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.
The herd mentality that led countless clueless to "rediscover" the martini, and which has resulted in untold thousands of badly made cocktails to be served here over the past several years -- that maddening mindlessness has finally reached its nadir. We point to three unrelated events as proof beyond doubt that the party is over. (And none too soon, we might add.) Item: Late last year a French liquor manufacturer rolled into town with something called Grey Goose vodka and proceeded to host a South Beach search for the best martini -- made with its own liquor, of course. Many witless dining and drinking enterprises participated, lemming-like. (Note to the knuckleheads: Authentic martinis can only be made with gin.) Item: A certain unnamed bar in a certain unnamed hotel, which has won this award four times, recently revealed just how far the mighty have fallen. The drink was ordered "very dry," which the bartender wrongly interpreted to mean no vermouth whatsoever. Needless to say, if it doesn't have at least a touch of vermouth, it isn't a martini. When this fact was brought to his attention, he summarily dumped in a thimbleful of vermouth and promptly ruined it, though he didn't seem to care, or even know what he'd done. Then came the bill: $11. Per drink. Enough said? Item: In December 1998 Miami Herald resident hipster Fred Tasker wrote this sentence, which his editors approved and the newspaper actually printed: "The martini is the latest really in thing among Beautiful People, if you believe the hype." Right you are, daddy-o. Connoisseurs of the world's most elegant cocktail may feel a bit sheepish about having momentarily wandered astray in the counterfeit world of chocolate martinis and fruit martinis and God knows what else. But the truth is you can go home again. In this case that means returning to a proper and confident American steak house along the lines of the Capital Grille, the Palm, Morton's, or Smith & Wollensky. For generations the martini has been held in the highest esteem at such establishments. Settle into a leather banquette, take a deep breath, and relax. Your martini is on its way.
The herd mentality that led countless clueless to "rediscover" the martini, and which has resulted in untold thousands of badly made cocktails to be served here over the past several years -- that maddening mindlessness has finally reached its nadir. We point to three unrelated events as proof beyond doubt that the party is over. (And none too soon, we might add.) Item: Late last year a French liquor manufacturer rolled into town with something called Grey Goose vodka and proceeded to host a South Beach search for the best martini -- made with its own liquor, of course. Many witless dining and drinking enterprises participated, lemming-like. (Note to the knuckleheads: Authentic martinis can only be made with gin.) Item: A certain unnamed bar in a certain unnamed hotel, which has won this award four times, recently revealed just how far the mighty have fallen. The drink was ordered "very dry," which the bartender wrongly interpreted to mean no vermouth whatsoever. Needless to say, if it doesn't have at least a touch of vermouth, it isn't a martini. When this fact was brought to his attention, he summarily dumped in a thimbleful of vermouth and promptly ruined it, though he didn't seem to care, or even know what he'd done. Then came the bill: $11. Per drink. Enough said? Item: In December 1998 Miami Herald resident hipster Fred Tasker wrote this sentence, which his editors approved and the newspaper actually printed: "The martini is the latest really in thing among Beautiful People, if you believe the hype." Right you are, daddy-o. Connoisseurs of the world's most elegant cocktail may feel a bit sheepish about having momentarily wandered astray in the counterfeit world of chocolate martinis and fruit martinis and God knows what else. But the truth is you can go home again. In this case that means returning to a proper and confident American steak house along the lines of the Capital Grille, the Palm, Morton's, or Smith & Wollensky. For generations the martini has been held in the highest esteem at such establishments. Settle into a leather banquette, take a deep breath, and relax. Your martini is on its way.
Unlike its homogeneous counterparts in South Beach, this ten-year-old danceteria doesn't cater to celebs and fashion slaves, or to the hype engendering such trendiness. Hell, the Kitchen doesn't even have a telephone. What the club has is a dedication to the dark side of nightlife, the Gothic ethos, those decadent delights of revelry no one will ever tell their grandchildren about. It's an undying vision dating back to the late Eighties when the Kitchen was in South Beach, a time when South Beach enjoyed its hipness heyday. As the carpetbaggers invaded, the Kitchen headed to the mainland, setting up shop in Coconut Grove and the Design District before settling in the Shores a couple of years ago. With nary a velvet rope or tourist in sight, the Kitchen remains Miami's reliably black-garbed island in a stormy sea of nightlife.
Unlike its homogeneous counterparts in South Beach, this ten-year-old danceteria doesn't cater to celebs and fashion slaves, or to the hype engendering such trendiness. Hell, the Kitchen doesn't even have a telephone. What the club has is a dedication to the dark side of nightlife, the Gothic ethos, those decadent delights of revelry no one will ever tell their grandchildren about. It's an undying vision dating back to the late Eighties when the Kitchen was in South Beach, a time when South Beach enjoyed its hipness heyday. As the carpetbaggers invaded, the Kitchen headed to the mainland, setting up shop in Coconut Grove and the Design District before settling in the Shores a couple of years ago. With nary a velvet rope or tourist in sight, the Kitchen remains Miami's reliably black-garbed island in a stormy sea of nightlife.
Tough shift. Good thing it's over ("zero-six" is code for "end of shift"). Now you need to get a bite to eat (known as a "twelve") and recover, right? ("QSL" in policese -- for "that's acknowledged.") You tore your pants tackling that fleeing suspect. Your sergeant's looking for you about the coffee stains on your report. And on top of it all, a detective from internal affairs wants to ask if you know anything about your ex-partner's new manse in Boca. You need to go somewhere safe. No better place than Chasers. On the floor below are the offices of a half-dozen PBA lawyers, enough to intimidate any IA detective. This allows you to eat your sirloin in peace. And unlike at civilian hangouts, you don't draw gawks just because you have guns and handcuffs swinging from your hips. Even though the place is open to the public, as far as you can see it's all blue and tan uniforms. You pig out, order a brew, kick back. So you'll have to buy a new pair of pants. So what? Your reports could be neater. And you know, now that you think about it, that is a pretty big oceanside house your partner built.
Tough shift. Good thing it's over ("zero-six" is code for "end of shift"). Now you need to get a bite to eat (known as a "twelve") and recover, right? ("QSL" in policese -- for "that's acknowledged.") You tore your pants tackling that fleeing suspect. Your sergeant's looking for you about the coffee stains on your report. And on top of it all, a detective from internal affairs wants to ask if you know anything about your ex-partner's new manse in Boca. You need to go somewhere safe. No better place than Chasers. On the floor below are the offices of a half-dozen PBA lawyers, enough to intimidate any IA detective. This allows you to eat your sirloin in peace. And unlike at civilian hangouts, you don't draw gawks just because you have guns and handcuffs swinging from your hips. Even though the place is open to the public, as far as you can see it's all blue and tan uniforms. You pig out, order a brew, kick back. So you'll have to buy a new pair of pants. So what? Your reports could be neater. And you know, now that you think about it, that is a pretty big oceanside house your partner built.

Best Of Miami®

Best Of Miami®