Bars & Clubs

“Man, the stories you’ll hear if you hang around this place…” says Mike, a regular patron of the Sauer Apple Saloon. He’s just finished telling us about his days in Detroit, working as a line cook — with Eminem (“Marshall was a real good kid. Real down-to-earth. Just the way he is when you see him in interviews”). Then Eugenio, the bartender, interrupts to tell us about floating over from Cuba on a raft. When he dips out to go make another of the bar’s signature Sauer Apple martinis (with green-colored sugar on the rim), the other bartender, Alex, takes over storytelling duties, explaining what it was like to fire guns from a helicopter in Sierra Leone and Kosovo. That was right before some chick named Jill sits down and introduces herself. There’s something about the Sauer Apple — the open, airy space? the bar that opens onto the sidewalk? the menu full of comfort food? the live bands? the barrel of free peanuts, still in shells? — that makes you feel welcome. This is the bar that, during last year’s hurricanes, fired up its generator and kept the whole neighborhood fed. Oh, sure, Eugenio and Alex and whoever’s sitting on the next stool over may not be your best friends for life — but until last call, they will be.

Excuse me, sir, but I noticed you’re at Dada at least once a week, and I have to ask: What is it that brings you back so often? Is it the dinner menu? The fine wine? The arty ambiance? “Uh, yeah, that’s nice and all. But…” Oh, right — it’s the live music. Saturday is an especially happening night. “No, it’s the…” Wait staff! I knew it. They’re very personable. It’s almost like they’re hanging out with you. “Dude, you’re not listening. I like all those things. But, well, just look over there… and there. And… let’s see… ah, right there. See the pattern? It’s the women — young, attractive, and not hampered by the presence of oafish boyfriends. There’s something about Dada’s club-and-restaurant combination that gets me. Sure, everyone’s officially there to dine. But really, it’s all about being seen. And boy, do I like what I see.” Well, I guess there’s no arguing that. Anyway, good luck. Just make sure your prospective date really is single. Getting body-slammed on those patio rocks doesn’t exactly tickle.

For this one, the female staffers of New Times had to choose between journalistic integrity and our own selfish instincts (i.e., letting other women in on our secrets). Lucky for you, we went with integrity and decided to divulge our man-trap. But note that we did not call this category Best Place to Meet Rich Men or Best Place to Meet Commitment-Minded Men. We just said single. Because of its location on Fort Lauderdale Beach, the Treasure Trove is a treasure-trove of lifeguards, boat captains, kiteboarders, and dive masters — especially on “Taco Tuesday” (two-for-one tacos!). Because they have just come back from sea (even if it was just for two hours), these guys are looking for a little company of the female persuasion. While a dude named Catfish Hunter plays laid-back tunes on guitar, these gentlemen will regale you with stories about going through the locks of the Panama Canal and show you where the Marquesas Islands are by drawing a map on a napkin. They’re likely to sport a tan and muscles and, if you’re lucky, a Spanish or South African accent. In some cases, they’ve come straight from work, smelling like diesel fuel mixed with suntan lotion, a potent brew. Because they have to sail to the Bahamas tomorrow, they might not buy you a diamond, but they will certainly get you a Sierra Nevada or three, and a sleepover (on a boat!) isn’t out of the question. No, you won’t regret it in the morning, for you will have discovered the lair of a fun-loving, adventurous, chivalrous bunch.

We like smart women, so we felt we’d hit some kind of jackpot when we started hitting Sushi Blues Café. What is it that draws the brainy girls to this Hollywood eatery? Maybe it’s the delicious sushi. Maybe it’s the drink specials. Or could it be the blues itself — a storytelling kind of music appreciated by the literate among us? Whatever the draw, we’ve noticed that the ladies at the long curved bar aren’t shy about engaging in a refreshing meeting of the minds. And on the weekends, the smart set swells as live music takes the tiny stage. High IQs, reasonable prices, great food and music — hey, what better setting to meet someone with a beautiful mind?

If you’re looking for a man a cut above your usual monosyllabic tits-and-ass bandit, go where the IQs are higher. Instead of stalking the reading room of the local library, which has nothing but newspapers on sticks to break the ice, enroll in a studio art class at the Fort Lauderdale Museum of Art. You can bet that the men who prefer to spend their evenings improving their brush strokes are going to be more likely to talk Beckett and quantum physics than baseball and beer. They can’t hide from you in the intimate setting of the MoA’s adult education studio classes, which are kept small so that the local artists who will teach you figure drawing, watercolor, and painting can work with each student. Plus, you’ll find that a paintbrush is an excellent replacement for a pint of brew when it comes to giving you mojo — it’s amazing how easy it is to talk to the guy at the next easel if you have a question about shading or need to sharpen your pastel. Sex is already in the air: Nothing is more erotic than squeezing oil paint onto a palette or pondering the best way to render the curve of a nude model’s breast. And you have plenty of time to lay the groundwork — you’ll be in the same small room with some of the area’s most intelligent men for ten whole weeks.

