By Steve Brennan
By Ashley Zimmerman
By Michele Eve Sandberg
By Abel Folgar
By Ashley Zimmerman
By New Times Staff
By Abel Folgar
By Laurie Charles
What does it mean to be American, if not celebrating good music, cheap booze, and scantily clad ladies? This week, I journeyed north to celebrate the finer things in life.
American Rock Bar & Grill: Walking into American Rock Bar & Grill means coming face to face with the legends. Larger-than-life posters of Jim Morrison, Queen, Rush, and Jimi Hendrix adorn the walls. The playlist alternates between punk and metal. Every item on the food menu is named after a prolific pop artist or rock star. Sexy, spiky-haired women dart around behind the bar, serving drinks to a bunch of long-haired, chilled-out regulars. I even overheard a chick with dyed black hair saying: "Once I made the mistake of going on tour with my boyfriend's band. God, I'd never been around so many guys wearing makeup in my life."
I grabbed a spot next to a giant Elvis poster, promptly ordered a Mandrinoska drink (orange juice, fine sugar, and Absolut Mandarin — I need my vitamin C), and perused the menu. The Billy Idol was an Italian sandwich; Iggy Pop and Aerosmith were both fish dishes.
1600 E. Hillsboro Blvd.
Deerfield Beach, FL 33441
Category: Bars and Clubs
Region: Deerfield Beach
Greenbrier Restaurant, 1180 S. Powerline Road, Pompano Beach; 954-972-7300.
I ordered the Pearl Jam (an appetizer of potato chips) and took a glance around. The large room was decked out with posters, mounted records, neon beer signs, and bookshelves (stocked with novels including the first Twilight book). The large bar was lined with airplane-style lights, and the neatly arranged bottles behind it shimmered in the low lighting. There was also a large faux skylight that curved up into the ceiling, painted sky blue complete with fluffy white clouds. I also noticed a second room — dark and closed off from the public. This piqued my interest. I left my wingman to choose between the Robert Plant (pasta) and the Buffalo Soldier (buffalo chicken).
"This was a library in the '60s," explained Rebecca, the freckled, pigtailed assistant manager. She was young, enthusiastic, and way too pretty to work six days a week, which she said she does.
Rebecca opened the door to the second, darkened room and pointed at a wall of framed news clippings. "This is all stuff about the library, and we pay homage to it by calling this part of our restaurant the Library Bar. This room was actually the children's wing."
I surveyed it silently. The room was large, with its own bar, several tables, and plenty of places to dance — including on a pole.
"Yeah, my favorite part is that we now have a stripper pole in the kids' wing," Rebecca said snarkily. It was used recently for a swimsuit contest, she said. "And we're also starting a Tuesday trivia night."
When she noticed me rubbing my hands together in an egomaniacal sort of way (Trivia is my forte), she added a warning: "It's all rock and music trivia."
My wingman had settled on the Buffalo Soldier dish, which he was rapidly consuming when I swept back past him, stopping to take a big swig of my orange-flavored alcoholic drink before heading back to the bar.
There, I encountered Mitch, who wore a ball cap over his ponytailed hair and a T-shirt with a bikini-clad woman printed on the back. He balked at my opening question. "What do you mean, why do we come here?" he asked like I was a kook. "It has good music and cheap booze. What else do you need? I'm a cheap bastard — it's the Irish in me, I guess — and I like coming when I can get three-for-ones." He grabbed me by the shoulder and dragged me to the other side of the bar.
"This is my favorite thing about the bar." He pointed up at a poster of a martini. The martini's olives were dancing around the toothpick in the martini. "Because we all get a little crazy after too many martinis."
"Good lesson." I shuffled back to his friends: Rob, who was wiry and stubbly, and Jeff, who was big-boned and jovial.
"Wow, he had to show you every inch of the bar?" Rob said sarcastically. "Wasn't it pretty much the same the whole way down?"
"I come here several times a week," said Jeff. "The bartenders are nice, the drinks are cheap, and it gets really crazy on the weekends."
"Did you know it used to be a library?" I asked.
Mitch looked appalled. "Library? Who needs that?! This is way better than a library."
"Well, it does have books," I said.
"I don't need books — I have booze," he quipped.
Greenbrier Restaurant: "Too many tramp stamps," complained Beard. "Not enough nip slips."
"Quit yer bitching," I said, enjoying the view, regardless.
"I don't think I'd be comfortable going to work every day in my undergarments," mused our prim out-of-town Texas lady friend, who bears a striking resemblance to Sandra Bullock.
At Greenbrier, the bartenders are all chicks in various states of undress. We watched an exotic-looking girl flip her curtain of black hair over one shoulder and prance around in blue panties. A blond across the bar wore a matching hot-pink bra-and-panties set. A pigtailed girl could barely contain her "twins" inside a camo-print one-piece. Beard and Sandra Bullock looked away. I didn't.