Motorcycle? Check. Open road? Check. What else does a biker need? Draft Buds are a buck, White Castle burgers are $1.75, and Marlboros go for twenty dollars per carton. Check, check, and check. Of course the Last Chance is more than a pit stop for biker provisions. It's a pit stop for bikers, many of whom kill the afternoon lounging around the parking lot, shooting the breeze, showing off their metal steeds, and recounting (for the millionth time) how the game warden came in one day, walked up to the canal, and shot the bar's winsome mascot, a fourteen-foot-long, blind, three-legged alligator. (We advise you to refrain from suggesting the warden may have been putting the beloved old thing out of its misery.) Not as rough-and-tumble as the term biker bar implies, the Last Chance nevertheless has all the necessary tough-guy trappings: a John Wayne-size rendering of the Jolly Roger emblazoned with the words Bikers Welcome, a gray and weathered edifice, and a sign that reads "No Whining." Although many travelers stop for supplies or just a breather, the bulk of the crowd is easy riders, some local and some tourists. All are welcome here. But if you're an oversize, blind, three-legged gator, think twice about hanging out for too long.
Motorcycle? Check. Open road? Check. What else does a biker need? Draft Buds are a buck, White Castle burgers are $1.75, and Marlboros go for twenty dollars per carton. Check, check, and check. Of course the Last Chance is more than a pit stop for biker provisions. It's a pit stop for bikers, many of whom kill the afternoon lounging around the parking lot, shooting the breeze, showing off their metal steeds, and recounting (for the millionth time) how the game warden came in one day, walked up to the canal, and shot the bar's winsome mascot, a fourteen-foot-long, blind, three-legged alligator. (We advise you to refrain from suggesting the warden may have been putting the beloved old thing out of its misery.) Not as rough-and-tumble as the term biker bar implies, the Last Chance nevertheless has all the necessary tough-guy trappings: a John Wayne-size rendering of the Jolly Roger emblazoned with the words Bikers Welcome, a gray and weathered edifice, and a sign that reads "No Whining." Although many travelers stop for supplies or just a breather, the bulk of the crowd is easy riders, some local and some tourists. All are welcome here. But if you're an oversize, blind, three-legged gator, think twice about hanging out for too long.
Club Mystique is a landmark of Latin Miami. Hidden in the airport Hilton, the space is big and dark, with quintessentially Scarface-era décor: sunken dance floor, prominent stage, cozy tables accented with wall mirrors. But while other clubs have come and gone, the neon-enhanced Mystique has kept the beat and kept the crowds coming. They come to dance. You'll see the fanciest footwork in the city here from Wednesday to Sunday. On Thursday nights Mystique offers free salsa dance classes, attracting a full house of committed students, from beginners to pros. They come back to show off their stuff on weekends, dancing to the house band or, occasionally, top Latin artists such as Gilberto Santa Rosa or Oscar de Leon. A tab at Mystique won't ruin you, and the dance floor is as accessible as the drinks are. Local Latin residents from various backgrounds, visitors from all over the Latin American map, and even non-Spanish speakers know this is the place to catch some Saturday night fiebre.
La Covacha
Club Mystique is a landmark of Latin Miami. Hidden in the airport Hilton, the space is big and dark, with quintessentially Scarface-era décor: sunken dance floor, prominent stage, cozy tables accented with wall mirrors. But while other clubs have come and gone, the neon-enhanced Mystique has kept the beat and kept the crowds coming. They come to dance. You'll see the fanciest footwork in the city here from Wednesday to Sunday. On Thursday nights Mystique offers free salsa dance classes, attracting a full house of committed students, from beginners to pros. They come back to show off their stuff on weekends, dancing to the house band or, occasionally, top Latin artists such as Gilberto Santa Rosa or Oscar de Leon. A tab at Mystique won't ruin you, and the dance floor is as accessible as the drinks are. Local Latin residents from various backgrounds, visitors from all over the Latin American map, and even non-Spanish speakers know this is the place to catch some Saturday night fiebre.
In 1937, about ten years before Hickey joined the other misfit dreamers in the saloon of Eugene O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh, El Toro Bar opened. Old-timers testify that the gin mill was a swell place in those early days, full of sunshine and happy anglers who hoisted brews and spewed fish tales after a day on the bay. In the years that ensued, though, the El Toro devolved along with the neighborhood, becoming a shabby (but still embracing) cave where ol' Hickey would've felt at home. The oak bar is pockmarked. The white acoustic-tile ceiling has been smoke stained to a cheap-cigar brown. Oddly placed mirrors hang slightly askew on the simulated-walnut walls, making the lines of the room appear tilted even to sober observers. The video slot machines wear grimy faces, the crimson tablecloths on the tiny tables emphasize the redness of the nose of the clown gazing from the faded circus poster over by the pool table. The bar's current owners promise change, including a new name (the Office). They promise live music, a menu of fresh bar chow, and dart tournaments with cash prizes. But for now El Toro retains a gloomy atmosphere appropriate for nursing some schnapps and a grudge, or for lounging comfortably with fellow negativists, all properly lubricated and hunkered down together, bemoaning whatever harsh stroke of fate sent them here and together beginning a long night's journey into day. You can park safely in the rear just past the sign that reads "ParkingVegetables" and beneath the commanding billboard that warns, "Winners Don't Drink and Drive."