A girl’s gotta have standards. The guy who works on the boat is nice and all… but we know you want the guy who owns the boat. That’s why you need to think like fishermen. When they go out to catch fish, they go to the place where the critters feed. When you’re out to catch a boater, get yourself some bait (i.e., a bikini) and go to the place where he docks and dines! Specifically, the Tiki Waterfront Sea Grill at the Riviera Beach Marina. It’s where many a good gent with healthy wallets can be found enjoying some sort of rum concoction and an order of Bahamian-style conch fritters with spicy remoulade sauce. With Peanut Island in the background, a live band fueling the party, and boats as far as the eye can see, your chances here are good. Real good.

We’re not calling you a gold digger, but we know you can’t mess with someone who can’t afford you. Sister, if that’s how you roll, that’s how you roll — with your Louis Vuitton bag and your Prada shoes. The man you want knows where you’re coming from (the mall), and he’s waiting for you — in Club Y. Why? It’s the only proper nightclub on the island, open until 3 a.m. and featuring DJs, high-end liquors, a late-night menu (mmm… sushi at midnight!), and a sexy, young clientele. Don’t be intimidated by the Benzes and Jaguars outside. Self-made millionaires and trust-fund boys need love too.

We weren’t even looking for a humongous cooler full of man meat when we stumbled upon it. We had simply meandered into Best Buy, bored and lonely, thinking we’d pick up a movie with some eye candy in the starring role — like Into the Blue or Shrek 2. That’s when the hot guys just started spilling out of the doors and getting in their Jeeps and their Lexuses (Lexii?)! There were more inside, perusing DVDs, toying with computers, and even punching keys on the register. Duh — we should have known from watching The 40-Year-Old Virgin that the electronics store is ripe (Hello, Paul Rudd!). The thing is, guys don’t go to Best Buy to pick up women. They go here after they’ve finished bitching about how hard it is to meet a cool chick. They say, “Screw ’em, I’mma buy a new flat-screen TV.” Hence, ladies, you are seriously in luck if you practice the fine art of the ambush and prepare questions like, “Excuse me, but do you know the difference between optical and digital zoom?” We’re telling you — even the checkout guy was a looker… if only pleated khaki pants and polo shirts weren’t the biggest turnoffs known to women. But maybe you could help him lose the clothes.

Loud, dark, and pricey — is there a better formula for all-important date number two? Broward’s tiki mecca has all the makings of the place to close the deal you started negotiating in (nervous, crazy-making) date one. The low light helps minimize the sorts of thing she should have noticed the first time — the thinning hair, the love handles, the look of sheer terror. And the Polynesian floorshow is loud and mesmerizing, which helps if the conversation wanes. Finally, the drinks are pricey enough to impress and potent enough that rules about waiting for date number three might get broken.

It’s 4 a.m. and you know the battle against insomnia is a lost cause. What to do? Drowning out the impending daylight with booze will only make things worse, so find an early edition of the morning paper, if you can, and hit the beach. At the corner of A1A and Sunrise is a little 24-hour pizza shop that serves breakfast and all sorts of great gut-busting grub to jump-start your morning. The cramped little counter shop serves some of the greatest late-night munchie solutions. They pile their sandwiches high and top them off with fries and slaw, just like the owner did in Pittsburgh 30 years ago to earn his fame. Take your food to go and cross the street to the beach. Eating lunch as the sun comes up will make some sort of sense in your sleep-deprived brain.

You knew this space better as Alex’s Tavern, a canker sore of a bar with air so foul it would send your clothes home smelling like a tire fire. Fortunately, as the recommissioned Mental Ward, much of the old charm remains. But it’s better. The Tuesday open-mic night is the kind of low-key, good-naturedly offensive affair that can make the small back bar feel like a dormitory hallway. (Sample lyric from a song called “I’m Gonna Whoop Your Ass”: “Stop calling my mama’s house in the middle of the night. That ain’t cool. I have to pay the phone bill over there.”) If you want to get schnockered, five bucks will get you all the tap beer you can drink that night. Wednesdays are beer pong nights. Thursday nights are dollar shots, drafts, and well drinks. How this place makes money, who knows? Who cares? All that matters is it’s about a two-minute cab ride from Lester’s Diner or Taco Bell, and you still have some dough in your pocket for a gordita.

Sitting down to get drunk is serious business. You can’t do it at home because society will look down on you, so you have to go to town to keep up appearances. CJ’s Draft House in mid-Boynton Beach has everything you need. Most weeknights, it’s a quiet bar that caters to regulars, but on Tuesday nights, things are entirely different. Lori and Carlos set up for their karaoke bash at 9 p.m., and the regulars start lining up for the mic and for the $10 buckets of domestic beer. The singing is better than most karaoke nights at other places, and the participants take their crooning seriously. (But in a good way, we swear.) Anyway, the singing and cheap beer make for a great setup for what you’re really after — to get bent in a place where it’s not just acceptable but par for the course.

