Bars & Clubs

There are bars that serve wine -- the watery house cabernet or chardonnay that you try to drink after you've had a couple of nights of the hard stuff and you're trying to tail off a little -- and there are wine bars. Harrison's Wine Gallery is one of the few places in Broward-Palm Beach with a legitimate claim to the designation. A dark, cozy, family-run establishment in downtown Hollywood, with big stressed-leather couches, cushioned windowsill benches, and a handsome 18-seat bar, Harrison's carries an impressive selection of the old vino. There are better than 100 kinds, ranging from a better-than-passable South African merlot for $30 a bottle to a three-digit epicure's delight (like maybe Mondavi-Rothschild Opus One 1999 for $245). Just a glass of the stuff? Between $7 and $10. It's all good, not house filler. There are cheese platters, hummus platters, panini, eight kinds of draft beer, and 40 bottled beers. There's a patio out back for fresh-air addicts and smokers. Harrison's has already become the hangout of choice for the Hollywood sophisticated crowd, with usually a smattering of city officials, local merchants, and artists bending elbows together at the bar, to say nothing of a broad cross section of the dating public. Proprietor Rich Duncan, an amiable Liverpudlian with a nose for fine wine, is usually parked at the bar or escorting patrons to comfortable corners. That's his wife, Mary, behind the bar, pouring big drafts of pinot noir or zinfandel. Son Marco is in the kitchen, slicing cheese. As close to home as you're going to get without being parked in your own living room.

Promised the ol' Battle Ax that you wouldn't go to the strip bar tonight? Well, if you're a man of your word and you have a hankerin' to be around scantily clad women, that could be a problem. Happily, Greenbrier has got you covered. On many nights, admittedly, standards have to be set a little low -- Greenbrier seems to be the sort of place where old strippers go to fade away. The lights in the place are kept fairly dim, though, so just don't wear your contacts or glasses and you should be fine. Besides, one cannot say the same thing for everyone working there -- a few of the ladies in residence could give many strippers a run for their hard-earned money in the looks department. Plus, you'll be able to report that you did not, in fact, go to a strip bar when you stumble home in the wee hours. While the bartenders and waitresses at Greenbrier are dressed in as little as possible, none of them strips down to nothing, and a lap dance is nowhere to be found. Your conscience is clear, my friend.

Bitch-slapping's for sissies. Strap yourself into the dungeon-like slave pen, bend over, and let the flogging begin. Playing with the crosses and cage-like contraptions brings a whole new meaning to "going medieval." At the Fetish Box and the London Ballroom's monthly fetish romp, latex, leather, rubber, glam, and goth are among the few rules, not the exception -- you can't get in without sporting the garb (or at least an all-black outfit). The debaucherous playground is rife with industrial, electronic body music, and future pop beats spun by Dino, Ruiner, Falstaff, and Tommy Gunn. Fetish pinup diva and Playboy cover girl Dita Von Teese has headlined the club night, with her tease-to-please burlesque show. And where else might you have seen her perform this while cradled in a life-size martini glass? It just may leave your sore-assed self saying, "Thank you, sir. May I have another?"

An open area at the Mother's Pub becomes a launch pad each week for creative hip-hop music-making. A middle-age guy wails on a harmonica and guitar, to the rapping of an MC, who's rhyming to scratching and cuts of a turntablist. Jams like these can be found at "For Those Who Listen," a grassroots open-mic showcase of lyricism, poetry, and MC and DJ battles. Among the throng of hip-hop lyricists who come to square off, a guy challenges another, and they step up to shoot rhymes back and forth in a showdown. The night was created by members of the Fader Ballistix turntablist band: Immortal, Reakt, K-razor, Spytek, I-emerge, and SPS, and by 7th Direction band members Colossus, Choppa D-vize, Immortal, and Mordechai. The musicians wanted a way to perform, practice, and promote musical expression. Now that word's gotten out, battle lines have been drawn -- at least 25 MCs come in hopes of prime rhyming time to compete in rapping throwdowns. Hip-hop enthusiasts from Orlando to Miami trek to Broward for the musical improv night.

