Best Gimlet 2001 | Joe's Stone Crab Restaurant | Best Restaurants, Bars, Clubs, Music and Stores in Miami | Miami New Times
For such a simple drink, the gimlet has a salty history. This classic cocktail was delivered into the annals of mixology by British sailors who stirred together medicinal rations of Rose's lime juice and gin, discovering that it was possible to catch a nice buzz and ward off scurvy in one swing of the boom. The sailors probably didn't enjoy their libation shaken with ice, though, the preferred preparation method today. Author Raymond Chandler probably did, doing for the gimlet what Ian Fleming did for the martini. In the 1953 mystery The Long Goodbye, a character declares: "A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose's lime juice, and nothing else. It beats martinis hollow." Not quite. Since we're fortunate to be moored in a place with an abundance of limes and no threat of scurvy, there's no reason to ruin a gimlet with the cloying flavor of Rose's. Joe's Stone Crab Restaurant has improved upon the original recipe with refreshing results. Their gimlet boasts fresh-squeezed lime juice, a little sugar syrup, and gin shaken with ice. Created in a handsome mahogany bar reminiscent of a dignified gentlemen's club, Joe's version delivers a tart bang that feels as right as Big Ben. A gimlet the way those British sailors could only have dreamed.

Alas for lovers of Haitian compas music, McArthur International Café, with its weekly roster of local and national compas acts, is no more. Roots fans, however, can still find choice vodou rhythms and balladry at old standby Tap Tap. Venerable singer-songwriter (and former Port-au-Prince mayor) Manno Charlemagne is a regular presence on Saturday nights. Fridays bring a shifting set of rasin musicians including Papaloko of Loray Mistik and Richard LaGuerre, formerly of Boukan Ginen, accompanied on vodou feast days by dancers from local troupes such as Sosyete Koukouy. Beneath the watchful eyes of the lwa peering down from the colorful murals, patrons fueled by Barbancourt rum punch can practice their yanvalou and conga steps late into the night.
This sleek little steel-and-chrome number with flashing lights offers the most eclectic selection of tunes in town. There are contemporary Top 40 hits by the likes of Marc Anthony, Lauryn Hill, and, yes, Christina Aguilera; some gems from Motown's golden era; a smattering of country (Patsy Cline, George Strait); and a surprise or two (Elvis Presley's "Rock-A-Hula Baby"). The real reason to sidle up to this machine, though, may be its assortment of big band, swing, and Tin Pan Alley classics: Artie Shaw, Tommy Dorsey, Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, and Tony Bennett are all well represented. The best part? This juke hasn't swallowed a quarter in years. The music is on the house.
Hialeah Goth diva/performance artist Viva hosts a campy night of sex and song that would make Britney Spears jealous. Belt out tunes from the hefty book of cheesy pop and ballads. Pick from Viva's collection of feather boas, wigs, and strap-on dildos and fondle them as you croon. But try to behave: She and her Gothic devotees razz sprightly singers with their antics, punishing hecklers and gagging boys and girls with duct tape onstage. Catch the show Friday nights at Churchill's and Tuesday nights at Underland Privat -- if you dare.