New Moon’s unchallenged reign over the Fort Lauderdale lesbian scene is an inclusive one — every day of the week, a family-style neighborhood hangout and a lesbian meatmarket coexist within its walls, lubricated by a steady stream of fine wine, live music, and an occasional bump ‘n’ grind on the pool table or a drag king show. On a recent Monday night, behind the sedate older couple enjoying a quiet birthday party, the denim-clad ass of a vamping pool table nymphet sways provocatively. Behind the bar, the bartender pours out shots, one for herself and one for a woman who squeals that it’s her birthday and that she wants a boob job. “Let’s find the short girl with the neck piercings!” yells a tall woman to no one in particular as she barrels by en route to the broad patio filled with chrome-colored furniture. She causes barely a ripple in the cozy Sapphic dimness. But the illusion of anonymity is just that, because a visit to New Moon is akin to punching your card at the nerve center of dyke Fort Lauderdale. If you’re new, before the night is out, someone will invariably ask you where you’re from. They usually explain: “You can’t be from around here if I’ve never seen you at New Moon before.”

A bar made from wood? In downtown Fort Lauderdale? Not Italian marble or Spanish-quarry-mined granite or turquoise-colored melted glass? Yes, Ôtis true. Though Grady’s has been an inner-city fixture for 35 years, it’s now surrounded by growth and development, even as the block it sits on (for better or worse) remains much as it looked when the place started. Some of the regulars too have that weathered look. But a real neighborhood joint isn’t about chasing trends or having ten flat-screen TVs, fancy drinks, or happy-hour specials — at this wood-paneled institution, it’s about pool tables, mismatched chairs, a fog of Marlboro smoke, un-mufflered hogs, Bud Lite by the glass with friends, and co-workers hovering around, marveling at downtown’s renaissance. This place may be stuck back in the Medieval age by modern standards, but a bar without valet parking, $12 mojitos, and a strip-mall parking lot is such a rarity nowadays, and the folks who frequent this unpretentious watering hole realize that all too well. Grady’s is still with us — but for how long, Spock? For. How. Long?

No, you don’t have to base-jump or sky-surf your way into Jesse’s, as the name implies. But once you get past the slightly silly moniker, you’ll find that the scruffy watering hole represents what we like best about this part of town. Namely, that there’s little “pomp” in Pompano Beach. It doesn’t get much more casual than this dive, and that’s why this is the place we go to buy a bucket of beers and watch football while hanging out on the deck overlooking Atlantic Boulevard. Or when the Steelers aren’t playing (this being a hardcore Pittsburgh hangout), you can suck down a cold one and join in on the electronic Texas Hold ‘Em game that tends to rope in just about everyone sitting at the bar. But here’s the best-kept secret about this unassuming hole in the wall: Jesse’s food is far better than a neighborhood bar has a right to serve. Trust us on this one and order the boneless wings and the sweet potato fries. Now that’s the way to fight the creeping frou-frou redevelopment overtaking the rest of the county.

Nippers has managed to keep a local-bar feel even in a town like Boca. While other local watering holes pretty up and scare off working stiffs and college types, Nippers has created an oasis for getting drunk in a sea of haute couture. On Wednesday, the club fills with anxious players as the pool and poker tourneys kick off. Drink specials are frequent, and a DJ plays until 5 a.m. on Thursday. Soused scholarship kids sing karaoke until 5 a.m. on Friday. Ladies night, on Saturday, is when you want to make your appearance, when the club fills with coeds after 2 a.m. and last call is still three hours away. The bar grub is surprisingly topnotch, especially the wraps and fries, and it’s served all night. Amazing that in a chi-chi landscape, a joint for the lunch-pail crowd still thrives.

Dirty and dwarf — not the two most attractive words in the English lexicon. In fact, we’d have to say that the owners are kind of, um, brave to name their establishment the Dirty Dwarf Pub. But in a world full of fake tiki bars and Bennigans look-alikes, the Dwarf offers a welcome alternative. Kind of bizarre, kind of dark, and all the way awesome, this place has battle axes hanging on the wall, 95 flavors of beer (24 on draft), and a menu full of intriguing eats (from vegan subs to “Scotch egg with chutney” — a hard-boiled egg, wrapped in sausage, breaded, and deep-fried). If you’re not one of the late-nighters who frequents this stop on Lake Worth’s main drag, do find some time to discover it. As the bar’s motto goes, “You always have time for a Ôshort one.‘“

Last call is one of the most depressing moments of the night. The lights come up and you can see exactly who you were hitting on all night. What a scary thought. At Foster’s Too, it isn’t last call; it’s “see you in a few.” The bar shuts down at 5 a.m., like all good watering holes should — but the good folks at this favored local spot reopen only two hours later as the sun is just starting to get in your eyes. Once you’re shooed away from the pool tables and the dozens of televisions, keep in mind it’s only 120 minutes until the drinks start flowing again. So, hit the Denny’s and refuel your gut for round two, because Foster’s last call is more like a temporary delay before you get re-called.

Do you get the shakes when you venture west of I-95? Are you allergic to socks? Do you own more bathing suits than pants? Come, let us lead you to your people. They’ve just come from the beach across the street. They’re gathered on the wooden decks of Bahia Cabana, watching the boats go by on the Intracoastal. They’re sipping tropical cocktails, munching on dolphin fingers, laughing and bullshitting and flirting with the waitress. They’re sitting on the colorful, hand-painted stools around the tiki bar listening to some singer/songwriter bring the tunes. Some of your more adventurous brethren have jumped in the pool (since the bar is attached to a hotel) or, even better, the hot tub. A few of them went in to the gift shop to buy coconut lip balm. Unless the temps have dropped below 75 degrees. Then they’re inside, looking for a heater.