The house, electro, and break beats pulsating from the second floor of CityPlace on Monday nights from 11 p.m. to 3 a.m. are as much in the forefront of urban style as the venue that they're bouncing off. DJ H-Bomb formerly broadcast a live electronica radio show from the defunct Bliss. Now, the techno DJ continues christening local ears with cutting-edge tunes including original works by electro veterans Dynamix II and Scratch D vs. H-Bomb, noted for the Red Pill, and the latest tracks by artists such as breaks producer BLIM, breaks/electro duo Plump DJs, and breaks/big beat duo Crystal Method. Camaraderie runs strong among the hospitality-industry folks at the club night, with H-Bomb, a veteran of the West Palm Beach club circuit, at the helm.

How does she do it? For those who have never experienced a sold-out show at the Culture Room, let us warn you -- air is rare, and you had better be OK with other people's sweat on your nightlife apparel. It gets so packed that negotiating the brief trip from the bathrooms to the bar requires a sherpa and several days of supplies. Well, maybe not that packed. But you get the idea. And yet, there's Sharon behind the bar, unperturbed as a storm of avid drinkers calls for another round. Not only does she serve them all up with a quickness but she somehow manages to take the time to commiserate with a melancholy barfly or two. And she does it all while seeming neither hurried nor stressed. Perhaps there is some sort of time-warping effect around the bar at the Culture Room that allows her to serve 20 drinks in an eyeblink. Or maybe she's just that damn good.

Made-up gals with lip gloss in full display populate the dance floor, which resembles an upscale living room, with draperies, mirrors, and sleek seating. Sexy house music pulsates in the minimalist modern venue. Miniature shade lamps dimly light the black bar in the main room, teeming with clubgoers as if they've been coming here for years. Beautiful people ease into comfortable chatter, keeping the carafes and bottles tipping as they recline on the bed-like seating in the VIP section of the outdoor area. The fashion-savvy crowd of 20-somethings sports designer duds. More are cued up outside, 20 deep sometimes, waiting to cross the velvet rope into the so-South Beach atmospherics, minus the cover charge and the attitude. No Doubt partied at the Delray Beach club after performing last year at Sunfest. Frontwoman Gwen Stefani requested reggae. The club's diverse musical offering each night appeals to even the nonelectronica types with hip-hop, reggae, and retro.

Following its sudden takeover of Bootleggers earlier this year, Shooters became the largest bar in that no man's land between Fort Lauderdale Beach and Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. In fact, even when compared to bars in those areas, Shooters is still unmatched in scope. So if bigger truly is better, this is your place. Along with the large seating area and outdoor bar familiar to Shooters clientele of the past, the place now boasts several tiki bars, a pool, a stage for live acts (admittedly, usually less-than-stellar cover bands), and dockside space so that South Florida's boaters can pull up, get tanked, and go cruisin' (Note: Driving a boat under the influence is still Driving Under the Influence. As if that'll stop you.) If you're the type who likes Hawaiian shirts, board shorts, and fruity drinks heavy on the rum content, this is your place.

When a place of business offers you the "Dirty Thursday" promotion, the choice of 30 martinis every Thursday night for four bucks each, it's pretty hard not to respond positively. But when the staff composes beverages like the "startini," made with Absolut and fresh carambola juice, and serves it under a mango or papaya tree that grows on this property's one-acre tropical Taru Gardens, then it's downright impossible to resist the quite thorough seduction. For some years now, we've all known Sundy House as the renovation of the first mayor of Delray's establishment, where the grounds were exceptional but, well, that was about it. Now, thanks to executive chef Johnny Vinczencz and his team, we have a venue in which we can not only dine extensively but drink -- responsibly, of course -- in ways that even our accountants, if not our mothers, would approve.

