first place. Tuna's hops to a lively happy hour while the sun sets on boats sailing up the Intracoastal. Late into the night live music inspires dancing both inside and outside on the patio. Couples canoodle in quiet spaces tucked here and there. The restaurant serves fresh fish and stone crabs (in season) to those in search of a good meal. Best of all, the bar stays open until 2:00 a.m., which, in this neck of the woods, is way late. Let the secret escape.

A big, sturdy mahogany bar, handsome wood interiors, and Diana Krall on the sound system lends Jake's a New York ambiance. Or the wide-open space of the place, the booths along one wall, and a pool table can make you think Old Florida. Whatever. Local restaurateur Patrick Gleber -- he also owns Tobacco Road and Fishbone Grille -- says he has tried to create a place where you might stop in for a drink and stay for dinner. The menu offers reasonably priced comfort food -- meat loaf, for example, or a sixteen-ounce strip steak for $11.99. On tap: Bass, Guinness, and Sierra Nevada for about $3.50 a pint, or a dollar less than that during daily happy hour, from 3:00 to 7:00 p.m. On Thursdays a DJ spins jazz, and brunch is served on Sundays.

The Bohemian barrio of Wynwood keeps burgeoning, thanks to the efforts of people like Mario Irusta, who has brought a kind of noir whimsy to the neighborhood with this place. He derived the seemingly random name from an old shopping mall called Ten Last Shoes he happened upon years ago in a one-street town in Nevada. Irusta, who hails from Bolivia, has drawn an eclectic crowd to this popular Honduran hangout by presenting karaoke on Tuesdays and hip instrumental DJ sounds on Fridays. On other days it's a laid-back neo-cantina where the clack of pool balls mixes with the strains of crooner Luis Miguel, salsera Olga Tañon, and rockers Pearl Jam emanating from the jukebox.

This big, often teeming room is a popular oasis for Doral area denizens and has the community feel of a European beer hall. Watch televised sports, play pool and foosball, or heck, talk to your Doralian neighbors (or new acquaintances, since this part of town is ever-more packed with newcomers from South and Central America). The U-shaped bar seems half a kilometer long, which is good because that means ample points of access even during the hustle and bustle of happy hour. The bartenders will rattle off more domestic and import draft beers than you can shake a stick at. And the liquor choices are abundant, right down to the single-malt Scotches. Order from the quality raw bar and you just might make some new friends. Last call is 1:30 a.m. every night.

This veteran steak house may look stiff and formal, and the patrons may appear stuffy and overfed. But if you think that's all there is to this place, then you haven't been downstairs and outside, where an oceanfront bar serves a group of regulars who arrive in shorts and, well, usually leave in them, too. A big destination for South Beach restaurant-industry personnel, here many of the patrons and staff are on a first-name, first-serve basis. Indeed in the best of traditions, this is the kind of neighborhood bar where everybody really does know your name -- and your business -- at least until the third round or so, that is.

It would have been easy to go to South Beach or the Grove with this category, two areas filthy with gin joints and beer halls, all staffed by popular, and always busy, pourers and shakers. But because those who sit and wait also serve, we've decided instead to acknowledge the grunts, those bartenders who are the backbone of South Florida's -- and America's -- saloon industry. Bartenders like Maria Lara, who, day after day, flicks the lights on at the Roof Top Lounge, an eighth-floor hotel bar with a spectacular wraparound view of the Miami and Miami Beach skylines, a pretty little island bar in the middle of the room, and empty chairs. Lots and lots of empty chairs. It's not Maria's fault. The Howard Johnson Hotel in which the bar is located just isn't the kind of place people off the street wander into. Guests are mostly families on vacation or conventioneers with busy schedules. Get the picture? Not exactly the New York City subway at rush hour. But Maria opens the doors most every day at 3:00 p.m. and leaves them open till about 11:00 p.m., later if anybody has a hankering to keep drinking or talking. She mixes a mean Manhattan and, if you ask real nice, she might even let you pop a cassette from your pocket into the house stereo. So to her and to all others like her, we say: Thanks for always leaving a light on.