In 1937, about ten years before Hickey joined the other misfit dreamers in the saloon of Eugene O'Neill's The Iceman Cometh, El Toro Bar opened. Old-timers testify that the gin mill was a swell place in those early days, full of sunshine and happy anglers who hoisted brews and spewed fish tales after a day on the bay. In the years that ensued, though, the El Toro devolved along with the neighborhood, becoming a shabby (but still embracing) cave where ol' Hickey would've felt at home. The oak bar is pockmarked. The white acoustic-tile ceiling has been smoke stained to a cheap-cigar brown. Oddly placed mirrors hang slightly askew on the simulated-walnut walls, making the lines of the room appear tilted even to sober observers. The video slot machines wear grimy faces, the crimson tablecloths on the tiny tables emphasize the redness of the nose of the clown gazing from the faded circus poster over by the pool table. The bar's current owners promise change, including a new name (the Office). They promise live music, a menu of fresh bar chow, and dart tournaments with cash prizes. But for now El Toro retains a gloomy atmosphere appropriate for nursing some schnapps and a grudge, or for lounging comfortably with fellow negativists, all properly lubricated and hunkered down together, bemoaning whatever harsh stroke of fate sent them here and together beginning a long night's journey into day. You can park safely in the rear just past the sign that reads "ParkingVegetables" and beneath the commanding billboard that warns, "Winners Don't Drink and Drive."
The word cocktails implies concinnity. No squeezing through huddled masses in order to elbow up to the bar. No jostled drinks. And there certainly should be no need for shouting. Piccadilly exists for civilized outings in refined surroundings. After ordering your libation at the bar, you can sit either in the lush courtyard amid parrots and plants, or inside by the cream-color baby grand piano. For special téte à tétes, request one of the corner booths in the dining room, where you can ensconce yourself behind a gold brocade curtain. In the heart of the Design District, Piccadilly draws an eclectic mix of bohemian and mainstream folk. Don't count on the quietude to last. So many people are drawn to such elegant cocktail emporiums that in time you'll have to squeeze through huddled masses....
Delano South Beach
The word cocktails implies concinnity. No squeezing through huddled masses in order to elbow up to the bar. No jostled drinks. And there certainly should be no need for shouting. Piccadilly exists for civilized outings in refined surroundings. After ordering your libation at the bar, you can sit either in the lush courtyard amid parrots and plants, or inside by the cream-color baby grand piano. For special téte à tétes, request one of the corner booths in the dining room, where you can ensconce yourself behind a gold brocade curtain. In the heart of the Design District, Piccadilly draws an eclectic mix of bohemian and mainstream folk. Don't count on the quietude to last. So many people are drawn to such elegant cocktail emporiums that in time you'll have to squeeze through huddled masses....
Ponce de León came to Florida desperately seeking the Fountain of Youth. It can now be found at Café Nostalgia, Little Havana's vintage Cuban music mecca. For lovers of Latin sounds, slow dancing is a way of life, and it has been clinically proven to keep them young. Just look at the glowing couples on the dance floor at Nostalgia, where romance reigns as singer Luis Bofill pours out a sentimental bolero in his liquid tenor. Unlike salsa, you don't have to learn any steps to slow dance. The dance floor courting ritual is intuitive, international, ageless. Even those who haven't slow danced since seventh grade can be instant pros: just hold your partner tight and rotate. Give in to the music, and feel as giddy as a teenager in the throes of first love.
Ponce de León came to Florida desperately seeking the Fountain of Youth. It can now be found at Café Nostalgia, Little Havana's vintage Cuban music mecca. For lovers of Latin sounds, slow dancing is a way of life, and it has been clinically proven to keep them young. Just look at the glowing couples on the dance floor at Nostalgia, where romance reigns as singer Luis Bofill pours out a sentimental bolero in his liquid tenor. Unlike salsa, you don't have to learn any steps to slow dance. The dance floor courting ritual is intuitive, international, ageless. Even those who haven't slow danced since seventh grade can be instant pros: just hold your partner tight and rotate. Give in to the music, and feel as giddy as a teenager in the throes of first love.

Best Of Miami®

Best Of Miami®