Plush Pony ain't the kind of place to start line dancing. Those cowboys at the L-shaped bar, and yes, they're probably real cowboys, won't appreciate the two-step you learned in dance class. They're more likely to accept a drunken jig on the makeshift dance floor of linoleum tile sandwiched between the pool table and the barstools. Here, it's more about the liquor than it is about do-si-do-ing. The Pony stays open from 7 a.m. until 5 a.m. the next day and has a cowpoke-priced happy hour for its first 12 hours of business with $1 drafts, $1.75 well drinks, and $2 bottles, for those who want to go fancy. The windowless building is the perfect place to forget what time it is, once your eyes adjust from riding on the range. After four decades in business, Plush Pony is the remaining location of what was once a 27-bar chain across South Florida. And as Palm Beach County's last country "bar," as opposed to the western dance clubs, it's also a vestige of the past. Just don't go hoping to practice your choreographed moves.

Fort Lauderdale Beach can be a nightmare at times, and let's not even mention -- woo! -- spring break. Bierbrunnen offers a welcome respite from the beachfront bumpin' and grindin' of many other Fort Liquordale establishments. When the clock strikes 4:30 p.m., the German beers (including the drink of the gods, Erdinger) drop down by $1 and domestic and well drinks are half price. Until 7 p.m. it's open season for day drunks, sun-stroked beach dwellers, tourists, and whoever else happens to wander into this open-air bar. Three and a half hours is plenty of time to let loose with co-workers, friends, or strangers, gather some "liquid courage," and possibly embarrass yourself. Isn't that what happy hours are all about?

A cozy 1925 home is the setting for a place that makes you wish every neighborhood bar were this loungey-chic. The American tapas bar is named after an attorney for whom the house was built. The in-crowd feel combined with its tasty appetizer menu makes this a well-kept jewel of this two-time All-American city. Chefs Brant Tesky and Rodney Thomas serve up such delish eats as tuna poki with taro root chips, tender beef satay, and chicken satay with spicy peanut sauce, all of which easily complement the Falcon House's extensive wine list.

For almost 20 years now, the margarita has been the afterwork drink of choice. Snowy cold, almost flavorless, giant-sized, and packed with enough clear tequila to power an outboard motor, it's a cocktail to blow away that acrid 9-to-5 pall. When the eagle flies on Friday, it's solace in a glass. But, hell, for all the gustatory pleasure it provides, you might as well inject it into your arm. Canyon gives you some of the kick of the pedestrian version with a dash of flavor and a trace of the exotic. The restaurant's house specialty, the prickly-pear margarita, is made with good Hornitos tequila. It has a pink blush and a faint, tropical-fruit afterflavor that'll have you groping for comparisons. It tastes like, um -- a cross between a banana and a mango? No, that's not it. Whatever it is, it's tasty and, well, different. Let's call it subtle. The Canyon even delivers a feel for the Southwest. After your second or third prickly, you may look around at the restaurant's faux adobe walls and rancho ceiling beams and swear you hear coyotes howling out there somewhere. The prickly costs $8, $7 during happy hour.

Delray Beach's Atlantic Avenue has the charm, the class, the refinement, and the panache that ties in nicely with its "All-American City" award. But tucked away behind the galleries and quaint eateries is a little place with a dirty name. Hugh Jorgan's Piano Bar invites you to bend over for an injection of rowdy energy. The intimate setting puts spectators impossibly close to the stage, where the Jorgan brothers perform on dueling pianos and take requests from the audience. And God help you if you're caught not participating. As punishment, you may have to donate your bra (to add to the ever-growing collection hanging from the ceiling) or you'll be dragged on-stage, berated, then given a free drink for being such a good sport. It's the American way.

Named for owner Bob Brudzinski (who some may remember as Miami Dolphin No. 59 from 1981 to 1990), Bru's Room is what you expect out of a sports bar. Everything about this place is touched with the spirit of competition, from the games on all the TVs to the trash-talking at the bar between teams involved in heated electronic trivia matches. Though several locations have now sprung up, we still love the dear-old Pompano location, particularly for the Gentleman Jack Tuesdays, featuring your favorite bourbon for $3. Unlike some other sports bars, which jack up prices during major events, Bru's Room includes specials on big game days -- the NCAA finals featured the old standby, five-for-$10 buckets of domestic beer. Use those suds to wash down some of the best wings in town and you've got yourself a true sports-bar experience.