Restaurateur Joe Allen, who operates dining establishments in Paris, London, New York, Los Angeles, and Miami Beach, knows his way around a bar. In January 1999, nine months after his popular local eatery opened, he told the Herald's Meg Laughlin: "Life is a cruel joke. But less cruel and more of a joke when you're in a good bar." Of course his casually sophisticated Miami Beach outpost is more than just a bar. It's a darn good restaurant too. Which is essential in our reckoning of the best places to find well-made martinis. This is axiomatic: The better the restaurant, the better the martini. In Joe Allen's case, that formula has the added advantage of specific instructions in the preparation of this most stylish and delicate of cocktails. Those instructions come from Mr. Allen's very active partner in the Beach venture, Mario Rubeo, who practically lives at the restaurant, greets every regular by name, and also knows his way around a bar. Here's the Joe Allen/Mario Rubeo secret recipe: Fill a glass shaker to the top with ice. Pour in six ounces of liquor (only heathens ask for anything but top-shelf gin) and no more than a whiff of extra-dry vermouth if requested. Take two long-handled metal spoons and begin mashing the ice, up and down. Do this with gusto for approximately ten seconds. In the process the spoons splinter off chips of ice that melt into the liquor and chill it simultaneously. After ten seconds the ice will be somewhat compacted. Top off the shaker with fresh ice, cover with a strainer, and pour into a chilled cone. The fresh ice provides a second cooling filter for the liquid without diluting it. Bits of the chipped ice will float to the top in a light, crusty sheen. Add the desired garnish and serve immediately. At Joe Allen this splendor in the glass will set you back $9.75 for premium liquor or $7.75 poured from the well.

There are two ways to survive as a tourist-town bar: specialize in one thing or cut loose and try everything. SoBe staple Twist unloads the queer-club crate when delivering its weekly party favors. Be it billiards in the lounge, a variety of DJs handling multiple dance floors, impromptu drag queens, or fresh eye candy, this watering hole is a tropical spa for locals and tourists needing the place to soothe before or after emptying their pockets at the cover-charge clubs. Often peaking around 3:00 a.m., its location is choice for those up to doing the town properly. With great drink specials, a friendly and competent bar staff, more rooms than most know about, and a variety of hired strippers at the Bungalow Bar, Twist is a great turn on the gay-circuit map.

All right, so their Sunday-night lesbian party, Purdy Girl, fizzled. That doesn't mean this funky joint lacks that estrogen-to-estrogen thing. Any Miami lesbian worth her MAC lipstick knows that if she's going to look for a chica, she's gotta deal with bi-girls. And Purdy, with its couches full of adventurous young women, screams Anne Heche. So if you're bored with nesting and want to satisfy a girl's curiosity, check out this lava-lamp lounge. Be assured, young lipstick lesbians, your main competition lies in the grown-up frat boys who don't know nearly as much about women as you do. And if you do get something going with a nice and naughty girl, Frankie and Johnny's, a friendly gay bar, is just around the corner.

Young unemployed hipster, you who've been pink-slipped from that career that promised to shoot you forever upward, there's no need to drink alone. Come to the place that promises skin and sin and delusion with the glow of its pink neon and cheerful surfer murals. The Bikini Bar beckons you into its mirthful malaise, but be aware that anything can happen within its North Beach confines. You may fall in love with one of the gorgeous barmaids who hail from Cali or Caracas. You might comfort a leathery one-eyed Cuban who cries on your shoulder, or you could just as easily duke it out with a sunburned Russian. But don't let the stone-faced macho posturing of this little joint fool you. This is just about the friendliest and most colorful place to enjoy a two-dollar Bud Light, guilt-free, after cashing that unemployment check. Located in the heart of what is known as Little Buenos Aires, you can bet you'll find a scrawny Argentine with hungry eyes to accompany you in a toast to the good old days when you had insurance. And with all the business that goes on in the bar's dark corners, you just may be on the -- ahem -- career track again.