Hey, old-timer, what are you doing at a skatepark? You must be, what, 24… 25? This here’s a place for young people. Shouldn’t you be out at some nightclub tossin’ back the brewskis and chasing women? Well, it just so happens that you can do all of that — drink, skate, and (possibly) score — the third Wednesday night of the month. For free. Just pop in to Automatic Slim’s after 9 p.m. for its weekly Bump & Grind Skate Night and show ’em your AARP card, er, photo I.D. that proves you’re over 21. Once inside, you’ll know where to go — there’s a five-foot halfpipe adjacent to the front window. Oh, it’s safe; there’s a net to keep your board from flying onto the bar. Of course, there’s nothing to keep you from falling off your board. If anything, the two-dollar Pabst Blue Ribbons are just another obstacle. Keeping the booze to a minimum might be wise, if not for the sake of your swollen hipbone then for the scantily clad bartenders you’re trying to impress. Who knows? If you do well, maybe there’ll be more bumping and grinding without your board.

Lots of taverns serve free food; usually, you get what you pay for. Chex mix, jalapeño poppers from a hijacked Costco truck, pygmy chicken wings — who needs that crap? Cucina dell’Arte is a restaurant during the day with all the swank you’d expect from Palm Beach (Rush Limbaugh sightings, walking plastic-surgery advertisements, enough empty beauty to shame a dozen Paris Hiltons), but at night, it’s a fancy-schmancy watering hole. From around midnight until 3 a.m., the place fills with the cosmetically superior classes, the music is cranked considerably beyond 11, and the kitchen just keeps on rockin’. To go with the posher-than-thou cocktails and designer threads, the free pizza is typically high-end: You don’t generally see complimentary goat cheese appetizers unless you’ve made it past St. Pete’s pearly gates. Or you’re in Palm Beach.

Can’t go to the game? You can still get that 50-yard-line experience at the Park, the Ÿber-sports bar at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino. The interior of this palace to televised athletics mimics a true ballpark, as does the food on the menu. High-class hot dogs and other stadium food appear on the well-thought-out menu. And the Park’s versions are not just fun to order but they actually digest well — as opposed to what you get at the ballpark. But when it comes down to game time, who cares about food? What you really want is action, lots of it, and up close. What better way to see the game than on a 16-by-9-foot video wall? Only an IMAX screen could compete. If one gigantic TV isn’t enough, shift your eyes to any of the 150 others scattered wherever your eyes may rest. And when the games end, the games begin, if you take our meaning. Because the Park doubles as a nightclub. Wednesdays through Saturdays starting at 9 p.m., live DJs spin the Top 40s and dance music until 4 a.m.

The people you’re likely to meet hanging out at Kala’s are almost as international as the understated wine bar’s menu. Co-owners Kathleen “Kala” Gies and her husband, Gunter, are U.K. and German expats, respectively. A given evening might find Parisian tourists sampling a hearty Bordeaux at an outdoor table or a ruddy gentleman in a kilt and tweed coat savoring a crisp California Chardonnay while lounging on the plush couch at the front of the bar. Kala herself is usually onhand with recommendations for exacting enophiles and curious beginners. Her staff is friendly and knowledgeable and can easily navigate the well-rounded wine list, which includes a few rare, delicious selections. Most vintages are offered by the bottle or the glass and fall within a reasonable price range. Though Kala’s doesn’t have a kitchen, it’s centrally located among the cluster of restaurants and cafés on Galt Ocean Mile, most of which will deliver right to your table with a simple phone call. Like Kala’s patrons, these too are from around the globe: Cuban, French, American, and Thai are all available. Cheers!

Yeah, it’s known to attract monstrous, man-eating sharks, but that’s only in New England. In the movies. In real-life South Florida, nothing is more randy than a few brews on a blanket under the stars and a communal dip in the buff. The important things to remember here: 1. Watch your clothes. Those teenagers smoking a joint up the beach are gonna think it’s hilarious when you’re wet and shriveled and can’t find your skivvies. (The fact is, they’re right.) 2. Watch for police. Certain beaches — and we’re not gonna reveal which ones for, um, liability’s sake — attract the fuzz more than others. Public nudity is illegal in Florida, but more than that, cops just hate to see you having fun. 3. If there’s a meter in the parking lot, feed it. There’s no bigger turnoff than getting back to the car with a good buzz, a libido in full throttle, and a ticket under the wiper. And 4. A full moon is very bright. And we mean that in more ways than one.

Back in ’99, a young bartender traveled to Islamorada to watch the superstars of bartending compete in the Bartender’s Bash. Rob Husted watched the best of the best twirl cups and juggle bottles and got hooked on “flair bartending,” and in seven short years, he’s climbed to the top of the sport. In 2004, he won the title of Most Accurate Bartender in the World, and the next year, he placed 11th at the Legends of Bartending World Finals and outranked many grizzled shaker-spinners. Rob not only entertains the hip crowd at Palm Beach Gardens’ hottest nightclub full time but he also teaches the art to others looking to twirl and pour their way to a fatter tip jar. If that weren’t enough, he manages to organize BarWars, an annual Flair Bartending Competition, and is vice president of Flairbar.com — the sport’s most popular magazine. This guy makes the fancy cup-twirler at your local dive look like a clumsy oaf while he pours a half-dozen shots at once, juggles bottles, and performs total liquor magic to get the booze from the bottle to your mouth.

