Bars & Clubs

On most Monday nights after nine, you can slip into Tobacco Road’s beery downstairs barroom and enjoy the public rehearsal of Iko-Iko, this town’s most seasoned and reliable blues ensemble. The band, led by local heavyweight Graham Drout, is a five-man Cajun-inflected Miami sound machine with a busy national tour schedule and official fan clubs in a dozen states, including New Jersey, California, and Kentucky. But on Mondays the boys are usually at home, comfortable in the bosom of the Road, chewing on good burgers, talking about working on their cars, and chatting with their hard-core fans. These nights are a tradition established more than eighteen years ago, when Drout began celebrating Monday at the Road with his pre-Iko group, the Fat Chance Blues Band. It’s great to be there when the fellows grab an accordion, or whatever instrument is handy, catch a downbeat, and ease their tunes into the musical pocket as easy as a good riverboat captain navigates the waters of the nearby Miami River. They’ll move you through several hours of home-brew music, mostly blues based, but all mooshed up with the sounds of Louisiana and spiced with the whine of old-time country harmonies. No cover, and the rack of lamb is cheap and good. They don’t call it Blue Monday for nothing.

Añoranzas (which means “longing” in Spanish) is the perfect place to lose yourself in yearning for a loved one. The décor is ripe for nostalgia, done up with rough-hewn wooden tables and a thatched ceiling, just like a cantina in the Medellín, Colombia, countryside. An actual chiva — a brightly painted country bus — is built into one wall, its narrow seats converted into booths perfect for cuddling. The pungent national liquor, aguardiente, flows copiously, warming even the coolest hearts. Romantic oldies from Colombia’s big bands of the Forties and Fifties alternate with heartbreaking tangos and mournful vallenatos. People say of the contemplative genre from the Colombian coast: “The vallenato is not for dancing.” And they’re right. It’s for swaying on the dance floor in an embrace so close that the sound of your lover’s breath seems like an accompaniment to the accordion.

All gay. All the time. Believe it or not, in an area that some call the new gay mecca, surprisingly few bars or nightspots cater exclusively to the gay market. Recently renovated, this club now boasts three spacious spaces, including an outdoor patio, so there’s plenty of room to move around. Bartenders and clientele that are among the nicest on South Beach and music that always pumps ensures you’ll have a gay old time.

Proper preparation is the key to life. It not only applies to careers; it carries over to the social scene. One can hardly stroll sober into a South Beach nightclub and easily mingle with the depraved. Enter Blue. This intimate bar lies several paces away from the hippest spots on Washington Avenue. The cool blue tones that dominate the interior are barely discernible in the softly lit atmosphere. Techno music vibrates the walls and prepares the ears for the imminent onslaught of bass. Anyone, including VIPs, can lounge on the (what else?) blue leather couches or perch on the cone-shape stools that line the bar. Luckily this azure pit stop won’t give rise to the blues by busting the budget. There is no cover charge and drinks are reasonably priced, for the Beach. Once that old tingly feeling arises, hit the strip and stride confidently up to that velvet rope. You are now ready for the revelry inside.

The pirates from Mixx 96 FM make merry every Friday night at the Mad House on Key Biscayne. A breeze wafts over the outdoor soca deck on the bay and boats pull right up to the dance floor. The Trini South Boys along with DJs House Arrest and Giselle “the Wassy One” make the crowd jump and wave to the latest sounds of the Caribbean. For those whose taste for island music runs closer to the ground, grinding is guaranteed with DJs Khalid, Fashion, and the marvelous Lady Terror spinning dancehall and hip-hop inside. From the moment doors open at midnight, the place is packed with people representing the Jamaican Crew, the Trinidadian Crew, the Bahamian Crew, the Virgin Islands Crew, and crews from every other Caribbean enclave. Expect even bigger crowds when big name guests like King Addis and Matterhorn fly in from New York and Kingston.

Debuting this year amid more new nightspots than South Beach has ever seen, Level has the personnel, parties, and square footage to rise above all else in clubland. Led by nightlife impresario and fashion designer Gerry Kelly, this huge yet versatile space hosts everything: the grandest of bashes and the smallest soirees. From the intimate upstairs room dubbed Level 6 to the Boiler Room to the lobbies of the up- and downstairs to the expansive main room, all areas can be used on their own or combined with others. Kelly and crew put the adaptable interior to good use, hosting a variety of parties, such as the megaurban hit Little Leroy’s Lyric Lounge on Monday; fashion showcases on Thursday, the Federation/1235 gay party on Friday, the usual packed dance night on Saturday, and a recently reintroduced reggae night, which occasionally features live performances, on Sunday. A busy schedule for sure, keeping this South Beach club always engaged and always engaging.

This local honky-tonk has long been a drinking well for Ridge Rats and other South Miami-Dade folks. It used to be called Norm’s Hideaway back in the Eighties, and many an illegal substance could be found there. Now renamed and expanded, it continues to quench the needs of locals, though not with quite the same wild abandon. Still, no matter the day of the week, chances are there is something to do at BB’s. Tuesday is Ping-Pong night. Wednesday is in-line dancing with a country DJ. Thursday is reserved for tournaments on at least seventeen dart boards and two pool tables. Friday and Saturday nights feature rock or blues bands on a small stage in the corner (no cover), with room to dance underneath two disco balls. And sometimes on Sundays, regulars play volleyball out by the parking lot. BB’s has come a long way in the past twenty years, but one look at the guy aggressively playing air guitar at the bar and you have to wonder.

So, your baby left you the same day you lost your job, and when you got home the landlord was waiting. Well, pull up a stool. Although the King Stable, a Miami mainstay for 31 years, isn’t just for the blues, it’s a fine place to start. Crammed into its jukebox is an assemblage of 99 songs sure to ease a worried mind. From Big Joe Turner to Sam Cooke, Ruth Brown to Patti LaBelle, the collection is a testament to men and women’s cheatin’ ways. The box is unsullied by Ricky Martin or Eminem. “I go for the Seventies and Sixties soul and blues,” says Adolph King, the establishment’s 48-year-old inheritor. “I speak to what I am. My culture. I don’t go for no Spanish music. No hip-hop. No rock.” Five speakers dispersed throughout the house carry the music with enough bass to fill you with joy, but not make your beer skitter across the bar.

Snaking down the dirt roads to get to this ranch off the Florida Turnpike at Okeechobee is half the fun, especially after dark. Tires hug the earth as cars squeeze between oncoming traffic and the crops crowding the fields. Weekend party animals give way to four-footed friends during the week. Horses drink water out of troughs in the parking lot. For recent immigrants Rancho Gaspar brings memories of La Tropical, the huge open-air emporium on the outskirts of Havana that holds the world’s record for the longest-lasting salsa party. The crowd looks much the same as you’d find at La Tropical, with a high spandex count and more than a few glints of gold teeth. Families abound, from babes in arms to abuelitas with walkers. Out in the barn, the four-to-eight-year-old crowd has a monopoly on the pool table. Teenagers smooch in the pasture. The fun begins at two on Sunday afternoons, with music and pony rides. One or two Sundays per month musical acts such as Cuba’s Manolín and the Dominican Republic’s Oro Solido play live. Saturday nights a DJ spins salsa hits from Victor Manuelle to Issac Delgado, with the latest in merengue and bachata thrown in. Who cares if owner Gaspar Olazabal is a bit gruff at the door? The bartenders and waitresses are friendly, the beer is cheap, and the food is plentiful.