Residents of the nearby neighborhoods hear the unmistakable sound every Thursday night. The vroom, vroom, vroom of motorcycles -- from lightning-fast Japanese models to lumbering Harley-Davidsons -- roaring their way down Bird Road toward, of all places, La Carreta Restaurant. It's there, in the parking lot, that bikers of all ages congregate from 9:00 p.m. until sometimes 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning -- not for drinking or carousing but for socializing. Anybody who rides is welcome. While it's not a club, some members of local motorcycle organizations attend. Begun with two or three enthusiasts around 1996, the group attracts scores of cycling aficionados who talk about everything from parts to politics. Lately the large number of bikes has forced them across the street to an expansive empty parking lot, but if among all the chatting, hunger or thirst happens to strike, satisfaction is just a few steps away.

It's Tuesday. Concert canceled. Need to hear some music. Need a beer. Need to park. Need to park for free. Need to dive into some fries. Need not to be alone. Tobacco Road. It doesn't matter if it's Wednesday or Friday either. There isn't another place in town you can be guaranteed all the above every night -- when that other thing falls through. Whatever the night, you'll likely bump into someone you know. You'll hear rock and Latin and folk. You'll have your choice of outdoor or indoor seating. You'll get a really good hamburger. You'll be fine.

Let's say you've been chasing some official or politician all day and you find yourself dazed on the 79th Street Causeway, and the sun is setting, the sweat is staining your car seat gray, and you just cock your wheel onto the parking lot and crunch onto the gravel. A long, cool vista past the Best Western to a kind of ship motif on the rear wharf. Blond girls with long legs who've flunked the Hooters test but are all the friendlier for it. A thick English pub glass slick with red hot sauce, black pepper, a crunchy green celery stalk, and holy vodka. There's one waitress who'll even crack an egg in there so you won't feel you're just drinking. They won't do that on South Beach.

On Saturday nights the microphone stands open until the last poet drops. And what the street wordsmiths throw down is nothing short of a verbal pipe bomb -- homemade and packed with angst, sexual longing, and political rage. Billed as a night of poetry for the strong and conscious soul, this poetry jam often goes until 5:00 a.m., the evening suffused with the sweet smell of incense, vegetarian soul food, and a bazaar of scented oils and artwork for sale. Musicians take the stage between poets, and often improvise in the background during a reading. If you are burning with a message, this would be the place to release it to the universe.

Mary Klein, wife of Mac Klein, owner of the famed Mac's Club Deuce in South Beach, creates a social atmosphere like an English pub (Piccadilly's dark-wood, ornate interior even looks like a pub). That means you're quickly taken into the group: beauteous, hip Debra Douglas, the legendary former 1800 Club bartender; Karen Oltan, whose wicked humor and leather pants break hearts nightly; Rosie Hayes, the brilliant Kenyan hostess; and Linda Kaehler, the late-night bartender who will serve you beer and cosmopolitans and tell you about Hans Mancuse, the German former owner/cook, whose ghost still haunts the place. "No wind outside, chandelier starts swinging; pan of wrapped lasagna in the kitchen -- one neat square cut out! You switch off the lights, leave, and from outside you see a light go back on. Laugh if you will!" Soon you're part of all of this: smart women, great food, stiff drinks, and theater in a side room starting July 4.

Churchill's has been our winner over and over and over again, and we don't care if the sound system sucks or people get jacked in the parking lot or that the worst imaginable musicians play here as often as they want to. Some of the very best musicians play here too, from psychobilly fiends Southern Culture on the Skids to the rockabilly filly Rosie Flores. They come here for the same reason we do. It's dirty. It's dicey. It's democratic (if that's the word for it). It's owner Dave Daniels. It's chicks wrestling in Jell-O. It's rock and roll.