As soon as we rule the world, we’ll raze all the condos and build a string of tiki bars right on the beach so that you can spend happy hour properly… barhopping along the sand. Until then, the best place to de-stress after work is right in downtown Fort Lauderdale. Despite its urban location, Tarpon Bend creates a laid-back, outdoorsy vibe by displaying fish sculptures and world records from the International Game Fish Association. Furthermore, it has sidewalk seating, giant windows, and a second-story loft that gives it a wide-open feel. We’re not the only ones who love it; happy hour — especially on Fridays — gets slammed. The “hour” lasts from 4 to 7 p.m. Sunday through Thursday, 4 to 9 on Friday, and 6 to 9 on Sunday, and it includes two-for-one drinks on everything except shots and pitchers. Live bands play every night, and promotions like the Miss Hawaiian Tropic Contest attract a fun, young crowd. A waitress named Megan has three additional explanations for the bar and grill’s allure: one, “You get the best service you ever had in your life.” Two, “Every server has a great personality.” And three, “We’re all hot.” Just in case happy hour leads into happy night, there are 20 other bars within hopping distance.

Crabby Jack’s has made a name for itself with the FAU college crowd for good reason. While most students are late-night partyers, this seafood joint knows the importance of a good pregame technique. Not many folks spend the entire night at Crabby Jack’s — but that’s what happy hour is all about. You get in, you get bent, you get out. What better way to tie one on than 69-cent Miller Lites? Don’t like Miller? Choose any domestic draft for 99 cents. But seriously, you’re here to get a job done — why spend the extra 30 cents?

Eleven-thirty on a Thursday night may be sheep-counting time for most 9-to-5’ers, but at Delux’s weekly indie night, Flaunt, the dance floor’s just getting warmed up… and how. The club’s plush interior seems to belie the unrestrained activities of the mostly 20-something regulars. You won’t find the usual hipster posturing here. But there’s no time for that anyway, not when there’s free Ketel One vodka (for groups of ten) and well drinks are half-priced before midnight. By that time, though, only the true barflies are still sitting on stools; everyone else is on the dance floor. On any given night, you can hear anything from the Postal Service’s “Such Great Heights” to Elvis Costello’s “High Fidelity” to the Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love” and even DJ Assault’s “Ass ‘n’ Titties” (for a little bump-and-grind time). As the 2 a.m. closing time draws near, the sounds often veer into punk-rock territory (the Misfits’ “Last Caress,” Operation Ivy’s “Knowledge”). And when it’s time to leave, there’s no fear of finding out that your new love interest is underage; Flaunt is strictly 21 and up. So drink, dance, and for Pete’s sake, keep it debauched.

Downtown Hollywood has gone through a slew of changes over the decades, but none has fazed Club M. This downtown drinkery has been handing out booze for the past 85 years with little concern for fluctuating obsessions about air quality as time elapsed. The bar sits next door to a great little Thai and sushi joint, so if you ask for a menu, you’ll get good food — not burgers and fries. That’s a nice perk for smokers, who’d rather focus on drinking and watching live music than hunting down good grub. Regulars such as Max Green and Dave Camp belt out live blues and rock each night on the stage across from the long bar. Sundays, the pool tables are open for free play, and every day before 8 p.m., drinks are two-for-one. So, smoke ’em if you got ’em, ’cause there is plenty to see and do.

The day is nigh when the entire downtown village of too-loud, too-expensive bars is going to be plowed under to make way for the encroaching condo canyon. When the ordinances come for these joints, which make such a ruckus indeed, they will come first for the likes of the Brick. Imagine, the nerve to have a live DJ spinning in an open-front establishment every night of the week! Have you seen those waitresses, pouring drinks into funnels while hair-gelled patrons try to peek up their plaid skirts? Disgraceful. For seven bucks, they’ll sell you a beer and a shot, libations with licentious handles such as the Blow Job and the Buttery Nipple. When gentrification comes, people will look back in wonder at the Brick and remember the days when $2 Coors drafts, stripper poles, and more than a dozen flat-screen TVs with networked trivia could survive inside the same blue-neon-lit room. For now, it works.

This upscale pub boasts that it serves the “world’s largest selection of draft beers.” Hard to argue with that. Nestled behind the tennis-court-length bar are 130 spigots for pouring 110 different beers. Few bars offer that variety even in bottled beers. The brew names alone are entertaining: Lost Coast Downtown Brown, He’Brew Kosher, Gulden Draake, Chimay Cinq Cents, and Hoegaarden White. Yard House, a chain that’s quickly expanding across the country, brags up the Anderson Valley Hop Ottin India Pale Ale, which is as hoppy as a bunny, and the deliciously bitter-tinged Anchor Liberty Ale. Pints cost from $3.75 — yes, they have Budweiser and some of the usual suspects — to a little more than $8 for the exotics. Open 11:30 a.m. to midnight Monday through Thursday and Sunday and from 11:30 a.m. to 1:15 a.m. Friday and Saturday, but the doors close later if the tippling’s hearty.