At Champagne’s the finest jazz in Miami is served with a Kreyol flavor. “Remember, this is not just a music club; this is a restaurant,” reminds owner Frantz Olivier, who recommends the griot pork seasoned with sour oranges. He might add that this joint, which opened in November 1999, is a bit of an art gallery, too. An enormous mural depicting a trumpet-blowing Dizzy Gillespie (among other legends) decorates the walls. Bathroom doors feature paintings by local Haitian artist Joseph Wilfrid Daleus. When musicians break, two televisions screen archival-type footage of jazz masters, courtesy of musician Jesse Jones, Jr.’s personal collection. Jones himself, regularly featured at this venue, is a pleasure to watch and hear, blowing his enormous black bass clarinet (and assorted woodwinds) or scatting in his signature falsetto style. You can join him onstage as you dine at a half-dozen tables on the bandstand. Or, if you prefer, listen from a table off-stage. Either way, there is no escape from Jones’s playfully impassioned rendering of Ellington-Tizol-Mills’s “Caravan.” Hearing it, you will want to follow. Champagne’s is open Friday through Sunday nights. Dinner begins at 6:00 p.m. Music begins at 9:30 p.m. Friday and Saturday, and 8:00 p.m. Sunday.

Tom’s has two British-made dart boards, located in a carpeted corner, a comfortable distance from pool tables, TVs, and those tipsy folks over by the bar. That distance is important, because darting mishaps can ruin an otherwise fabulous outing and prompt an awkward conversation.

Tipsy man to another tipsy man: “Hey, good buddy, you’ve got the biggest weirdest mosquito sucking on the side of your head.”

Dart player with British accent, removing the projectile: “Sorry, mate.”

You know Tom’s takes darting seriously, because two little green chalkboards for scorekeeping hang on the wall. They are sometimes used by local heavies of the dart world, members of the Miami-Dade Darting Association. If you’re not a dart shark yourself, ask for a set at the bar. While there you’ll also find an array of draft beer and wines, along with mixed drinks. The menu pierces expectations of humdrum bar-and-grill fare with items such as smoked tomato soup ($3.50), barbecue chicken pizza ($7.95), sesame seared tuna ($7.95), fresh fish-of-the-day sandwiches ($7.95), and a portobello mushroom burger ($6.95).

Every so often the grind of city life pauses long enough to reveal why it’s worth grinding on in our particular city. Nikki is just such an epiphany. It’s a club/lounge/restaurant that exists solely under palm trees and on top of sand. Nestled in the dunes between the ocean and the rear of Penrod’s, Nikki is the brainchild of long-time Beach nightlife promoter Tommy Pooch and Bash impresario Eric Omores. “We were looking to get out of the nightclub business and get into the daytime business,” Pooch reveals. “Although now it’s a nighttime business as well.” The two promoters hired French designer Stephane Dupoux to create the scene. Dupoux didn’t disappoint. He sculpted sand into berms and planted palm trees in them. Then he strung up hammocks between the trees. He continued that theme with the rest of the décor, laying down bamboo mats, erecting tepees, and strewing about carved wood chairs and tables from Asia. The place hums with excitement Sundays, as beachgoers, many of them Europeans, loll about in gently swaying hammocks, staving off thoughts of the Monday to come with a cold Corona.

Start by scoping out the looong L-shape wood bar planted in the middle of the room. Next sidle up to one of the cushiony metal stools upholstered in green velour. Now lean up against the bar and accommodate the shoes on the foot rests below. Once in perfect drinking position, order the liver killer. Northwest Miami-Dade suburbanites have visited this watering hole, located in a strip shopping center, for more than twenty years. Most patrons call bartender Bill by name. Resident band Powerhouse plays rock and pop favorites, which also dominate the jukebox. The requisite dart board hangs on the wall near the hall of fame, which features photos of famous guests. Remember Don Shula? The low lights, tinted windows, and dark wood paneling on the wall set the laid-back atmosphere. Show up any time except Sunday. The body deserves at least one day of rest.

It’s late in the second period. The Heat is staving off the Knicks 48-46. Not far from the TV, a man and a woman sit cozily. The woman, holding a glass of wine in one hand and waving the other, tries to draw her man’s gaze away from the game. She has things besides hoops on her mind. “Put more of that stuff on this thing,” she commands, pointing first to a bottle of olive oil and then to a little plate. She has been dipping fresh bread on the plate, which until that last dunk held an elixir of extra-virgin olive oil infused with red pepper flakes. By the time her beau snaps out of it, the alert, gregarious waiter has replenished her little pool. She no longer minds her guy’s inattentiveness, though. She is too engrossed in nibbling a delicious grilled calamari appetizer. But the real excitement erupts at halftime. The zupa di giorno (tonight it’s carrot) has just arrived. Shortly thereafter, swoosh, a porcini mushroom risotto (one of the special entrées tonight, under ten dollars) lands softly before her. For boyfriend it’s the ravioli di giorno (crab-lobster in pink sauce, also under ten dollars). And they still have half a bottle of decent wine left! Over at another table, a Heat fan whoops. The game hasn’t resumed: His spaghetti and meatballs have arrived. Bravo!

Most people don’t know the name of this bar. They know it only by its location: south of Wolfie’s, a couple of doors north of an adult bookstore, which is a couple of doors north of the Déjà Vu strip club. This is perhaps the seediest block left in South Beach. And the Champ, one of the Beach’s last shabby outposts, boasts patrons who fit right in. Blue-collar Latins and gringos, occasional club kids, working girls, clueless tourists, gays, straights, strippers, transvestites, and who-knows-whats can all be spotted at the bar enjoying a belt. We’re talkin’ low rent, low morals, low dough, all of which raises more than a few eyebrows. You certainly won’t see anything like this on Ocean Drive.

Even if the Haitian music scene is dominated by men, Miami’s best venue for live shows is powered by women. “The girls are in charge!” declares McArthur’s social director Kathy Giddarie. Since March 1999 general manager Vivian Lazarre’s female bartending crew has kept crowds of up to 800 compas fans happy. Out-of-town thrillers such as System, Sweet Mickey, and King Posse alternate with local favorites Zenglen and D-Zine on Friday and Sunday nights. Oldies night on Saturdays brings back the bands of yesteryear, from Haitian memory-makers to influential black acts such as the Temptations. Weekly dance contests put the fans in the spotlight. Since all that compas can work up an appetite, the kitchen is stocked with party foods, including conch fritters and the fried pork known as griot. Vive la femme!

There’s a saying that given enough time, even the town whore becomes respectable. That adage certainly applies to Tobacco Road, rapidly closing in on a century as one of Miami’s most cherished watering holes. Once a notorious den of iniquity, the Road now has a family friendly vibe, or at least the atmosphere of an all-American frat party. Sure you’ll still find plenty of cops swarming the premises, but unlike the Prohibition Era, these days they’re there as (hopefully off-duty) customers. In fact wander out back to the open-air patio to catch a breeze off the river, and you’re likely to come across several city prosecutors settling into a beer and a burger. Of course what draws the consistently packed crowds isn’t just the locale, the brew, or the pub chow (solid as it may be); it’s the music, which remains both very live and thankfully little more than spit-polished. Gaze upon the walls here and you’ll spy framed posters immortalizing past Road gigs by protorocker legends such as John Lee Hooker, Bo Diddley, and Junior Wells, even outer-space soul-jazz visionary Sun Ra, all asserting that the “disco sucks” debate is far from over, at least in this joint. Veteran barflies may grouse that the booking policy is a bit less impressive on the talent front these days, but as last November’s George Clinton date here proved, heavy hitters still occasionally grace the stage. Moreover Tobacco Road ensures a steady diet of roots-oriented outfits — local and national, up-and-coming and unknown — and continues to be a welcome home within which to wail away, providing a solid bet for an unpretentious, relaxed night out. In a city whose nightlife milieu increasingly is given over to tense stargazing, that says something.

