Bars & Clubs

When it comes to controlling a crowd at the mega-entertainment center known as Seminole Hard Rock, there's nobody who competes with Charlie Solana of Gryphon Nightclub. He's an ace with Top 40 and hip-hop but excels when it comes to house and electronic music. What's impressive is the way he effortlessly flows among various genres while keeping a consistent groove. It's easy to stay on the dancefloor while Solana's behind the decks. He's good at playing tracks that build up a mood, going higher and higher with each song until he nearly causes sensory overload. Don't expect him to stick with popular songs all night — he drops freshly released material from topnotch producers from around the world. That's what dance lovers crave, and it keeps the line outside of Gryphon packed. While there are plenty of clubs with DJs who play what's hot now, Solana is good at choosing what will be hot in six months. And when a DJ allows listeners a glimpse of the future, everybody wins.

Anyone who's made the gay scene, or just tooled around the offbeat circuit, probably knows about Miss Misty Eyez. She's the MC at just about every charity gala, to-do, or party worth putting your heart into. From her aerosol-sculpted hair to her legendarily generous heart, everything about Miss Eyez is larger than life, and that's how she became known as the fiercest drag queen this side of Vegas. Misty has hosted Trailer Trash Bingo parties, Red Balls, White Parties. "If somebody has enough gumption to ask me, I will always participate."

In the early years, it was solely benefits. But demand grew until, soon, everyone wanted Miss Misty Eyez at their parties. And they started paying her. Now Misty is almost a corporation, and in Fort Lauderdale she is certainly an institution. We wanted to know what it's like to be wanton, large, and in charge.

New Times (on the telephone): Sorry to call you out of the blue, but it sounds like you're somewhere really fun!

Miss Misty Eyez: Actually, yes! I'm at a party!

It's 3:26 in the afternoon on a Tuesday. You're at a party?

Well, it's a pool party, if that makes a difference.

What's the best part about being, er, undercover?

Well, like today, for instance. I'm here at this pool party [in drag] and I could be Misty Eyez. I could be foolish or say something ridiculous. Then tomorrow I could go shopping at Kmart and nobody would recognize me! It's like Clark Kent changing into Wonder Woman. It's great.

Got any secret weapons? Some gadget that you pull out at crucial moments?

Easy. Pump It Up Gold hair spray! I found it by accident, and, I tell you, it changed my life. I sprayed it on the wig and realized, "Ohmigod. My hair's cemented."

Are there any exotic places that you would like your Misty Eyez character to take you? A fabulous beach resort? A city with rickshaws?

(Thinking hard.) Hmmm. Yes! Television! I would love for Misty Eyez to be a host correspondent on E-TV. Or a guest star on Queer As Folk. Or maybe a dead body on CSI.

We know, it used to be Blondies on the Beach. And not much other than the 50 upgraded plasmas TVs has changed here at this bar on one of the few historic blocks in Fort Lauderdale. It's back after a months-long closure — not the kind of door-slamming where old management screwed up and you could count on some new guy swaggering in and fixing up the joint. It was the kind of goodbye brought on by progress and developers who don't seem to give a whit about anything other than making the South Florida coastline along the Atlantic look like Boca Raton. And this five-acre strip was no different — at least until negotiations stalled. Partly because those developers are so uncaring and hard-knuckled, thousands more will get a chance to enjoy this old favorite in its new incarnation. Seems the buyout of the entire block — including the hallowed ground of the Elbo Room — got screwed up when not everybody could agree on the details needed to close the deal. At some point in our lifetimes, the entire block will likely still be cleared to make way for condominiums or hotels or mixed-use zoning something whatchamacallit. But in the meantime, pull up a chair out front or a stool at the bar and set your gaze on the ocean that's still right in front of you. This view still costs only the price of a beer. The pushy guys the new owners hired early on (the ones who rudely tried to pull you and your girlfriends out of the Elbo Room for a free shot at Dirty Blondes) aren't there anymore. And don't forget to head back to the game room (it's in the same spot in the back), shoot some pool, give your quarters to the Golden Tee, and drink until 4 a.m.