So it seems that almost every hot spot in Fort Lauderdale has the shelf life of a ripe banana — here today, gone in an hour. It’s often those random, out-of-the-way places that seem to keep people coming back for what they can’t get at the meet market (as in, serious fun and damned good people). Roxanne’s on Main has had many incarnations, but then it became home of the Saturday-night new wave, post-punk, avant-garde revue Revenge. And that ain’t all. Roxanne’s hosts an event every damned night of the week: Tuesdays is rock and cock (“No cover, no assholes”); Wednesdays, Bernadette’s Karaoke runs from 8 p.m. till the last drunk sings; Thursdays features the rockabilly of Ring o’ Fire and $2 PBRs; and Friday nights, Phoenix serves up indie/electro for the dance floor and all the trappings of young American debauchery you can shake a slick at.

Sure, local cities are bringing in slot machines all over the place, but there’s a reason the Hard Rock has established gambling dominance in South Florida. The Rock set aside 130,000 square feet for pure gaming purposes, with 2,100 one-armed bandits and 50 poker tables. And for the thirsty, the Center Bar reaches toward the ceiling from the middle of the gaming floor like a TV-encrusted tower of drink dispensing. But what makes this place such a mecca for weekend partying in Broward is that the Hard Rock gets right what so many tarted-up bingo palaces don’t: Even the sharkiest card sharks get up from the table from time to time and want more than felt-covered tables and jangling machines. It’s all the stuff that surrounds the gambling den — nightclubs, eateries, and people, people, people — that draw us like moths to a flame on hot summer nights. That, and the chance to win our share of the $5.9 million the Hard Rock claims to pay out every day. Now, if we could just get back the shirts we’ve lost…

Sorry, folks, no marble-lined, zero-horizon swimming pool here. No toned, tanned, bikini-clad nymphets serving fruity frozen drinks that cost more than a tank of gas. No tapas, no trendoids, no high-tech lighting or European house music on a state-of-the-art sound system. Nope, Big Game is none of that, and so much more. This rustic Lauderdale dive bar sits in the parking lot of an old, nameless motel, and during the day, you’re just as likely to find snowbirds drying out by the pool as grizzled barflies buzzing under the tall, shady tiki bar a few steps from it. Hewn out of rough, sturdy wood and draped with dried-out palm fronds, that tiki bar is a true gem, manned by a prompt, no-nonsense staff of stiff-drink makers and veteran small talkers. With fishing trophies arching overhead, a hard-rockin’ jukebox, and the telltale sign of a well-stocked bar (that’s Jameson, folks — ask for it by name), Big Game would be a cozy locale full of character and characters no matter where it was located. But throw open the doors to the mint-green pool just outside, imagine the sound of traffic on Federal Highway as the roar of ocean surf, lie back on a piece of well-worn deck furniture with a Bud Light in hand, and know you’re taking in a true South Florida landmark.

As night poured into South Florida on July 30, 2005, so did a heavy torrent of rain. Anyone who drove up I-95 to Respectable Street’s “18 Years of Oblivion” party was certain they’d find a couple of poncho-clad parking attendants telling everyone it’d been canceled. But the gods of bacchanal were surely watching over the 500 block of Clematis Street, which saw little more than a drizzle. By about 9 o’clock, the only meteorological menace to deal with was the usual July heat. So like people who have been given a new lease on life, partygoers took nothing for granted, turning out in droves to various 500-block venues. Some 25 bands played, from local faves (El, the Psycho Daisies) to newcomers (Truckstop Coffee) and even a few out-of-towners (Not for Sal, the Sweetkisses). Seriously, how many block parties offer live music, free drinks, and free pizza without charging admission? Well, here’s one. And here’s to the hundreds of people who wouldn’t let a little rain dampen Clematis Street’s best night of the year. And if we’re lucky, they’ll do it again.

It was a trip to get a secondhand couch for the new apartment. The God-fearing man behind the front desk looked at the delivery address. That’s near Duck Soup, he said. He had seen some bad stuff in Duck Soup. His parting advice as he handed over the receipt: “Don’t go to Duck Soup.” Up his. Duck Soup turned out to be a homely dive joint where the beer was cheap, the jukebox decent, the TVs turned to basketball, and the bartenders thrilled to have guests. Over time, it appeared, it also got some ambition and some dough. After months of renovation, the place has climbed a couple of rungs on the great bar ladder, with new TVs, a refinished pool table, higher ceilings, live music, and noticeable interior lights. Soon, we hear, the bar’s also going to get a new name, but we could get no hints on what it will be. The laquered copper top of the bar gleams like a lunar surface lined in pennies. And behind it, an affable blond with all manner of piercings in her face and ears and a too-short T-shirt that reads “Rotten Little Girl” and shows off her tattoos: an upturned bleeding skull on her left shoulder, a line of ghostly skulls on her upper spine, six-shooters emblazoned over her kidneys. She laughs with the patrons, dances a little to the music, and serves a mean $2 bottle of Miller Lite. Her name is Jessica, and though her presence may deter some, you should heed your impulse, not their advice, and go to Duck Soup.