Tucked into the extreme south end of downtown Coral Gables, this unassuming ranch-style edifice next to the Knights of Columbus hall has been called the Crown and Garter as well as the English Crown before its current owners gave it a more prosaic moniker a couple of years back. In its latest incarnation as the Gables Pub, it attracts a youngish crowd (more platform shoes, midriffs, and chain wallets than you’d find at your usual Gables gathering place) with its low-key atmosphere, tasty food, and Bass and Guinness on tap. (It skews a little younger on Wednesday’s ladies’ night and a little smellier on Thursday, when the rugby players show up.) Two narrow inside rooms and the outdoor concrete courtyard filled with tables make it more of a place to hang out than to pick up or throw down — unless someone’s throwing down her last ficha in one of the pitched domino battles that have been known to break out. One oddity: Despite the fact that the gringo quotient is no higher here than anywhere else in the Gables, the jukebox features a veritable rogues’ gallery of the worst and the whitest. (Styx, anyone?) Yet the pub is so otherwise inviting, the patrons don’t run screaming for the exits.

Macabi’s began as a retail store with one of the best tobacco selections around, as well as some of the best prices. But last June, after the nationwide cigar boom began to wane, owners Henry Vilar and Arturo Sosa transformed their showroom into a smoke room, complete with high-end liquors and cordials. Now, after picking out a hefty Arturo Fuente Hemingway (at seven dollars, not a bad price) in the walk-in humidor, you can settle into a plush chair, sip a Fonseca port, and depending on the night, enjoy music (Friday is latin jazz, Saturday is often blues) or games (Tuesday night the old-school fumadores gather to play dominoes).

The bar in Chris Blackwell’s hotel has been a consistent standout for nine years. It hasn’t had to reinvent itself to grab attention, like a plastic-surgeried Palm Beach matron. Instead it has remained confident in its own cool. The lounge’s brushed-steel interior provides a refined platform in which to sit and sip a drink. The bartenders are swift and attentive. But if you’re with friends, you may prefer the more intimate setting down in the so-called opium den, a cozy little enclave decorated with Middle Eastern drapes, couches, and cushions. Most nights the den offers live music (a mix of salsa, jazz, and R&B). Beverage prices vary from four to nine dollars, and whether it’s an old standby like a martini or a house specialty such as the blue marlin — a blend of light rum, blue curaçao, lemon juice — it’s always served in a copious goblet.

There’s little shortage of DJs in Miami, and if you poke around town beyond the velvet ropes, you might even find a couple spinning some half-interesting music. Disc jockeys in the literal sense, however — individuals skilled in riding high in the saddle and coaxing their treasured vinyl collections to new and transcendent feats — are a rare find in these parts. Which makes the local outings of DJ LeSpam (Andrew Yeomanson) all the more treasured. Whatever his given venue (the opening of a new Little Havana performance space, a private birthday party, a laid-back night at Brandt’s Break — R.I.P.) or his chosen approach for the evening (vintage Sixties soul burners, sleazy funk workouts, or perhaps tweaked hip-hop and abstract breaks), LeSpam is sure to combine a joyfully cockeyed spirit of sonic adventurousness with a determination to keep the butts of his listeners in serious motion.

Off the beaten path, ensconced in the suburbs of Homestead, is the area’s most musician-friendly open-mike night. Itching to play Friday evening, but don’t have a guitar handy? No problem. One of the café’s four owners, Laurie Oudin, will lend you her battered Ovation, if you ask. How’s it sound? Pretty damn good. Want to sound better? Invite MCing regulars, keyboardist Chuck Acevedo and guitarist Scott Emmons, to perform with you. Suddenly you’ll find yourself sounding like … a band. Gotta have more? Play well enough and you will be invited back Saturday night to sit in with house band the Pathfinders. In addition to the fun, the Main Street Café also offers a wide variety of vegetarian dishes and a respectable beer selection. Those who bomb can seek consolation in the establishment’s tasty cherry cobbler pie à la mode.

Both pipes open up on a stretch of road as long and flat as the devil’s driveway, and that damn tropical sun beats down on you like a mess o’ troopers on road-kill day. Your machine’s growling like a hungry lion, and your ol’ lady starts whining that she’d like something to drink. Problem is, nothing around. You could backtrack to some fast-food joint in a mall near Florida City, or follow that endless black ribbon south to where the mangroves muscle out the sun and you get a little shade. Screw it. You keep your knees in the breeze until you hit Alabama Jack’s, a biker-friendly white-trash tiki hut with pizzazz. The hogs are lined up by the split-rail fence like horses at a hitching post. The bar is perched over the water, so a cool wind always blows. Now your baby’s changed her tune: She’s cooing what a good idea this was. You kick up your boots, lean back, and rub your tattooed belly as the waitress plunks down a cold one. This’ll do, this’ll do. Jack’s, now in its 52nd year, is open seven days a week, from 11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.

Since when do people dance at a karaoke night? Patrons usually are too busy cringing from the wails of the aspiring vocalist at the mike to consider boogying. But every Wednesday evening at Hooligan’s, a neighborhood crew unabashedly jumps up and cuts the rug to the sounds of a seemingly endless stream of would-be starlets gracing the stage. Of course it’s possible that people are dancing because they’re soused from the cheap ladies’ night drinks. Who knows and, frankly, who cares? The ladies’ night and karaoke combo provokes more singing and dancing than if either theme night stood on its own. It’s also more fun.

Long a glittery weekend salsa pit, Club Millennium now offers a welcome respite to Latin rockers who complain they get no respect in Miami. The Doral-area disco caters to the South American kids of the city’s western suburbs with a Thursday-night series of the best Latin rock acts from Tijuana to Buenos Aires. Heavy on the frenzied sounds of the Southern Cone, the new era of Rock en Español began in January 2000 with Argentine underground institution Los Pericos. In March fellow porteño Fito Paez drew the biggest crowd to date. The fanatic exuberance of Fito-starved fans pissed off the formerly radical rocker as he tried to play a toned-down set of his best-loved tunes on piano with nothing but a bass accompaniment. Flapping his arms like a Muppet, Paez implored the crowd to shut the doors, indulge in an orgy, then listen quietly to his music in the postclimactic calm. Somebody set off the sprinkler system by waving his lighter in the air instead. One way or the other, Club Millennium is letting Miami get its Spanish-language rock off like never before.

What distinguishes a truly sophisticated sports bar from the run-of-the-mill? The intelligent details, coach. For instance clever television placement, such as a stack of two TVs on a cigarette machine. Large wooden tables that provide excellent acoustics by softening brash television sound waves. An extensive collection of old beer taps hanging upside down from some rafters to help you ponder the meaning of life during commercials. Bartenders with a knowing glint in their eyes offering a selection of twenty draft beers. Weekly two-dollar pint specials. A rack of Sports Illustrated magazines to keep you abreast of important cultural developments. And delicious smoked fish, of course.

Strange how the beautiful people flock together. Even stranger is the number of places in which they choose to converge that close. Bar Room, for instance. The club converted an upstairs space into the Moon Bar, a watering hole especially for the modeling industry. The fabulati came in droves. Unfortunately for owner Chris Paciello, so did the feds. (We all know the story.) Recently sold, Bar Room is shuttered until the fall. On a lighter note was Monday’s at Brandt’s Break. The quarter beers and live music made it a must-stop for every set of high cheekbones on the Beach. Even though the place closed its doors, the party stayed alive and moved to Señor Frog’s, but it’s not quite the same. Enter the Living Room, a virtual magnet for every comely person who ever posed in front of a camera. Who knows if it’s the Euro trash oozing cash, the distinctive bordello-chic décor, or the intimate back area dubbed the Joy Room that attracts the genetically (and cosmetically) blessed? Whatever the reason the beautiful people keep coming. Whether it’s to attend the legendary Wednesday-evening party; the recently imported, hip Sunday-night soirée, Hercules; or one of many bashes hosted by magazines or modeling agencies, the bevy of beauties gliding through the door never seems to end.