Any South Florida live-music club not saturated with sticky, sucky cover bands automatically gets bumped ahead in line. And at the very front of that line, muscling past the chrome-domed bouncer manning the velvet rope gauntlet, is the Culture Room. Yeah, the Culture Room's competition became a tad jealous of its supremacy and the loyalty showed it by local fans and rock bands alike -- and waged a tepid little turf war that went absolutely nowhere. The Room survived, emerging from the chaos better than ever: A redesigned bar setup gives it a newly spacious feel, and the place continues to pack 'em in, night after night, week after week, year after year -- just the way we like it.

The folks who live in close proximity to the centrally located, easy-to-reach Pompano Beach Amphitheatre may not appreciate our naming it the best place to see a concert. They may even wish it would go away. But we love this place more and more each time we visit, mainly because an outdoor venue that can be used any day of the year is something the rest of the nation's concertgoers can only dream about. So maybe it makes us feel special. The size is perfect -- about 2,500 seats -- and you don't have to wonder about the sound and vision, 'cause they're both perfect. Plus, our trustworthy independent promoters seem to grab some pretty choice shows, like Oasis; Soundtrack of Our Lives; String Cheese Incident; and Zwan, ex-Smashing Pumpkin Billy Corgan's new band. Talk of expanding the amphitheater has dwindled of late -- no doubt music to the ears of its neighbors.

>Neither strictly gay nor strictly a bar, newcomer Hamburger Mary's nevertheless qualifies as a breath of fresh air -- literally -- on the gay-bar scene: Its doors-wide-open breeziness is one reason it's such a refreshing place to sink a drink. A welcome jewel in the city's rejuvenation plan for the Wilton Drive corridor near Five Points, this uptempo eatery has a fully stocked bar, including Foster's, Guinness, and Bass Ale on tap and as many sprightly and colorful concoctions as there are colors of the rainbow (signature drink, naturally: Bloody Mary). Weekday happy hours (2 to 8 p.m.) and daily specials keep the costs down and the fun quotient high. Lively, friendly, campy service adds to the frivolity. Part of a California-based chain of "alternative" bar/restaurants generally located in cities' gay neighborhoods (Hillcrest in San Diego, West Hollywood in Los Angeles), this Mary's is only a few months old but quickly coming into its own. Generous outdoor seating, bright colors, and casual-chic furnishings help add to the lighthearted, high-energy charm. And the food, mostly juicy variations of big gourmet burgers, is pretty tasty too. New, free valet parking -- a sign that the management here is on the ball -- nullifies the only real negative of its growing popularity. Indeed, as its slogan would have it, you need only "Eat, Drink, and Be... Mary!"

Born under a bad sign, Fort Lauderdale's mullet haven the (ex-Metal) Factory doesn't want to die that way. It sure doesn't want to go out like the poor, doomed Station in Rhode Island, as a convalescent care center for hair-metal bands sputtering on their final fumes. At least, that's the objective of the ambitious local promoters working overtime to expunge the scent of Poison and Ratt from the room by booking area debuts from indie acts like Guided by Voices and Frank Black. The Factory's owners, unfortunately, haven't yet recognized the wisdom of this turnaround, stuck as they are in the era of wet T-shirt contests, cheap beer, and Axl Rose worship. But taking the Metal out of the name and filling the Factory with less-embarrassing fare has given the club the cachet it'll need to finally win the club crown.

In carb-counting South Florida, beer hasn't historically been a big draw. For the most part, it's consumed without ice cubes, drastically diminishing its refreshment capabilities in the summer -- which for us is about nine months out of the year. To many of us, a microbrew is just a regular American draft lager served in an itty-bitty glass. The Billabong isn't a brew pub, nor does it go out of its way to champion regionally produced ale. But its taps regularly dispense beers you won't find anywhere else in the area, including Belgium's yummy wheat beer Hoegaarden White; Raspberry Lambic's sharp sour tang ; and dark mysterious Fuller's London Ale, a true cask-conditioned masterpiece just like you'd find in England. Hundreds more bottles of stouts, ales, and lagers mean you can take a trip around the world even if your elbows never leave the bar. The employees are zymurgological experts ready to answer any question or provide samples and guidance, but don't come in, wade through the regulars packing the 'bong, and ask for "the closest thing you've got to a Bud." The wiseacre behind the bar might just pour you a glass of water.