Michael Kostick gets a little carried away when he talks about his favorite nightspot, Café 27, on U.S. 27, across from Everglades Holiday Park, out where Griffin Road meets the wilderness. It’s bike night there on Fridays, when the motorcycling dudes crowd into a series of chickee huts and wet bars and the beer flows like water. If you’re lucky, one of the motorcycle clubs will be holding a party there and Kostick, who goes by “Nasty” with his friends, will be in charge of the pudding wrestling, with wenches in bathing suits writhing in mounds of mushy stuff. Last time that happened, Nasty says, it was phenomenal. “My God, it was the best condiment wrestling I’ve seen in years,” he says. Nasty, who in his day job is vice president for sales and marketing of a manufacturing company (they make air purification apparatuses for firefighters), is well-known in biking circles as a longstanding writer for the monthly Wheels on the Road. Maybe Café 27 isn’t for everybody, Nasty says, but it actually draws a diverse crowd — “from open-road truckers to Everglades hunters to hard-riding bikers.” If you can’t get into the scene, get into the great people-watching.

How many times do you have to listen to your significant other say “Oh, Milwaukee’s Best… again” before you get the clue. Before you have to face the embarrassment of asking the clerk at some chain store if Sam Adams is better than Corona, go to Case and Keg and get some expert advice. Right when you walk in the door, you know you’ve found the place where beer lives. It feels like you’ve strolled into a whiskey barrel — tight, dark, and filled with booze. Wherever your eyes fall are colorful labels and bottles that you won’t recognize. Micro, domestic, and imported varieties of brew reach into the hundreds, with more coming in weekly, as well as more than 150 beers by the keg. Too lazy, or drunk, to drive? Give them a call and have the infamous Party Wagon roll out to your pad and drop off a keg of Native Ale or South Florida’s favorite microbrew, No. 11 Brown. Oh, and make sure you also check out the website, www.caseandkeg.com, for Beer Babe of the Month.

If you take your beer seriously, you take Guinness seriously. And if you take Guinness seriously, you take the way it’s poured seriously. Advertisements for Guinness claim that “it takes 119.6 seconds to pour the perfect pint” of Ireland’s famous stout. That might come as a surprise to many local bartenders, who pour a Guinness with the same quick hand they use to pour a Budweiser. But a fast pour of Guinness creates a cloudy pint that never quite settles — a mortal sin in the world of Guinness drinkers. A bartender with Irish in his heart knows that a true Guinness pour — known as the “slow pour” — requires two stages: First, the bartender pours three-fourths of the pint while the glass is at an angle. He waits about a minute for the beer to settle, then pours the remaining one-fourth. That creates a beautiful pint of black-as-night beer topped by a creamy brown head. For style points, bartenders will sometimes use the beer tap to create a design (often a shamrock) in the beer’s head. Such bartenders are hard to find in South Florida, but you’ll find an entire colony of Guinness experts at Kavanagh & Morrissey’s in Plantation, on Pine Island Road near I-595. A charming pub and restaurant with vaulted ceilings and an interior straight out of the Irish countryside, Kavanagh & Morrissey’s offers great food, good company, and a wide selection of beers. But most important, at Kavanagh & Morrissey’s, you’re guaranteed to get a perfect pour of Guinness. If you’re lucky, it might even come with a shamrock on top.

The primary ingredient of a bloody mary isn’t hair of the dog, but it should be. After all, what better time is there to drink a bloody mary than when it’s daylight and you’re still hurting from last night’s no-holds-barred partying session? The folks at Buzz’s Lounge in Sunrise know better than anyone the powerful tonic created when you mix vodka, tomato juice, lime juice, and a few olives. That’s why there’s no better place in South Florida for a Sunday-morning bloody mary than Buzz’s, which offers $2 bloody mary specials all day Sunday, from 11 a.m. to 2 a.m. At Buzz’s, an unpretentious bar at the end of a nondescript shopping mall, the bartenders are warm and friendly, and the drinks are cold and stiff. What more could you ask for on a hungover Sunday afternoon?

Of the roughly 50 martinis available at Swig Bartini, a classy nightlife spot in Weston Town Center, any one is good enough to win this Best Of. “The Swig” ($11) — a classic, just-as-Bogie-would-like-it martini with Grey Goose, vermouth, and three large olives — is as good as any martini gets. But due to style points, this year’s Best Signature Cocktail has to go to Swig Bartini’s “Marilyn Monroe” ($10). A martini as red as the Hollywood vixen’s lips, the Marilyn Monroe features Absolut Citron, a splash of cranberry juice, and a hint of lime, champagne, and, for a final touch of Tinseltown class, a strawberry on the rim. A sweet-tasting champagne martini, the Marilyn Monroe will have you ready for a night on the town — or just a night at Swig Bartini, whose brick walls and modern interior can make you feel like you’re in the middle of Manhattan rather than in the middle of Weston.