If it's Friday, it's Cotton Club night at this dive. The joint starts jumping around midnight. A little while later, depending on the number of shouts and stomps, the cozy club is leaping and rolling with the sounds of some of Miami's most accomplished jazz players. Jesse Jones, Jr. -- Liberty City's maestro of bop -- and his combo are the usual anchors, with occasional sets from featured singers. On the barstools old men dance funk to the heated jam sessions. At the tables local musicians and artists swing to the rhythms. If you are aching to taste what jazz might have been like during the Harlem Renaissance, this funky little speakeasy will cook it up. The club is testament to aficionados that bebop and blues are not confined to chrome interiors where the well-heeled listen motionless to the sermon of jazz. The Cotton Club serves its music with homey grit, friendly faces, and a free buffet.

Far removed from the rest of the nation, South Florida has always had difficulty attracting major musical acts in every genre, but these days the folks who play folk seem to flock here. At Homestead's Main Street Café, each Thursday is folk night. For the past year the eatery's Up-Close and Personal Concert Series has presented a relaxed evening of new or traditional music featuring folkies from in and around the area, as well as national artists traveling on the circuit. For a reasonable cover charge ranging from $10 to $15 (really big acts command $25), you can take in the congenial setting and enjoy the likes of Melanie, Jack Williams, Janis Ian, Annie Wenz, Roger Sprung, and Hal Wylie. Who would have guessed a short journey south could pack such ear-pleasing benefits.

Tom's is a low-key, friendly place to watch the game. Just about any game is usually playing on one of the bar's several well-placed televisions, although they favor the all-American triumvirate: football, basketball, and baseball. But if you are a golf or soccer nut and a good tipper, the bartender can usually be talked into switching to whatever obscure match you're interested in. Plus there are three pool tables, space for darts, bar tables, and several cushy booths for those who want to partake of the food. The clientele is a mix of regulars and travelers passing through to the airport, visible across the street. Tom's is open 11:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m. every day.

Although Spirit doesn't host Haitian parties every evening, this little nightclub on the west side of the airport sizzles and sweats most Friday and Saturday nights to the sounds of compas. The club is so well-known among Haitian promoters that it regularly books traveling acts like T-Vice, Sweet Micky, and Kreyol Kompas. Sometimes, around 5:00 a.m., as young Miami Haitians dance and sing and animatedly pump their arms, it seems as if the party will never end.

Saturday nights, when his cozy parrillada is just about full, Jorge "Papa Gallo" Sanchez, the Uruguayan owner of Zuperpollo, wedges his burly frame from behind the cash register and onto the restaurant's tiny stage. A big man with a giant personality, Sanchez easily dominates the room when he takes the mike and treats his guests to dramatic interpretations of tangos and folk songs from the pampas and the Rio de la Plata basin. His hearty vibrato easily overtakes the busy flow of waiters and loud conversations beneath the chintzy trellis. The songs are complex enough, with Sanchez hitting all the emotional nuances of the melancholy tunes, that one is glad to let go of dinner conversation to listen. But if you must talk, get there early -- otherwise you will be seated at a table in the middle of the room, and you'll have no choice but to participate in the best place to hear tango.

¡Coño! Two weeks before press time the damn club closes. Maybe we should have given it this award last year. Here's what we were going to say about Nostalgia: We've been holding out, waiting for the floor to get a little scruffy, the walls to get smoky, the barkeeps worn down, but Little Havana this will never be. Pepe Horta's club packs as much glamorama as it did when it first opened more than two years ago in its swanky, next-to-the-Forge digs. But we can't deny it any longer: This is the best place to find the best in Latin music and, best of all, to find it live. Once upon a time the house band Grupo Nostalgia alone was enough to justify a visit. Lately though the place has taken to hosting such a wide variety of acts that the only thing the artists crossing Nostalgia's stage have in common is quality and swing. Brand-new talent like the band Yenyere has found a home here, as have weary wanderers like Manolín. Peruvian crooner Gian Marco kicked off his U.S. career here and Cuban troubadour Amaury Gutierrez is a frequent visitor. Latin rock has its place, whether it's skanking hard like Argentina's La Mosca or waxing lyrical like Miami's own Bacilos. And we have to admit, the setting could not be more fitting for breathtaking performances by such monsters of jazz as Paquito D'Rivera or for the elegant retro turn of Federico Britos's recently formed Danzon by Six. To say nothing of giving shelter to the Songwriters-in-the-Round monthly showcase. We might just have to get used to all the glitz.