The dim lighting, the cramped, blood-red faux-leather booths, the dark wood paneling. Even though the place is clean, somehow when you’re here, you feel … dirty. Like, if you’re not already having an affair or planning a bank robbery, you oughta be. Funny how the place also manages to feel welcoming, in a seedy sort of way. Must be that two-for-one happy hour (9:00 to 11:00 p.m., Tuesdays and Fridays) on already-inexpensive drinks, or that deelicious menu. All the usual bar food suspects are here: burgers, chicken fingers, fries. And the French dip? It’s the French dippiest. Slink on in for some clandestine fun. Use a fake name, and for God’s sake, don’t use your credit card. No one must know.

This darkly hued downtown oasis is ideal for checking your investments while you quaff some refreshments. Sure it’s a national chain with a gimmick: a news ticker. But at least it’s an informative gimmick. Sit in air-conditioned elegance while the headlines and stock market updates whiz by on the wall. Somehow it’s more exciting than watching television over the massive wooden bar. Steeped in sophistication the Capital Grille bar is cigar-friendly and aurally agreeable: A piano player jams nearby from Tuesday through Saturday. There is no happy hour to attract the boisterous riffraff, though you may get to observe how your neighbor at the bar reacts when he loses his shorts on those technology stocks.

Last year we ranted over the debasement of this most refined of cocktails. Haplessly clutched to the noxious bosom of mass culture, the martini recently had been drained of its noble heritage and left to molder as a pop icon. Uncomprehending amateurs ordered facsimiles of them by the millions from uninitiated bartenders — with disastrous results. And no one seemed to care. No one! For chrissakes, a martini is not a beer! In our recommendation we grumpily retreated to that lonely bastion of tradition, the deluxe American steak house, where a martini is, without fail, straight up, very dry, and made only with fine gin. Now we’re happy to announce the dark cloud is lifting, slowly but surely. Here are two quite different venues with one thing in common: a proper respect for our beloved elixir. Mark’s South Beach should come as no surprise as it perfectly fulfills two of our criteria for ensuring martini success: It is a restaurant with a bar attached, and it is a top-quality restaurant. Located in the exquisitely refurbished Nash Hotel, Mark Militello’s latest culinary temple includes a sleek and cozy bar separate from the dining rooms, so you can pop in for a splendid martini unannounced, whereas dinner reservations must be made well in advance. At the other end of the swankiness spectrum, as it were, we have the new incarnation of Big Fish, hard by the Miami River. The location and ambiance here are acknowledged elsewhere in this compendium of superlatives. But let it not go unnoticed that this version of Big Fish also includes a full bar — and a bar staff fully conversant in the complex language of a deceptively simple drink: chilled gin, vermouth, garnish. The informality at Big Fish blends easily with the sublime pleasure of a perfectly prepared martini. One olive, please.

Does paying $20 to enter a South Beach club where you have the privilege of plunking down $9 per drink leave your bank account a bit barren? Don’t worry — if it’s a low-dough night you’re looking for, then stumble no further than Loco Thursday at Iguana Cantina. Be forewarned that scores of college drinkers and cheap alcohol go hand in hand, but when the cover charge is a hefty $1, and 50-cent margaritas and draft beers are available until 5:00 a.m., chances are eventually you won’t care who you’re drinking with.

So-called progress dislodged Eddie’s from the corner of SW Eighth Street and 126th Avenue in the early Nineties to make way for a god-dang restaurant, parking lot, and minor strip mall. So this cocktail lounge with an Anglo-Alabaman aura was chased into in a narrow mall storefront only 50 feet away from its original location. Damn straight it was. As a result of this little modern-day Reconstruction (whupped up, no doubt, by some pissant latter-day carpetbaggers), this dim room is now stuck between a pharmacy and a dry cleaner. Cheap beer and mixed drinks, a decent pool table, two well-lit dart boards, and plenty of Billy Rays and Billy Joes on the jukebox keep a small community of regulars happy. Don’t let the big Confederate flag on the plywood wall scare you, because right next to it hangs the Star-Spangled Banner. And almost everybody here knows what in hell the Stars and Stripes stand for: Your freedom to kick someone else’s ass ends where his liberty to boot your butt begins. The doors are open until 3:00 a.m., 5:00 a.m. on weekends, unless business is slow and the bartender decides to kick everyone’s asses out.

From the jukebox at the 1800 Club on the Miami side of the bay, Mick Jagger laments, “You can’t always get what you want….” At the dimly lit bar, surrounded by a square copper countertop, 44-year-old Debra Douglas doles out Budweisers the way a saint manufactures minor miracles. A kiss on the cheek for the regulars, full regard for the passing stranger. Douglas, all caramel skin, dark wavy hair, wide mahogany eyes, and full, chocolate-color lips, surprisingly was born on Long Island to parents who hail from Trinidad. She is part Chinese, Scottish, and Cherokee Indian, a wild mixture that has resulted in a serene exotic beauty. During 23 years in the hospitality industry, she just might have heard it all. “You have to have a sense of humor in this kind of work,” she allows in her smoky alto voice. Like the statue of the African fertility goddess that sits near her cash register, there is something resolute and eternal about Douglas on the job. Despite the quiet storm of emotional activity that surrounds her, she emanates a steady, generous warmth. Watching her serve a stable of locals, one is reminded how much giving there is in listening. She leans far out from behind her fortress to be embraced by the outstretched arms of a patron, a routine ritual of greeting and farewell. Absorbing and deflecting excesses of affection with an easy charm, she moves on to take in the daily snippet of life’s long tale from yet another customer. In the background that Stone’s ode to acceptance plays on: “But if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need.”

With all due respect to Club Deuce, Zeke’s, and the Abbey Pub, sometimes even those establishments aren’t powerful enough to shield you from attitude-heavy South Beach. When such ennui strikes, try Norman’s. It’s just far enough away to be unfashionable, which for the rest of us means relaxed, not subject to the supercilious gaze of the fashionista. “This is very much a locals’ bar,” explains owner Xavier Cervera. “People who grew up around here, versus South Beach, which is very transient.” All of which makes it a very friendly hangout. Three professional-size pool tables and a selection of 35 beers add to the ambiance. Norman’s is open seven days a week from 11:00 until 5:00 a.m.

Does paying $20 to enter a South Beach club where you have the privilege of plunking down $9 per drink have your bank account a bit barren? Don’t worry — if it’s a low-dough night you’re looking for, then stumble no further than Loco Thursday at Iguana Cantina. Be forewarned that scores of college drinkers and cheap alcohol go hand in hand, but when the cover charge is a hefty $1, and 50-cent margaritas and draft beers are available until 5:00 a.m., chances are eventually you won’t care who you’re drinking with.

It’s a tiny cubbyhole at the tippy-top of one of the coolest clubs in town. And it’s exclusive. Not “exclusive” like other nightspots, where anyone with $300 to plunk down for a bottle of scotch is admitted. Entry into Level 6 is by invitation only. And isn’t that what a VIP room is really about? Level 6 also has its own bathrooms — another distinction it claims — though it’s a dubious one: They’re rarely in service.

If the creators of the TV series Cheers had lived in Miami Springs instead of Boston, the dimly lit bar at Holleman’s might have been immortalized by now. This 25-year-old establishment is so down-home its proprietors print a monthly newsletter listing customers’ birthdays and wedding anniversaries. It’s the kind of place where an old bearded codger sitting on one side of the bar teases a middle-age guy in a shirt and tie sitting on the other side.

“Hey, I used to baby-sit you.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Younger citizens also feel at home here as well (as long as they respect their elders). Not only is the Holleman clientele multigenerational, it’s also somewhat multicultural, as the Springs sheds its Anglo-enclave identity. On weekend nights the crowd often is multitudinous (that means packed, good buddy). The microbrew insurrection has yet to touch Holleman’s. Here the seasoned bartenders serve draft beers for $1.75 per glass, mixed drinks for $2.75.