Could there really be any other choice? For almost a decade, the husband-and-wife rock-star team of Greg and Sharon Alliferis has run this midsized venue as if it were a major-league ballroom. They regularly pack the house for big names and offer a solid sound system and friendly service to smaller fries, both important elements in creating a buzzworthy club. In 2005, though, they really honed their focus and put together a consistently eclectic, exciting roster of shows, including the Killers, Soulive, the Extreme Music Festival, Railroad Earth, and Reigning Sound. The décor is all black and perfectly sparse, kind of like a blank palette for the music, and bands tend to step up and offer topnotch performances thanks to the room’s iconic history. From death metal to bluegrass to local faves to national headliners, there’s no better place in South Florida to rock the hell out.

With a scene that’s becoming increasingly incestuous, purveyors of local nightlife put us to task this year in determining any sole winner in this category. Having chosen collective status over individual stardom, Fort Lauderdale’s Phoenix crew — just one of a few groups that now call local venue Roxanne’s home — has put to bed the notion of marquee DJs, opting to supply eclectic music and culture to a Broward community jaded by Himmarshee Street. Comprised of a blend of scenesters — including drum ‘n’ bass maestro Sean Weeks, Poplife mainstay Ray Milian, and burgeoning Lauderdale DJ Andie Superstar — Phoenix bears the imprint of the Brothers Alexander but is growing sturdy enough legs to distinguish itself from the Crush milieu. Weeks, specifically, is an anomaly in this indie-centric scene, having spent the past half-decade spreading frenetic jungle beats through his nights at Karma and other SoFla locales. Yet somehow, the Chicago native has found a comfortable fit in a group more likely to break it down to DFA and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah than Metalheadz. But Weeks is just one component of a well-oiled machine, and with veterans like Milian on board for the ride, Phoenix Fridays thrives thanks more to a fiercely talented collective than to any single luminary.

When a place is as far south of the Mason-Dixon Line as South Florida, its slow dancing should pack a little boot, scoot, and boogie. Round Up, which boasts one of the biggest dance floors in the county, is the perfect place for the city slicker set to cast off his Yankee rigidity and learn a whole new way to move across parquet. For the small price of a $5 cover fee, Round Up will teach you the basics of two-step and then turn you loose. Unlike many dance ballrooms that banish newbies to the wall to wistfully watch the preternaturally gifted pros whirl and strut, Round Up focuses its attention on the shy novice with two left feet. At 7 p.m. daily, wannabe rug-cutters line up for a gentle line-dancing lesson, and on Thursdays and Saturdays, couples can remind themselves of the basics of the two-step, swing, and cha-cha from 8 to 9 p.m. But Round Up is no playpen — experienced hoof-shiners have plenty of space to preen and mince on the spacious floor. Good thing four full bars ring the dance floor, making it easy for a novice stumbler to refill on a little liquid courage before giving it another go.

Strip clubs usually stick to a basic formula: stage + pole + alcohol + naked chicks + free buffet! So what makes Scarlett’s Cabaret the best? “It’s almost like going to a concert,” one fan says. “The music, the lights, the fog machine!” The consensus seems to be that other strip clubs either fall into category A, wherein the girls think they’re too hot for the clientele, thus making the whole experience disappointing and frigid, or category B: just plain skanky. Scarlett’s fills the comfortable niche in between. “The girls are fun,” says… well, everybody. Which includes the couple from Jacksonville that was leaving at
7 a.m., the drummer who was supposed to be playing a gig across the street but could not be dragged away from the girls, and a couple of yacht captains who had just spent all their money, proving for the ten-hundred-gazillionth time that boobies make men do dumb things.

The needs of pool players are few: a quality table, cheap beer, and a place to smoke. George’s brings all of that right to your dexterous little hustling hands. There are ten pool tables for the standard game, along with two pocketless billiards tables for those who understand why there’s a table without pockets. The tables are nicely spaced, so you aren’t bumping ass with your neighbor or poking holes in the wall with the butt of your cue. The dim lights and great service make it a relaxing atmosphere to shoot some eight-ball or nine-ball. Classic rock plays at a respectable level from the jukebox, unless the young waitresses get ahold of the remote; then it’s time for the top-of-the-charts remix. But either way, the $1 Bud Light drafts make up for it. From the bar, regulars drink and watch your game carefully and wonder if you’re worth their time. You probably aren’t, but what the heck — rack ’em up.

Led Zepp tattoos, handlebar mustaches, and skullcap bandannas: That kind of biker symbology you can find just about anywhere. What really counts at a biker bar worth the title are two fundamentals: babes and brawls. Nothin’ Fancy’s girls are the real thing: tanned and leathery with wind-beaten, low-lidded stares that look straight through you to an asphalt horizon. On Saturday nights, one gal is stationed at the door to welcome you off your hog with a winsome smile and a rusty wink, and by the time you’ve gotten yourself a seat beneath one of the bra bouquets that dangle from the ceiling throughout the bar — all C or D cups, rest assured — a different hoary venus is by your side, pressing her twin helmets into your chest and making sure your tank is full. As for brawls, Nothin’ Fancy has the finest: In 2004, it made the news when a patron attacked three customers with a baseball bat, only to be stopped cold when one of them, a permit-packing gun-toter named Kevin Kelly, shot him in the stomach at point-blank range. The attacker, John Nicol, later got off scott free when a Palm Beach County jury acquitted him of aggravated assault and battery, which means he can belly up to the Fancy bar any one of these nights. You can’t get much more authentic than that.