All that's old is made new again: pegged jeans, environmentalism, Cher, blues. Apparently, the same holds true for blues venues. The Backroom Blues Bar wasn't the most famous venue in South Florida when it closed six years ago, but it was one of the most storied. A list of blues greats had played its stage: James Cotton, who taught Muddy Waters how to sing "I Got My Mojo Workin'"; John Mayall, without whom you'd have never heard of Mick Taylor; Fleetwood Mac, or, arguably, Eric Clapton; Leon Russell, without whom neither The Byrds nor Joe Cocker would ever have sounded so cool. The list goes on. When owner John Yurt decided to throw in the towel to home-school John Jr., the blues done got blue. No more! The Backroom is back, occupying the space formerly known as Hideaway. Already, bent and broken-hearted notes from battered hollow-bodies are rending the air above Boca. Rejoice.

Imagine, for the sake of argument, that the retro-lounge art of Shag and the cartoon universe of The Jetsons were tossed in a blender and set to liquefy. The space-age concoction that pours forth will no doubt emerge as iconoclastic as the Jetsetter Lounge itself, a magical space-age tiki-hut where dreams (especially those revolving around expensive tropical drinks) come true. With furniture that won't be out of place on the next century's space station, live lounge lizards crooning on weekends, and the ubiquitous lowbrow paintings on the walls, the Jetsetter sprang forth fully formed when it opened in early 2006, oozing cool the way Mount Kilauea leaks magma. Owner and style consultant Mike Jones built himself a playground for grownups here, and now he's got the hipster crowd eating out of his hand. Out back is a luxurious terrace decked out in a sort of Easter Island theme, and even though you're next to the street, it feels like a friend's backyard barbecue.

Sometimes, all it takes to have a good rock club is good acoustics, a dark atmosphere, and bartenders serving stiff drinks. Longtime Himmarshee hangout the Poor House has all that, and it's one of the few places along the New River district that's down-to-Earth — forget about a dress code and cover charge. The small room has the feel of an old country roadhouse, and it indeed began its life as a blues club back in the mid '90s. The music doesn't start until late, usually around midnight, so don't show up too early. But the atmosphere and décor scream old-school rockabilly, and folks can enjoy it without having to shell out a heap of cash. If the name doesn't give it away, the Poor House is also one of the cheapest rock clubs to drink at.

Sidelines is not a club. If you're interested in rubbing your ass against the washboard abs of some 20-year-old androgyne with a glow-in-the-dark tongue ring in the middle of a sweat-soaked drug orgy while Anastacia freaks out at a billion decibels, Sidelines is not the place for you. It is simply a remarkable gay bar. First of all, it is gay. Gay (queer) men and gay (queer) women hang around the place being gay (happy) until the place announces last call at 2 a.m. Second of all, it's a bar in the truest sense of the word — a sports bar, as a matter of fact, with the low-key, no-pressure atmosphere that such a designation implies. The nicest thing about the SoFla gay community is that, despite the great number of GLBT folks who have made homes here in the last decade, there is still a small-town mentality. Walk into a place like Sidelines, and it's a given that you'll know somebody. The music's always eclectic — on a recent Tuesday, Sam Cooke, Madonna, Fleetwood Mac, the Isley Brothers, and U2 were played back-to-back — and loud enough to lose yourself in but not so loud you couldn't talk over it. The booze is plentiful and inexpensive, the space is blessedly clean but not austere — think Cheers done up in dark greens with a lot more space and decorated by gay men with an equal passion for football and feng shui, and you'll get the picture.