Here's the scenario: Your old man comes to town for the weekend and you're hoping for some grown-up male bonding to show Dad how mature you are. Baseball's boring, and the Marlins stink. So why not a strip club? Well, if you can stand the vision of Dad getting a lap dance, Rachel's Steak House is the place. This isn't the seedy strip joint of bachelor-party yore; no girls will grab dollar bills with normally hidden body parts, and you won't find any chili cheese fries on the menu. Tuxedoed waiters serve $35 fillets and three-pound lobsters on linen table cloths. Perfectly aged steaks, served à la carte, are lightly coated in butter and spices to give them a rich, creamy flavor. A dozen girls gyrate slowly and sedately, clothed for one number, in undies for the next, and then in only those five-inch stripper heels for the last. The girls aren't allowed to take it off where diners are paying $9 for asparagus, though a patron requests that they join him (clothed) for a bite, um, from the menu. The closest they'll get in their birthday suit to the dinner tables is in the brass cage five tables away from the $20 lunch buffet. While your waiter lights the flambéed bananas foster at tableside, take the opportunity to remind Dad about that once-awkward birds-and-bees talk.

On your right is a Vietnam Vet named Bob talking about witnessing Cambodians shot in a river as they try to flee the Khmer Rouge. On your left is a former SDS radical named Bill who has enough September 11 conspiracy theories to fill three Oliver Stone feature films. And across the bar is a cocky construction worker called "The Rickster" who talks smack with the best of them but has a good heart. On top of all that, you got two pool tables, buck-25 domestic drafts, a decent jukebox, and a waitress who'll wait to close the bar until the drinkers are ready to call it a night (morning). Welcome to paradise.

As Sir Elton said, Saturday night's all right for fighting. But Friday night's all right for off-key renditions of classic and not-so-classic songs. Manor Lanes' Sports Den hosts one of the more interesting karaoke nights in Broward County every Friday. Witness as punk-rock kids, frat boys, and seasoned regulars put aside their differences and duet on everything from "Memories" to "I Wanna Sex You Up." Then erase all those memories with cheap beer and bowling. Who says there's nothing to do in Wilton Manors?

What better way to score a phone number than to dance cheek to cheek? Between the hot-body contests, Cream Thursdays, and free champagne giveaways, this Floribbean-themed venue feels like spring break year-round. Hip-hop and dance beats that radiate from DJ Radamas' turntables fuel the rhythm of the body friction heating up the dance floor and have bum-lookers doing a double take. There's no room for wallflowers to hide in the mini-palm trees on the sidelines: This is full-contact grindage stacked two and three deep. The DJ eggs on the peppy mix of 20-something and slightly older singles with shoutouts and within earshot of those chilling across the room at the tropical bar area and pool table. If only the cheeky-monkey plush animal sitting on a swing that overlooks the dance floor could talk...

Smith's has got to be the best place to take your hog these days, if only to pay respects to the memory of the late great Geno Mahler, the bar's effusive, animated night manager, who died earlier this year. Smith Bros. soldiers on without him, with the exception of the caricature now painted on one of the mirrored walls. He has a halo in the picture, and if heaven has a dive bar, he's probably managing it now. In any case, those left behind can expect everything out of Smith's that the biker-bar connoisseur has come to expect -- a pretty lady behind the bar, a cheap bottle of suds, the occasional deafening approach of a local motorcycle club, and a jukebox that'll make you party like it's, oh, about 1988 or so. The occasional cover band adds to the raucous good time. Just, for God's sake, don't pull up on a Vespa. For your own safety.

The sought-after super-VIP seats in front of the DJ booth are filled with Miami Dolphin players every other week. A seat in the high-profile section comes with use of the Sony Playstation, DVD player -- and bragging rights. A petite woman in leopard hotpants, bikini-type top, and high boots creates her own spectacle in the cage to the high-speed pulse of dance music. College-age coeds sandwich one another to Nelly's Hot in Herre, and girls take to the platforms and bust out grind moves. The other VIP area is spread out over three velvety sofas separated by sheer drapes and garnished with flat-screen TVs and vases of flowers. Slow down your groove to Buddha Bar-type beats in the lounge, complete with leopard-print décor, bar, and high-top service and TVs.

