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

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

On New Year's Eve, with crowds of tourists swarming Lincoln Road, Zeke's owner Victor Deutsch closed early. "Too many problems," the erstwhile engineer said. Friends protested, not because there was a lack of bars to visit, but because they wanted to see Zeke's profit from the surge in activity. "We're a locals' bar," Deutsch told his supporters. "We're not sprinters, we're marathon runners." Deutsch keeps his formula simple: dozens of beers on tap and in bottles, each for three dollars. He has no lack of loyal patrons. The interior, with its long, inviting bar, makes for a perfect hangout. But why linger inside? The bonus is that after you acquire your beer, you can carry it out to a table on Lincoln Road. Shazaam! Now you're just like one of the fatcat tourists paying for the privilege of alfresco accommodations at the restaurant next door. On Wednesdays, however, prime time is inside as South Park airs. The place fills, and you better not think of engaging in idle conversation. On that night, Deutsch and manager Tobin Wehrle do not suffer gladly any jabbering. Wehrle, possibly the gruffest bartender who watches cartoons, won't even feign politeness when he orders you outside unless you cut the yappin'. "Don't cause problems," Wehrle says.
On New Year's Eve, with crowds of tourists swarming Lincoln Road, Zeke's owner Victor Deutsch closed early. "Too many problems," the erstwhile engineer said. Friends protested, not because there was a lack of bars to visit, but because they wanted to see Zeke's profit from the surge in activity. "We're a locals' bar," Deutsch told his supporters. "We're not sprinters, we're marathon runners." Deutsch keeps his formula simple: dozens of beers on tap and in bottles, each for three dollars. He has no lack of loyal patrons. The interior, with its long, inviting bar, makes for a perfect hangout. But why linger inside? The bonus is that after you acquire your beer, you can carry it out to a table on Lincoln Road. Shazaam! Now you're just like one of the fatcat tourists paying for the privilege of alfresco accommodations at the restaurant next door. On Wednesdays, however, prime time is inside as South Park airs. The place fills, and you better not think of engaging in idle conversation. On that night, Deutsch and manager Tobin Wehrle do not suffer gladly any jabbering. Wehrle, possibly the gruffest bartender who watches cartoons, won't even feign politeness when he orders you outside unless you cut the yappin'. "Don't cause problems," Wehrle says.
Like any great one-nighter, the Garden changes its themes and alters its tunage weekly. But the campfire, it's a regular. It stays. No other once-a-week fling offers such diversity, such comfort, and the opportunity to roast (complimentary) marshmallows. Of course the fabulousness of the setting doesn't hurt. The Garden promoters set their Friday night party at the Albion, with its sand-filled sun deck and its raised swimming pool, which features portholes so partiers can ogle the underwater action without getting wet. It makes for a fresh-air, low-stress confab that runs until 2:00 a.m., just perfect for that warm-up cocktail before things really get cooking in South Beach.

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

This old shack would be just another old shack were it not for the year-round Christmas lights, the puffer fish mounted on the wall behind the bar, the two aged pool tables, and the melting pot of a jukebox that plays Hank Williams, Jr., Derek and the Dominoes, and Counting Crows in the span of a few minutes. Not to mention the Budweiser drafts for $1.50 each, the Baby Burgers for 75 cents, and the free barbecued grub for horseshoe-competition contestants every second Sunday of the month. Saturday nights feature pool tournaments and pucker shooters (a schnapps flavored with grape juice, apple sour, and Cheri-Beri). But the best thing about this Thirties-era former trading post is the no-nonsense clientele. "That's why I came down here, you know? To find real people," declares a real guy from New York to a local woman two stools away. Hasn't found one in her. Smirks she: "I used to like you."
This old shack would be just another old shack were it not for the year-round Christmas lights, the puffer fish mounted on the wall behind the bar, the two aged pool tables, and the melting pot of a jukebox that plays Hank Williams, Jr., Derek and the Dominoes, and Counting Crows in the span of a few minutes. Not to mention the Budweiser drafts for $1.50 each, the Baby Burgers for 75 cents, and the free barbecued grub for horseshoe-competition contestants every second Sunday of the month. Saturday nights feature pool tournaments and pucker shooters (a schnapps flavored with grape juice, apple sour, and Cheri-Beri). But the best thing about this Thirties-era former trading post is the no-nonsense clientele. "That's why I came down here, you know? To find real people," declares a real guy from New York to a local woman two stools away. Hasn't found one in her. Smirks she: "I used to like you."
DJ Snowhite hosts this gathering of urban poets and aspiring hip-hop stars every Tuesday in the confines of the dark, rectangular club Zanzibar. An assemblage of youth gathers to compete, unleashing prepared and extemporaneous raps and other poetry that ranges in quality from borderline brilliant to painfully lame. The Spam Allstars attempt to accommodate the performers with music to suit their spoken words. The atmosphere is supportive of all types of risk-taking and experimentation, with spontaneous poetry slams occurring inside and outside the club. On those occasions when the band and a performer click, Faatland Tuesdays achieves the sublime.

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

Best Of Miami®

Best Of Miami®