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

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

The bodies on the bar -- dancing, prancing around your drinks, or leaning down to give you a better view -- are fine. But so is the atmosphere, which is pleasantly relaxed. The go-go boys are not averse to cozying up to patrons, who in turn are not averse to slipping bills into tiny G-strings. And the drinks are as generously proportioned as the men on display. There's the obligatory big-screen video pulsating with standard dance-hall tunes, and a pool area out back. But the main attraction, naturally, is the barely dressed boys, who strut their stuff on Mondays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Sunday is reserved for amateur strip night. It's all aimed at men, but women are welcome too -- the bartender and dancers make sure of that. Ladies, if you haven't already, give it a go.
The bodies on the bar -- dancing, prancing around your drinks, or leaning down to give you a better view -- are fine. But so is the atmosphere, which is pleasantly relaxed. The go-go boys are not averse to cozying up to patrons, who in turn are not averse to slipping bills into tiny G-strings. And the drinks are as generously proportioned as the men on display. There's the obligatory big-screen video pulsating with standard dance-hall tunes, and a pool area out back. But the main attraction, naturally, is the barely dressed boys, who strut their stuff on Mondays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Sunday is reserved for amateur strip night. It's all aimed at men, but women are welcome too -- the bartender and dancers make sure of that. Ladies, if you haven't already, give it a go.
Tap Tap owner Gina Cunningham wanted to offer karaoke to her customers, but she wasn't about to set the scene for a bunch of schmaltz-lovers crooning "Feelings." Enter James Small, the James Brown of karaoke. A bus driver from Fort Lauderdale, Small appears at Tap Tap on occasional weekend nights, sporting a leather vest over his muscled chest and toting his soulful karaoke machine, outfitted with R&B and rock hits. The Tap Tap crowd (an international mix of artists, journalists, and assorted passersby) responds accordingly. Someone struts like Mick Jagger on top of the bar while singing "Sexual Healing"; a many-accented and heavily inebriated chorus joins together on "Imagine"; a Haitian laundry worker who speaks no English shakes maracas to the beat of "Don't Worry, Be Happy." If you never thought karaoke could be cool, this might change your mind.

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

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

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

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

Best Of Miami®

Best Of Miami®