The reputation of a British pub may conjure visions of drunken bar fights, drunken sing-alongs, and drunken, well, anything. And if you've ever visited a British pub that's caught World Cup fever, you have a right to fear for your life. But the Fox and Hound understands the pensive drinker's needs. The Fox, as it is known among its patrons, offers cozy ambiance, low lighting, and friendly service among a plethora of stuffed foxes and hunting trophies. Kinda like you're hanging out in your dad's den. Add one kick-ass jukebox and there's the formula for a perfect night of soul-searching with a frosty mug of Newcastle or Strongbow.

Wendel is one of a handful of local DJs who continue to breathe life into the body of the South Florida electronica scene. He's a barometer in the storm of new releases that flood the techno-music industry every week. With diverse DJ sets of often never-before-heard tracks on largely virgin clubgoer ears, he keeps the local music pool fresh. He shatters the myth that house is just a 4/4 beat by highlighting the sounds that shape the atmosphere of a track, whether it be more drums or bass. The Hollywood DJ's been mixing and making his own music since the early '90s, when rave wasn't a loaded word and its atmosphere of PLUR (peace, love, unity, and respect) was in full effect. The mixologist's versatile offerings include progressive house, trance, and breaks, although he never limits himself to one genre. One thing is sure: You'll never hear him spin a mainstream, play-it-safe set.

Davie's South University Drive is a textbook case of suburban cheesiness. Drive around here at night and (if not for the palm trees) you could just as well be cruising the strip-mall labyrinth of Pawtucket, Prescott, or Peoria. Even inside the nondescript Olde Falcon Pub, there's nothing that jumps out and shouts, "Hey, you're in Davie!" the way a saddle shop or, you know, a calf-branding class does. But Old Falcon pulls some of the best pints in town, highlighting a mind-blowing assortment of British beers (30 brands on tap, more than 40 in bottles). So you can get toasted in style, play darts all night, order some of the region's best fish and chips, or (slurp) enjoy duck tenders with orange marmalade as you strain to hear your buddy's conversation over the din of everyone else's -- and instinctively know, Davie or not, you've come to the right place.

It's Sunday morning, and you've been hangin' hard for two nights now. Gadzooks! No question about it. You need a Bloody Mary. Don't try confusing us with a leafy stalk of celery (which only gets in the way) and a froufrou highball glass. Give us the real deal, like they do at Le Tub. Give us a blend of vitamin C-packed tomato juice, an extra dash of Tabasco (punish us, please), some secret ingredients, and, finally, a dose of vodka straight from the bottle, gurgling out like cool water in the desert. All right, this one comes in a plastic cup. But you can carry it outside to a wooden booth, right next to the Intracoastal (you can almost put your foot in the water), and watch the boats go by. And get your head together.

Androgyny rules at J's Bar, a fun-filled nightspot in an off-the-beaten-path southwest Fort Lauderdale neighborhood. Luscious young chicas clad in baggy, saggy jeans down bottles of Bud with big butch bull-dykes, and the crowd is as genuinely multiculti as any you've ever walked into, even by South Florida standards. And everyone's welcome, even conservative old farts just stopping in to knock a few back after a day of golf. The jukebox mixes current hip-hop hits with plenty of Ani DiFranco, Melissa Etheridge, Sarah McLachlan, and KT Oslin. J's is one-half typical South Florida strip-mall sports bar with black spray-painted dropped-ceiling tiles and a pair of pool tables and one-half gay disco with parquet flooring, twirling mirror ball, and raised stage. The latter comes in handy once a month when it's overrun by the full-contact karaoke crew of drag kings and queens called SisterSpeak. That's when J's (if it were a tea kettle) really gets to whistling. Maybe you'll spy someone wearing a bathrobe lip-synching a Garth Brooks tune while holding a pink double-headed jelly dong like a microphone. And, really, isn't that what fun's all about?