The bar in Chris Blackwell’s hotel has been a consistent standout for nine years. It hasn’t had to reinvent itself to grab attention, like a plastic-surgeried Palm Beach matron. Instead it has remained confident in its own cool. The lounge’s brushed-steel interior provides a refined platform in which to sit and sip a drink. The bartenders are swift and attentive. But if you’re with friends, you may prefer the more intimate setting down in the so-called opium den, a cozy little enclave decorated with Middle Eastern drapes, couches, and cushions. Most nights the den offers live music (a mix of salsa, jazz, and R&B). Beverage prices vary from four to nine dollars, and whether it’s an old standby like a martini or a house specialty such as the blue marlin — a blend of light rum, blue curaçao, lemon juice — it’s always served in a copious goblet.

At Champagne’s the finest jazz in Miami is served with a Kreyol flavor. “Remember, this is not just a music club; this is a restaurant,” reminds owner Frantz Olivier, who recommends the griot pork seasoned with sour oranges. He might add that this joint, which opened in November 1999, is a bit of an art gallery, too. An enormous mural depicting a trumpet-blowing Dizzy Gillespie (among other legends) decorates the walls. Bathroom doors feature paintings by local Haitian artist Joseph Wilfrid Daleus. When musicians break, two televisions screen archival-type footage of jazz masters, courtesy of musician Jesse Jones, Jr.’s personal collection. Jones himself, regularly featured at this venue, is a pleasure to watch and hear, blowing his enormous black bass clarinet (and assorted woodwinds) or scatting in his signature falsetto style. You can join him onstage as you dine at a half-dozen tables on the bandstand. Or, if you prefer, listen from a table off-stage. Either way, there is no escape from Jones’s playfully impassioned rendering of Ellington-Tizol-Mills’s “Caravan.” Hearing it, you will want to follow. Champagne’s is open Friday through Sunday nights. Dinner begins at 6:00 p.m. Music begins at 9:30 p.m. Friday and Saturday, and 8:00 p.m. Sunday.

There’s little shortage of DJs in Miami, and if you poke around town beyond the velvet ropes, you might even find a couple spinning some half-interesting music. Disc jockeys in the literal sense, however — individuals skilled in riding high in the saddle and coaxing their treasured vinyl collections to new and transcendent feats — are a rare find in these parts. Which makes the local outings of DJ LeSpam (Andrew Yeomanson) all the more treasured. Whatever his given venue (the opening of a new Little Havana performance space, a private birthday party, a laid-back night at Brandt’s Break — R.I.P.) or his chosen approach for the evening (vintage Sixties soul burners, sleazy funk workouts, or perhaps tweaked hip-hop and abstract breaks), LeSpam is sure to combine a joyfully cockeyed spirit of sonic adventurousness with a determination to keep the butts of his listeners in serious motion.

Off the beaten path, ensconced in the suburbs of Homestead, is the area’s most musician-friendly open-mike night. Itching to play Friday evening, but don’t have a guitar handy? No problem. One of the café’s four owners, Laurie Oudin, will lend you her battered Ovation, if you ask. How’s it sound? Pretty damn good. Want to sound better? Invite MCing regulars, keyboardist Chuck Acevedo and guitarist Scott Emmons, to perform with you. Suddenly you’ll find yourself sounding like … a band. Gotta have more? Play well enough and you will be invited back Saturday night to sit in with house band the Pathfinders. In addition to the fun, the Main Street Café also offers a wide variety of vegetarian dishes and a respectable beer selection. Those who bomb can seek consolation in the establishment’s tasty cherry cobbler pie à la mode.

Both pipes open up on a stretch of road as long and flat as the devil’s driveway, and that damn tropical sun beats down on you like a mess o’ troopers on road-kill day. Your machine’s growling like a hungry lion, and your ol’ lady starts whining that she’d like something to drink. Problem is, nothing around. You could backtrack to some fast-food joint in a mall near Florida City, or follow that endless black ribbon south to where the mangroves muscle out the sun and you get a little shade. Screw it. You keep your knees in the breeze until you hit Alabama Jack’s, a biker-friendly white-trash tiki hut with pizzazz. The hogs are lined up by the split-rail fence like horses at a hitching post. The bar is perched over the water, so a cool wind always blows. Now your baby’s changed her tune: She’s cooing what a good idea this was. You kick up your boots, lean back, and rub your tattooed belly as the waitress plunks down a cold one. This’ll do, this’ll do. Jack’s, now in its 52nd year, is open seven days a week, from 11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.

Since when do people dance at a karaoke night? Patrons usually are too busy cringing from the wails of the aspiring vocalist at the mike to consider boogying. But every Wednesday evening at Hooligan’s, a neighborhood crew unabashedly jumps up and cuts the rug to the sounds of a seemingly endless stream of would-be starlets gracing the stage. Of course it’s possible that people are dancing because they’re soused from the cheap ladies’ night drinks. Who knows and, frankly, who cares? The ladies’ night and karaoke combo provokes more singing and dancing than if either theme night stood on its own. It’s also more fun.

What distinguishes a truly sophisticated sports bar from the run-of-the-mill? The intelligent details, coach. For instance clever television placement, such as a stack of two TVs on a cigarette machine. Large wooden tables that provide excellent acoustics by softening brash television sound waves. An extensive collection of old beer taps hanging upside down from some rafters to help you ponder the meaning of life during commercials. Bartenders with a knowing glint in their eyes offering a selection of twenty draft beers. Weekly two-dollar pint specials. A rack of Sports Illustrated magazines to keep you abreast of important cultural developments. And delicious smoked fish, of course.

Strange how the beautiful people flock together. Even stranger is the number of places in which they choose to converge that close. Bar Room, for instance. The club converted an upstairs space into the Moon Bar, a watering hole especially for the modeling industry. The fabulati came in droves. Unfortunately for owner Chris Paciello, so did the feds. (We all know the story.) Recently sold, Bar Room is shuttered until the fall. On a lighter note was Monday’s at Brandt’s Break. The quarter beers and live music made it a must-stop for every set of high cheekbones on the Beach. Even though the place closed its doors, the party stayed alive and moved to Señor Frog’s, but it’s not quite the same. Enter the Living Room, a virtual magnet for every comely person who ever posed in front of a camera. Who knows if it’s the Euro trash oozing cash, the distinctive bordello-chic décor, or the intimate back area dubbed the Joy Room that attracts the genetically (and cosmetically) blessed? Whatever the reason the beautiful people keep coming. Whether it’s to attend the legendary Wednesday-evening party; the recently imported, hip Sunday-night soirée, Hercules; or one of many bashes hosted by magazines or modeling agencies, the bevy of beauties gliding through the door never seems to end.

The dim lighting, the cramped, blood-red faux-leather booths, the dark wood paneling. Even though the place is clean, somehow when you’re here, you feel … dirty. Like, if you’re not already having an affair or planning a bank robbery, you oughta be. Funny how the place also manages to feel welcoming, in a seedy sort of way. Must be that two-for-one happy hour (9:00 to 11:00 p.m., Tuesdays and Fridays) on already-inexpensive drinks, or that deelicious menu. All the usual bar food suspects are here: burgers, chicken fingers, fries. And the French dip? It’s the French dippiest. Slink on in for some clandestine fun. Use a fake name, and for God’s sake, don’t use your credit card. No one must know.

Great ambiance can only make a cocktail taste better. Not that the Strand’s bloody mary needs much help. The house recipe — fashioned with hearty tomato juice and a masterful blend of vodka, horseradish, garlic, salt, pepper, lime juice, Worcestershire, and Tabasco sauce — is a winning combination. Complement the eye-popping beverage with a clear view of the Atlantic from the Strand’s outdoor deck and the fresh sea air, and you have a concoction that will not only help you shake any of the previous evening’s evils, but also put an energetic first step in your day.