For years Edgar V. has played the gracious host and properly set the turntables for many guest DJs claiming to be superstars. He's done it so well, in fact, that certifiable star Paul Van Dyk doesn't want anyone else opening for him. But now Edgar is proving he's ready to deliver the main course. He's patented a wax recipe for melting together the soaring anthems of Europe with the break beats of the States to form an edgy but smooth high-energy vibe that always shakes Miami's club floors. His two Trancemissions compilations effectively condense his stylishly acclaimed sets into bite-size dance gems. But to truly appreciate this rising DJ's dish, you have to experience him live. After great gigs at Space and Billboardlive, Edgar now spins at Liquid as the prestigious Saturday-night resident.

If you're a certain age it does your heart good to snarl, "Nine ball off the five in the side pocket!" and then crack the stick while young loons like the Laundry Room Squelchers or Dolly Rocket are ululating in the background, and the Youth Attitude crowd is teetering around the room in their six-inch, winkle-picker-heeled boots. Even when these kids shoot straight pool they drape themselves over the table languorously, style über alles, and invariably scratch, or make slacker shots, giggling like Rhesus monkeys. Being good at something -- singing, playing guitar, tending bar, shooting pool -- is retro and out. It registers as rehash from the wrong side of the hill. So it's fun to run the table and then ask the bartendress if you can have some quarters to play "Under My Thumb." Makes you feel like Brian Jones again.

Since the dawn of time, models have been in love with fur-covered chairs. Especially orange-red fur. That's one reason they flock to Pearl, located in deep-south South Beach. Designer Stephane Dupoux, a native of France, must have known about this mysterious phenomenon, for he placed such shaggy furniture around the purple-and-red neon aura of the second-floor bar of what was once Penrod's. Dupoux was also not clueless about the fact that models migrate toward retro-futuristic lounges that are luminescent orange and have curvaceous bars and extra-large white leather sofas. Who can explain this curiously magnetic attraction? Probably no one, but what matters is that it really exists. Proprietor Jack Penrod -- who reportedly shelled out $1.2 million for the makeover of his faded old cheeseburger and piña colada joint -- can vouch for it. But you, Monsieur Voyeur, only have to pay one one-hundred-thousandth of that ($12) for a dose of the bubbly. Go ahead, try your best to buy one of these exotic creatures a glass. (Or try tempting them with a bottle, which range in price from $100 to $3000.) But first you must penetrate the compound, which also houses the voyeur-friendly, open-air Nikki Beach Club. Tip for males who are not models and who are not tight with Mr. Penrod's promotional partners, Tommy Pooch and Eric Omores: Dress distinctively, think creatively, and you might pass muster at the velvet rope. Otherwise you'll have to settle for the scanned snapshots accessible online at www.vbcstudios.com/clients/ pearl.shtml.

The meager buck you have to kill between bands won't buy a beer. Pinball and Ms. Pac-Man wreak havoc with your sore shoulder. No patience for the pool table; you've already poked one too many a sloshed patron with your cue tonight. What's left? A couple of songs on the jukebox. The Rolling Stones, the Beatles, Al Green, Nirvana, the Who, even Sammy Davis, Jr. and Sinatra are all there. But it's discs by active and retired local musicians -- who graced Churchill's stage many a time -- that offer a much-needed education to those unschooled in the Miami scene of yore. An eponymous pre-major-label album by this city's onetime country girl, Mary Karlzen, waits to be taken for a spin. The now-dissolved Goods' mock-rock opera Five Steps to Being Signed continues to thumb its nose at the music industry. The best sampler of past glory, though, can be heard on the 1993 compilations Music Generated by Geographical Seclusion and Beer and Sun Brewed Action Music. Recorded in this very club, they offer a showcase for old-timers such as Charlie Pickett, Kreamy 'Lectric Santa, I Don't Know, Quit, Holy Terrors, and the Chant. Sure a dollar doesn't go very far anymore, but for a few good songs from the good old days? That's a sound investment.