This sprawling complex takes on a quiet tone on weekday nights. Just a few people around the bar, with a whole sea of chairs around them. Outside on the deck, a couple more people may be sitting at tables, enjoying the night air over a rum runner or three -- the whole place has a rather tiki image. But on the weekends, despite the incredible size of the Cove, it can get to standing room only. Shoulder-to-shoulder people push their way to the bar, and one thing that stands out about them is that virtually all are younger than 25. Many are dressed in the fratboy uniform -- college baseball cap with frayed bill, beige pants or shorts, and some sort of plaid or checkered shirt, preferably by Abercrombie and Fitch. Women are similarly attired for the Greek life. And yet, there are no major universities nearby, with the possible exception of Florida Atlantic. What gives?

Yachts glide past on the Intracoastal as you sip a perfect shaken gimlet, marveling at the crust of ice on its surface. You're perched high on a barstool at an exquisitely rustic, granite-topped cocktail table, delighting in the atmosphere and the view and just watching the world sail past. A server in a crisp white shirt appears just before your glass is empty, ready to satisfy you with another libation. It's all so decadent that you forget you're at Houston's, high end for American franchise eateries but a chain restaurant nonetheless. Foodwise, the Pompano Beach Houston's is like any other Houston's, reliably good though somewhat predictable. But the bar at this particular Houston's is worth traveling to, whether you arrive by car or boat. Get there in the early evening and watch the lights come on up and down the Intracoastal and you'll stop being such a snob about chain bars.

With more bar-like seating than dance floor space for the crowds spilling onto the sidewalk, where's a girl to go to get her groove on? The marble bar top, of course! A ripped T-shirt held together in knots bares a chiseled midriff on one of the Gen-Y girls, who showcases her moves with another abs-of-steelster sharing the spotlight. These two are working it almost too good to Nelly's "Hot in Herre" -- maybe they're ringers? Six other women pair up and take to the bar-top spotlight, while the crowd jumps in time with the chorus of House of Pain's "Jump Around." The way these ladies draw glazed-over eyeballs from 20-something beer-toting guys below, you'd think they were doing a screen test for Girls Gone Wild or The Real Cancun. Just another night at Capones.

>If you've been fortunate enough to visit Munich during Oktoberfest, you've seen how brew fanatics take their beer: in one-liter steins that require as much upper-arm strength as they do intestinal fortitude. Of course, Oktoberfest also means impassable crowds and no small number of drunken Australians cursing and puking. Lefty's foregoes the latter and delivers what counts: 32 ounces of beer in frosty mugs. Sure, the 32er is just shy of a liter by 1.81 ounces, but it's still a quart of beer, for gosh sakes. The heft is there. And these tall ones are surprisingly cheap; Bud, Bud Light, and Miller cost $3.75, and Sam Adams and Foster's ring in at $4.50. Figure you save the airfare to Germany and go to Lefty's instead, you could hoist... well, let's just say you'll have some mighty biceps by the time you're done.

Karma Lounge is the glam spot that marks the crossover of Fort Lauderdale's nightlife on the Riverfront from its tween years -- as a place for college coeds to blow off steam with a beer or two -- into a chic young adulthood. Quality progressive house, spun by lounge resident Brit Paul Head, pounds from the speakers. The red-lighted room, with ultramod orange-and-white minimalist décor, offsets the white glow of the underlighted bar. It's just intimate enough for the over-25, chic-and-pretty clientele to engage in a nonstop buzz over the music, without an overwhelming cavernous feel. Drink specials and the lack of an exorbitant cover charge sweeten the deal of hanging out in a scene that rivals an Ibiza club crowd.

The sun's coming up, the birds are chirping, and you've stumbled (or been kicked) out of the last open bar in town. So why go home when you can head over to Banana Joe's for a traditional breakfast and a Bloody Mary. The joint closes at 2 a.m., then reopens at 7 a.m. with a full breakfast menu including flapjacks, eggs, and bacon. (Saturday nights, closing is at 3 a.m., with reopening at noon Sunday.) And don't forget the open bar, serving beer and liquor. On the right morning, there's a good chance you could sit next to an old man and a dog, both drinking a Heineken. Seriously. Eggs Benedict with a shot of Jagermeister, anyone?