Snaking down the dirt roads to get to this ranch off the Florida Turnpike at Okeechobee is half the fun, especially after dark. Tires hug the earth as cars squeeze between oncoming traffic and the crops crowding the fields. Weekend party animals give way to four-footed friends during the week. Horses drink water out of troughs in the parking lot. For recent immigrants Rancho Gaspar brings memories of La Tropical, the huge open-air emporium on the outskirts of Havana that holds the world’s record for the longest-lasting salsa party. The crowd looks much the same as you’d find at La Tropical, with a high spandex count and more than a few glints of gold teeth. Families abound, from babes in arms to abuelitas with walkers. Out in the barn, the four-to-eight-year-old crowd has a monopoly on the pool table. Teenagers smooch in the pasture. The fun begins at two on Sunday afternoons, with music and pony rides. One or two Sundays per month musical acts such as Cuba’s Manolín and the Dominican Republic’s Oro Solido play live. Saturday nights a DJ spins salsa hits from Victor Manuelle to Issac Delgado, with the latest in merengue and bachata thrown in. Who cares if owner Gaspar Olazabal is a bit gruff at the door? The bartenders and waitresses are friendly, the beer is cheap, and the food is plentiful.

Last year we ranted over the debasement of this most refined of cocktails. Haplessly clutched to the noxious bosom of mass culture, the martini recently had been drained of its noble heritage and left to molder as a pop icon. Uncomprehending amateurs ordered facsimiles of them by the millions from uninitiated bartenders — with disastrous results. And no one seemed to care. No one! For chrissakes, a martini is not a beer! In our recommendation we grumpily retreated to that lonely bastion of tradition, the deluxe American steak house, where a martini is, without fail, straight up, very dry, and made only with fine gin. Now we’re happy to announce the dark cloud is lifting, slowly but surely. Here are two quite different venues with one thing in common: a proper respect for our beloved elixir. Mark’s South Beach should come as no surprise as it perfectly fulfills two of our criteria for ensuring martini success: It is a restaurant with a bar attached, and it is a top-quality restaurant. Located in the exquisitely refurbished Nash Hotel, Mark Militello’s latest culinary temple includes a sleek and cozy bar separate from the dining rooms, so you can pop in for a splendid martini unannounced, whereas dinner reservations must be made well in advance. At the other end of the swankiness spectrum, as it were, we have the new incarnation of Big Fish, hard by the Miami River. The location and ambiance here are acknowledged elsewhere in this compendium of superlatives. But let it not go unnoticed that this version of Big Fish also includes a full bar — and a bar staff fully conversant in the complex language of a deceptively simple drink: chilled gin, vermouth, garnish. The informality at Big Fish blends easily with the sublime pleasure of a perfectly prepared martini. One olive, please.

Does paying $20 to enter a South Beach club where you have the privilege of plunking down $9 per drink leave your bank account a bit barren? Don’t worry — if it’s a low-dough night you’re looking for, then stumble no further than Loco Thursday at Iguana Cantina. Be forewarned that scores of college drinkers and cheap alcohol go hand in hand, but when the cover charge is a hefty $1, and 50-cent margaritas and draft beers are available until 5:00 a.m., chances are eventually you won’t care who you’re drinking with.

So-called progress dislodged Eddie’s from the corner of SW Eighth Street and 126th Avenue in the early Nineties to make way for a god-dang restaurant, parking lot, and minor strip mall. So this cocktail lounge with an Anglo-Alabaman aura was chased into in a narrow mall storefront only 50 feet away from its original location. Damn straight it was. As a result of this little modern-day Reconstruction (whupped up, no doubt, by some pissant latter-day carpetbaggers), this dim room is now stuck between a pharmacy and a dry cleaner. Cheap beer and mixed drinks, a decent pool table, two well-lit dart boards, and plenty of Billy Rays and Billy Joes on the jukebox keep a small community of regulars happy. Don’t let the big Confederate flag on the plywood wall scare you, because right next to it hangs the Star-Spangled Banner. And almost everybody here knows what in hell the Stars and Stripes stand for: Your freedom to kick someone else’s ass ends where his liberty to boot your butt begins. The doors are open until 3:00 a.m., 5:00 a.m. on weekends, unless business is slow and the bartender decides to kick everyone’s asses out.

From the jukebox at the 1800 Club on the Miami side of the bay, Mick Jagger laments, “You can’t always get what you want….” At the dimly lit bar, surrounded by a square copper countertop, 44-year-old Debra Douglas doles out Budweisers the way a saint manufactures minor miracles. A kiss on the cheek for the regulars, full regard for the passing stranger. Douglas, all caramel skin, dark wavy hair, wide mahogany eyes, and full, chocolate-color lips, surprisingly was born on Long Island to parents who hail from Trinidad. She is part Chinese, Scottish, and Cherokee Indian, a wild mixture that has resulted in a serene exotic beauty. During 23 years in the hospitality industry, she just might have heard it all. “You have to have a sense of humor in this kind of work,” she allows in her smoky alto voice. Like the statue of the African fertility goddess that sits near her cash register, there is something resolute and eternal about Douglas on the job. Despite the quiet storm of emotional activity that surrounds her, she emanates a steady, generous warmth. Watching her serve a stable of locals, one is reminded how much giving there is in listening. She leans far out from behind her fortress to be embraced by the outstretched arms of a patron, a routine ritual of greeting and farewell. Absorbing and deflecting excesses of affection with an easy charm, she moves on to take in the daily snippet of life’s long tale from yet another customer. In the background that Stone’s ode to acceptance plays on: “But if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need.”

With all due respect to Club Deuce, Zeke’s, and the Abbey Pub, sometimes even those establishments aren’t powerful enough to shield you from attitude-heavy South Beach. When such ennui strikes, try Norman’s. It’s just far enough away to be unfashionable, which for the rest of us means relaxed, not subject to the supercilious gaze of the fashionista. “This is very much a locals’ bar,” explains owner Xavier Cervera. “People who grew up around here, versus South Beach, which is very transient.” All of which makes it a very friendly hangout. Three professional-size pool tables and a selection of 35 beers add to the ambiance. Norman’s is open seven days a week from 11:00 until 5:00 a.m.

Does paying $20 to enter a South Beach club where you have the privilege of plunking down $9 per drink have your bank account a bit barren? Don’t worry — if it’s a low-dough night you’re looking for, then stumble no further than Loco Thursday at Iguana Cantina. Be forewarned that scores of college drinkers and cheap alcohol go hand in hand, but when the cover charge is a hefty $1, and 50-cent margaritas and draft beers are available until 5:00 a.m., chances are eventually you won’t care who you’re drinking with.

It’s a tiny cubbyhole at the tippy-top of one of the coolest clubs in town. And it’s exclusive. Not “exclusive” like other nightspots, where anyone with $300 to plunk down for a bottle of scotch is admitted. Entry into Level 6 is by invitation only. And isn’t that what a VIP room is really about? Level 6 also has its own bathrooms — another distinction it claims — though it’s a dubious one: They’re rarely in service.

If the creators of the TV series Cheers had lived in Miami Springs instead of Boston, the dimly lit bar at Holleman’s might have been immortalized by now. This 25-year-old establishment is so down-home its proprietors print a monthly newsletter listing customers’ birthdays and wedding anniversaries. It’s the kind of place where an old bearded codger sitting on one side of the bar teases a middle-age guy in a shirt and tie sitting on the other side.

“Hey, I used to baby-sit you.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Younger citizens also feel at home here as well (as long as they respect their elders). Not only is the Holleman clientele multigenerational, it’s also somewhat multicultural, as the Springs sheds its Anglo-enclave identity. On weekend nights the crowd often is multitudinous (that means packed, good buddy). The microbrew insurrection has yet to touch Holleman’s. Here the seasoned bartenders serve draft beers for $1.75 per glass, mixed drinks for $2.75.