It's saying something that the best night out in Miami unfolds far from the clogged swath of Washington Avenue's clubland. Forget about velvet ropes, overpriced drinks, canned beats, and -- most of all -- the kind of preening folks you've been trying to avoid since high school. In fact forget about South Beach altogether. Instead hit the causeways in reverse and head for the heart of Little Havana. There, at Hoy Como Ayer (formerly the hallowed ground of Café Nostalgia), owners Fabio Diaz and Eduardo Llama turn Thursdays over to the Ministry of Culture -- the duo of Erik Fabregat and Ralph de Portilla -- and their Fuácata party. Inside, the Spam Allstars regularly throw down a sweaty jam of funky turntablism and percussive salsa for a refreshingly diverse crowd that's much too concerned with dancing and simply soaking up the vibe to worry about posing. And really, isn't that the whole point of clubbing in the first place?

Yes, you can walk into a bar in New York or Los Angeles and order a mojito. The bartender will probably know what you're asking for and might even try to make you one. But only Miami can truly claim the mojito as its own. For local Cubans the drink (whose exact origins are difficult to pinpoint but nonetheless are undeniably Cuban) is a taste of home and an historical symbol, less a fashionable trend than a cultural fixture. For young Miami carousers, regardless of origin, it has become a popular cocktail that offers a more refreshing and refined alternative to rum's other "tropical" siblings such as piña coladas and daiquiris. Miami bartenders know you can't compromise on the recipe: crushed ice, rum, fresh-squeezed lime juice, white sugar, fresh yerbabuena, and a splash of soda water must be combined in just the right proportions. Just any sprig of mint won't do; it must be yerbabuena, crushed by hand to release its essence. Bartenders of all stripes take pride in preparing their special versions and competing for ownership of the perfect mojito. But this is Miami. Best leave the mojitos to the Cubans.

This venerable establishment, located on the east bank of the Intracoastal under the bridge that carries NE 163rd Street over the water, might appear at first glance to be more Jersey Turnpike than old Miami. But don't be fooled. The Lagoon, a combination marina/restaurant, has been open for business since the Thirties, when goodfellas like Al Capone used to drop in for a nightcap on their way home from an evening of nightclubbing, illegal gambling, or maybe just whacking some guy. The times, the clientele, and the drink menu have all changed since then but the aura, like the old-fashioned knotty-pine décor, remains. Don't believe us? Drop in one evening and order a house specialty. One of the high-octane, tiki concoctions (we recommend the Suffering Bastard, so named because if you didn't feel that way before you ordered it, you will after you drink it). Then step out onto the Lagoon's waterfront deck. Take a look around. Dark. Quiet. Secluded. You'll almost wish you had a body to hide.

Granted, you might not want to be sitting in one of the two VIP lounges upstairs at Rumi until the restaurant does its reverse-Cinderella act. At 11:30 p.m. or thereabouts the Murphy bed that plops down in the downstairs dining room signifies the transition from restaurant to club. At that point, if you want a table, a champagne purchase is requisite. So you may as well bluff, or genuinely be allowed to venture upstairs, where the view is much better, especially if there happens to be a woman in a low-cut dress designed by her plastic surgeon standing beneath you -- and there always is such a woman. So what exactly are the perks? The usual assortment of models, celebrities, and others who have been seriously favored by Mother Nature, along with the paparazzi and other members of the media who, generally speaking, haven't been so generously favored. In addition there'll be quicker service and the goodwill that comes from folks who not only know they've been invited to the party, they believe they're first on the list.