A million-dollar renovation undertaken last August by owner Aurelio Rodriguez added a gourmet kitchen, back-yard stage, and air conditioning for VIPs, yet this rustic roadhouse retains all its long-standing open-air charm. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, La Covacha remains South Florida's best bet for classic and contemporary salsa as well as the latest in merengue and vallenato. Sunday rocks as hard as ever, with Latin alternative bands blaring for a young Latin-American crowd. And any day at La Covacha is ideal for noted visiting national acts to launch their music among the stars.
What? A hip club to go to? Yeah, just head over to Washington Avenue. There's a slew of them. Well, yeah, you have to wait in a line for a while, but just 30, 40 minutes. An hour tops. What's that? You're on the guest list? You know Gerry? Oh, your friend knows Ken? That's nice. In that case those glamorous little security guards may only make you wait fifteen minutes at their fabulous velvet ropes. But you'll probably get in eventually, and then the cover charge is usually only about twenty bucks. Yes, sometimes even when you're on the list! Well, no, that twenty doesn't include any drinks. But they're only eight or ten bucks a pop. Have fun! Oh, you're inviting me to come along? Thanks, but nah, I'm just not in the mood. Have a great time! (Pssst. Hey, cutie. Let's get out of this nightmare. Say what? There's a cool place over on the west side of the island, down by the bay? You mean Purdy? Let's take this cab. I like Purdy because it's, like, totally mellow. But not too mellow. You're right. And it's Wednesday, which is live-music night. You know what else is cool? There's never a cover. And they, like, pride themselves on that. Oh, it's Thursday? Well, then there'll probably be some decent DJs groovin' on. I've got the first round. We can hang out on one of the couches. Maybe shake our booties a little over by the shag rug. What? You, like, always sit on the couch under the lava lamps and African masks? That's, like, totally where I always sit.)
This one's a joke, right? There are no lesbian bars here. Sure a few girls' nights occur around town, but no permanent place exists for all the Sapphic sisters to gather over drinks. (Apparently the gals don't bring in as much money as the gaggles of shirtless boys, or maybe we're all just spending too much time at home -- nesting.) Girls in search of girls should support the Women's National Basketball Association. Buy season tickets to the Miami Sol home games and start cruising the Chivas Regal or the two Budweiser bars at the arena. Face it, you'll find more lesbians at the Sol games than in all of Miami's gay bars combined on any given night. Now, now, heterosexual sports fans, relax; you have nothing to fear. We are neither recruiting nor converting. Everyone really is at the arena to enjoy the game. Catching up with your friends at half-time or making some new ones? That's just a bonus.
Bolivian transplant Mario Irusta had a look in mind when he bought a rundown bar in the rundown neighborhood known as Wynwood. He wanted to improve the place but not so much that you'd notice. Clean but not antiseptic. His plan worked. Except for the worn terrazzo dance floor, everything in the place is relatively new, yet looks as if it has been there forever. The interior décor consists of dark woods, including the water-stained paneling and the bar itself, illuminated from underneath at night. Red barstools are upholstered in vintage Sixties vinyl. The cash register appears old and battered as do some of the crusty customers. The jukebox features an odd mix of genres: Honduran dance music, country and western, Mexican rural, and standard rock and roll. Irusta says the joint's name has something to do with a romance and a dream. His dream perhaps: that customers will come in for a drink and fall in love with his comfortable little locale.

At six ounces it's not the most generous pour in town. And at eleven dollars a pop, it's certainly no bargain. But about a year ago Nemo, a first-rate restaurant with a highly creative kitchen and a lovely ambiance, changed its martini presentation in a way that deserves recognition. After complaints from customers that their martinis were losing their chill before the last drop (a common predicament in the subtropics, especially if you dine on Nemo's open-air patio), staffers sought a solution. The result: A chilled-cone glass embellished with the garnish of your choice and accompanied by a miniature ice bucket holding a small carafe. Inside the carafe is your hypothermic gin (or vodka for heathens) and hint of vermouth. Voilà! Pour at your own pace and with assurance that the gin (or vodka for heathens) can be returned to ice for prolonged cooling without dilution. A truly elegant method of preserving the delicate essence of this most sophisticated of cocktails.

They say Calle Ocho is coming back. If they spent a Saturday night at La Reina, they'd see Calle Ocho has stayed pretty much where it's been for the past 40 years, right here in funky Little Havana, the first stop on many immigrants' road to the American dream. They drift in as the night progresses: the Honduran brothers looking to down a few beers (signs all over warn in Spanish: NO BEER SERVED WITHOUT FOOD, an accommodation to a past police crackdown on bars masquerading as cafeterias -- sort of like this one), dance with a waitress, and maybe find a chica to make them forget the ones they left behind in San Pedro Sula. The ancient Cuban man in a jacket and fedora who'll spend the night guaracheando like he's back in Pinar del Río, Latin classics blaring from the jukebox. The mysterious white-haired man, who sips beer and coffee while musing to himself in a Slavic language, as though attempting to maintain proficiency in the midst of so many Latin tongues. A young couple with babies, two or three women with young children. Nothing so far to get the Honduran brothers' hopes up. But the night is young. Long past midnight everyone's dancing under the fluorescent lights. Even though the customers will straggle out when 2:00 a.m. rolls around, many will be back first thing in the morning, lounging around a sidewalk table and watching the American dream unfold before them in all its mixed-up, faded glory.

Best Of Miami®

Best Of Miami®