Most people don’t know the name of this bar. They know it only by its location: south of Wolfie’s, a couple of doors north of an adult bookstore, which is a couple of doors north of the Déjà Vu strip club. This is perhaps the seediest block left in South Beach. And the Champ, one of the Beach’s last shabby outposts, boasts patrons who fit right in. Blue-collar Latins and gringos, occasional club kids, working girls, clueless tourists, gays, straights, strippers, transvestites, and who-knows-whats can all be spotted at the bar enjoying a belt. We’re talkin’ low rent, low morals, low dough, all of which raises more than a few eyebrows. You certainly won’t see anything like this on Ocean Drive.

Long a glittery weekend salsa pit, Club Millennium now offers a welcome respite to Latin rockers who complain they get no respect in Miami. The Doral-area disco caters to the South American kids of the city’s western suburbs with a Thursday-night series of the best Latin rock acts from Tijuana to Buenos Aires. Heavy on the frenzied sounds of the Southern Cone, the new era of Rock en Español began in January 2000 with Argentine underground institution Los Pericos. In March fellow porteño Fito Paez drew the biggest crowd to date. The fanatic exuberance of Fito-starved fans pissed off the formerly radical rocker as he tried to play a toned-down set of his best-loved tunes on piano with nothing but a bass accompaniment. Flapping his arms like a Muppet, Paez implored the crowd to shut the doors, indulge in an orgy, then listen quietly to his music in the postclimactic calm. Somebody set off the sprinkler system by waving his lighter in the air instead. One way or the other, Club Millennium is letting Miami get its Spanish-language rock off like never before.

There’s a saying that given enough time, even the town whore becomes respectable. That adage certainly applies to Tobacco Road, rapidly closing in on a century as one of Miami’s most cherished watering holes. Once a notorious den of iniquity, the Road now has a family friendly vibe, or at least the atmosphere of an all-American frat party. Sure you’ll still find plenty of cops swarming the premises, but unlike the Prohibition Era, these days they’re there as (hopefully off-duty) customers. In fact wander out back to the open-air patio to catch a breeze off the river, and you’re likely to come across several city prosecutors settling into a beer and a burger. Of course what draws the consistently packed crowds isn’t just the locale, the brew, or the pub chow (solid as it may be); it’s the music, which remains both very live and thankfully little more than spit-polished. Gaze upon the walls here and you’ll spy framed posters immortalizing past Road gigs by protorocker legends such as John Lee Hooker, Bo Diddley, and Junior Wells, even outer-space soul-jazz visionary Sun Ra, all asserting that the “disco sucks” debate is far from over, at least in this joint. Veteran barflies may grouse that the booking policy is a bit less impressive on the talent front these days, but as last November’s George Clinton date here proved, heavy hitters still occasionally grace the stage. Moreover Tobacco Road ensures a steady diet of roots-oriented outfits — local and national, up-and-coming and unknown — and continues to be a welcome home within which to wail away, providing a solid bet for an unpretentious, relaxed night out. In a city whose nightlife milieu increasingly is given over to tense stargazing, that says something.

Tucked into the extreme south end of downtown Coral Gables, this unassuming ranch-style edifice next to the Knights of Columbus hall has been called the Crown and Garter as well as the English Crown before its current owners gave it a more prosaic moniker a couple of years back. In its latest incarnation as the Gables Pub, it attracts a youngish crowd (more platform shoes, midriffs, and chain wallets than you’d find at your usual Gables gathering place) with its low-key atmosphere, tasty food, and Bass and Guinness on tap. (It skews a little younger on Wednesday’s ladies’ night and a little smellier on Thursday, when the rugby players show up.) Two narrow inside rooms and the outdoor concrete courtyard filled with tables make it more of a place to hang out than to pick up or throw down — unless someone’s throwing down her last ficha in one of the pitched domino battles that have been known to break out. One oddity: Despite the fact that the gringo quotient is no higher here than anywhere else in the Gables, the jukebox features a veritable rogues’ gallery of the worst and the whitest. (Styx, anyone?) Yet the pub is so otherwise inviting, the patrons don’t run screaming for the exits.

Macabi’s began as a retail store with one of the best tobacco selections around, as well as some of the best prices. But last June, after the nationwide cigar boom began to wane, owners Henry Vilar and Arturo Sosa transformed their showroom into a smoke room, complete with high-end liquors and cordials. Now, after picking out a hefty Arturo Fuente Hemingway (at seven dollars, not a bad price) in the walk-in humidor, you can settle into a plush chair, sip a Fonseca port, and depending on the night, enjoy music (Friday is latin jazz, Saturday is often blues) or games (Tuesday night the old-school fumadores gather to play dominoes).

This darkly hued downtown oasis is ideal for checking your investments while you quaff some refreshments. Sure it’s a national chain with a gimmick: a news ticker. But at least it’s an informative gimmick. Sit in air-conditioned elegance while the headlines and stock market updates whiz by on the wall. Somehow it’s more exciting than watching television over the massive wooden bar. Steeped in sophistication the Capital Grille bar is cigar-friendly and aurally agreeable: A piano player jams nearby from Tuesday through Saturday. There is no happy hour to attract the boisterous riffraff, though you may get to observe how your neighbor at the bar reacts when he loses his shorts on those technology stocks.

On most Monday nights after nine, you can slip into Tobacco Road’s beery downstairs barroom and enjoy the public rehearsal of Iko-Iko, this town’s most seasoned and reliable blues ensemble. The band, led by local heavyweight Graham Drout, is a five-man Cajun-inflected Miami sound machine with a busy national tour schedule and official fan clubs in a dozen states, including New Jersey, California, and Kentucky. But on Mondays the boys are usually at home, comfortable in the bosom of the Road, chewing on good burgers, talking about working on their cars, and chatting with their hard-core fans. These nights are a tradition established more than eighteen years ago, when Drout began celebrating Monday at the Road with his pre-Iko group, the Fat Chance Blues Band. It’s great to be there when the fellows grab an accordion, or whatever instrument is handy, catch a downbeat, and ease their tunes into the musical pocket as easy as a good riverboat captain navigates the waters of the nearby Miami River. They’ll move you through several hours of home-brew music, mostly blues based, but all mooshed up with the sounds of Louisiana and spiced with the whine of old-time country harmonies. No cover, and the rack of lamb is cheap and good. They don’t call it Blue Monday for nothing.

Every so often the grind of city life pauses long enough to reveal why it’s worth grinding on in our particular city. Nikki is just such an epiphany. It’s a club/lounge/restaurant that exists solely under palm trees and on top of sand. Nestled in the dunes between the ocean and the rear of Penrod’s, Nikki is the brainchild of long-time Beach nightlife promoter Tommy Pooch and Bash impresario Eric Omores. “We were looking to get out of the nightclub business and get into the daytime business,” Pooch reveals. “Although now it’s a nighttime business as well.” The two promoters hired French designer Stephane Dupoux to create the scene. Dupoux didn’t disappoint. He sculpted sand into berms and planted palm trees in them. Then he strung up hammocks between the trees. He continued that theme with the rest of the décor, laying down bamboo mats, erecting tepees, and strewing about carved wood chairs and tables from Asia. The place hums with excitement Sundays, as beachgoers, many of them Europeans, loll about in gently swaying hammocks, staving off thoughts of the Monday to come with a cold Corona.

Start by scoping out the looong L-shape wood bar planted in the middle of the room. Next sidle up to one of the cushiony metal stools upholstered in green velour. Now lean up against the bar and accommodate the shoes on the foot rests below. Once in perfect drinking position, order the liver killer. Northwest Miami-Dade suburbanites have visited this watering hole, located in a strip shopping center, for more than twenty years. Most patrons call bartender Bill by name. Resident band Powerhouse plays rock and pop favorites, which also dominate the jukebox. The requisite dart board hangs on the wall near the hall of fame, which features photos of famous guests. Remember Don Shula? The low lights, tinted windows, and dark wood paneling on the wall set the laid-back atmosphere. Show up any time except Sunday. The body deserves at least one day of rest.

It’s late in the second period. The Heat is staving off the Knicks 48-46. Not far from the TV, a man and a woman sit cozily. The woman, holding a glass of wine in one hand and waving the other, tries to draw her man’s gaze away from the game. She has things besides hoops on her mind. “Put more of that stuff on this thing,” she commands, pointing first to a bottle of olive oil and then to a little plate. She has been dipping fresh bread on the plate, which until that last dunk held an elixir of extra-virgin olive oil infused with red pepper flakes. By the time her beau snaps out of it, the alert, gregarious waiter has replenished her little pool. She no longer minds her guy’s inattentiveness, though. She is too engrossed in nibbling a delicious grilled calamari appetizer. But the real excitement erupts at halftime. The zupa di giorno (tonight it’s carrot) has just arrived. Shortly thereafter, swoosh, a porcini mushroom risotto (one of the special entrées tonight, under ten dollars) lands softly before her. For boyfriend it’s the ravioli di giorno (crab-lobster in pink sauce, also under ten dollars). And they still have half a bottle of decent wine left! Over at another table, a Heat fan whoops. The game hasn’t resumed: His spaghetti and meatballs have arrived. Bravo!

Tom’s has two British-made dart boards, located in a carpeted corner, a comfortable distance from pool tables, TVs, and those tipsy folks over by the bar. That distance is important, because darting mishaps can ruin an otherwise fabulous outing and prompt an awkward conversation.

Tipsy man to another tipsy man: “Hey, good buddy, you’ve got the biggest weirdest mosquito sucking on the side of your head.”

Dart player with British accent, removing the projectile: “Sorry, mate.”

You know Tom’s takes darting seriously, because two little green chalkboards for scorekeeping hang on the wall. They are sometimes used by local heavies of the dart world, members of the Miami-Dade Darting Association. If you’re not a dart shark yourself, ask for a set at the bar. While there you’ll also find an array of draft beer and wines, along with mixed drinks. The menu pierces expectations of humdrum bar-and-grill fare with items such as smoked tomato soup ($3.50), barbecue chicken pizza ($7.95), sesame seared tuna ($7.95), fresh fish-of-the-day sandwiches ($7.95), and a portobello mushroom burger ($6.95).

Even if the Haitian music scene is dominated by men, Miami’s best venue for live shows is powered by women. “The girls are in charge!” declares McArthur’s social director Kathy Giddarie. Since March 1999 general manager Vivian Lazarre’s female bartending crew has kept crowds of up to 800 compas fans happy. Out-of-town thrillers such as System, Sweet Mickey, and King Posse alternate with local favorites Zenglen and D-Zine on Friday and Sunday nights. Oldies night on Saturdays brings back the bands of yesteryear, from Haitian memory-makers to influential black acts such as the Temptations. Weekly dance contests put the fans in the spotlight. Since all that compas can work up an appetite, the kitchen is stocked with party foods, including conch fritters and the fried pork known as griot. Vive la femme!

Añoranzas (which means “longing” in Spanish) is the perfect place to lose yourself in yearning for a loved one. The décor is ripe for nostalgia, done up with rough-hewn wooden tables and a thatched ceiling, just like a cantina in the Medellín, Colombia, countryside. An actual chiva — a brightly painted country bus — is built into one wall, its narrow seats converted into booths perfect for cuddling. The pungent national liquor, aguardiente, flows copiously, warming even the coolest hearts. Romantic oldies from Colombia’s big bands of the Forties and Fifties alternate with heartbreaking tangos and mournful vallenatos. People say of the contemplative genre from the Colombian coast: “The vallenato is not for dancing.” And they’re right. It’s for swaying on the dance floor in an embrace so close that the sound of your lover’s breath seems like an accompaniment to the accordion.

All gay. All the time. Believe it or not, in an area that some call the new gay mecca, surprisingly few bars or nightspots cater exclusively to the gay market. Recently renovated, this club now boasts three spacious spaces, including an outdoor patio, so there’s plenty of room to move around. Bartenders and clientele that are among the nicest on South Beach and music that always pumps ensures you’ll have a gay old time.

Proper preparation is the key to life. It not only applies to careers; it carries over to the social scene. One can hardly stroll sober into a South Beach nightclub and easily mingle with the depraved. Enter Blue. This intimate bar lies several paces away from the hippest spots on Washington Avenue. The cool blue tones that dominate the interior are barely discernible in the softly lit atmosphere. Techno music vibrates the walls and prepares the ears for the imminent onslaught of bass. Anyone, including VIPs, can lounge on the (what else?) blue leather couches or perch on the cone-shape stools that line the bar. Luckily this azure pit stop won’t give rise to the blues by busting the budget. There is no cover charge and drinks are reasonably priced, for the Beach. Once that old tingly feeling arises, hit the strip and stride confidently up to that velvet rope. You are now ready for the revelry inside.

The pirates from Mixx 96 FM make merry every Friday night at the Mad House on Key Biscayne. A breeze wafts over the outdoor soca deck on the bay and boats pull right up to the dance floor. The Trini South Boys along with DJs House Arrest and Giselle “the Wassy One” make the crowd jump and wave to the latest sounds of the Caribbean. For those whose taste for island music runs closer to the ground, grinding is guaranteed with DJs Khalid, Fashion, and the marvelous Lady Terror spinning dancehall and hip-hop inside. From the moment doors open at midnight, the place is packed with people representing the Jamaican Crew, the Trinidadian Crew, the Bahamian Crew, the Virgin Islands Crew, and crews from every other Caribbean enclave. Expect even bigger crowds when big name guests like King Addis and Matterhorn fly in from New York and Kingston.

Debuting this year amid more new nightspots than South Beach has ever seen, Level has the personnel, parties, and square footage to rise above all else in clubland. Led by nightlife impresario and fashion designer Gerry Kelly, this huge yet versatile space hosts everything: the grandest of bashes and the smallest soirees. From the intimate upstairs room dubbed Level 6 to the Boiler Room to the lobbies of the up- and downstairs to the expansive main room, all areas can be used on their own or combined with others. Kelly and crew put the adaptable interior to good use, hosting a variety of parties, such as the megaurban hit Little Leroy’s Lyric Lounge on Monday; fashion showcases on Thursday, the Federation/1235 gay party on Friday, the usual packed dance night on Saturday, and a recently reintroduced reggae night, which occasionally features live performances, on Sunday. A busy schedule for sure, keeping this South Beach club always engaged and always engaging.

This local honky-tonk has long been a drinking well for Ridge Rats and other South Miami-Dade folks. It used to be called Norm’s Hideaway back in the Eighties, and many an illegal substance could be found there. Now renamed and expanded, it continues to quench the needs of locals, though not with quite the same wild abandon. Still, no matter the day of the week, chances are there is something to do at BB’s. Tuesday is Ping-Pong night. Wednesday is in-line dancing with a country DJ. Thursday is reserved for tournaments on at least seventeen dart boards and two pool tables. Friday and Saturday nights feature rock or blues bands on a small stage in the corner (no cover), with room to dance underneath two disco balls. And sometimes on Sundays, regulars play volleyball out by the parking lot. BB’s has come a long way in the past twenty years, but one look at the guy aggressively playing air guitar at the bar and you have to wonder.

So, your baby left you the same day you lost your job, and when you got home the landlord was waiting. Well, pull up a stool. Although the King Stable, a Miami mainstay for 31 years, isn’t just for the blues, it’s a fine place to start. Crammed into its jukebox is an assemblage of 99 songs sure to ease a worried mind. From Big Joe Turner to Sam Cooke, Ruth Brown to Patti LaBelle, the collection is a testament to men and women’s cheatin’ ways. The box is unsullied by Ricky Martin or Eminem. “I go for the Seventies and Sixties soul and blues,” says Adolph King, the establishment’s 48-year-old inheritor. “I speak to what I am. My culture. I don’t go for no Spanish music. No hip-hop. No rock.” Five speakers dispersed throughout the house carry the music with enough bass to fill you with joy, but not make your beer skitter across the bar.