With four active stages at this low-lit, 27-year-old feline-inspired club, Cheetah Pompano Beach has all the strip-club staples, just quadrupled. So you get the featured touring acts like the creatively monikered Felony Foreplay and Amber Waves, a happy hour that lasts all afternoon (11:30 a.m. to 6 p.m.), a free lunch from 11:30 a.m. to 3 p.m., and a free carving station from 4:30 to 6:30 p.m. Not enough food? Try the free midnight buffet. You're going to need to save your money, because it's going to end up in the G-strings (and other places) of the dozens of women parading in front of you. Want a private show for 150 of your closest friends? Rent the "party room." There may not be any sex in the champagne room, but whatever goes on, you can be guaranteed you won't leave hungry.

If bigger is better, the Park Sports Club is the best. Its 15,000 square feet hold about 40 plasma TVs, two 16- by nine-foot video walls, and an 80-foot bar in a split-level room designed to look like a baseball park — the bathroom appears to be a locker room, and the couches are made of the same leather and use the same stitching as regulation baseball gloves. There are actual skyboxes, or you can be served sitting in the "bleachers" (tables built at different levels). Want some privacy? Rent the cigarette-friendly "Coach's Office" for private parties. There's a full menu of traditional sports-bar fare, but the highlight (or lowlight, depending upon your cholesterol count) is the chocolate chip cookie à la mode for $7.

It's not the ease of getting a cab or the proximity of this bar to a few hotels or some buddy's house in Fort Lauderdale that makes it the best place to get hammered. It's the fact that this one bar is really two and, thus, double the drinking pleasure. Start off in the dark and quiet interior of Side 1, where the regulars gather daily around the grand mahogany bar for happy hour to chat about their workdays, their significant others, or the War Against Terror. Go ahead, order that first shot at 4 p.m. — we did say this is the place to get drunk, right? By sunset, you should be well on your way to being blotto, and you may have made a few new friends too. If the 70-something man who's put his cane on the bar next to his Miller High Life starts making you feel old, stand up, push in that padded barstool, and walk west through a little hallway (if you need cigs, put a fiver into the machine next to the bathrooms along the way). Suddenly, you're in a whole new bar and not only didn't you have to drive, you didn't even have to go outside. In the back room at Kim's, the lights tend to be just a shade brighter — mostly so you can shoot pool and darts or challenge someone to a Ping-Pong match. The second jukebox is sure to be playing something distinct from the one up front, and the regulars back here are a whole different group. It's a no-frills kind of establishment (taking home Best Neighborhood Bar in 1999). In 2000, the friendly and veteran Laurrie Pood won Best Bartender for her mixology skills as well as her ability to make everyone feel welcome. Laurrie is still there and will surely make you her signature drink if you ask. It's Stoli strawberry vodka, banana liqueur, cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and Sprite. She's named it the "Drunken Monkey."

Once called Harry's Open Door, this Lake Worth bar changed its name to sponsor a kid's ball club, which wouldn't take money from a bar. That sort of neighborliness, combined with a raunchy atmosphere that spurred Penthouse to designate it as one of America' s ten sleaziest bars (the owner has the shellacked news clipping to prove it), makes Harry's a great place to get drunk. Well, that and the 60-ounce pitcher for just $6. Since 1954, the family business (first Harry Seifert Sr.'s and now Jr.'s) has been this tiny neighborhood joint and its jukebox, lending library, pool and foosball tables, and golf and bowling videogames. Best of all, it opens at 7 a.m. every day (except Sundays, when the law won't let 'em open till 1 p.m.). Harry's is also a package store that is jam-packed with oddities that give it a garage-sale/clubhouse feel: a ten-foot alligator, a female mannequin in T-shirt and panties, and a mounted deer's ass. The place has a naughty charm, thanks to banana-and-breast art work done by locals including artist Clarence "Skip" Measelle and a winking sense of humor evidenced by the tiny ten-ounce glasses in this self-proclaimed "home of the big ass beer."

Drink prices at Rosies's drop down at 2 p.m., not the standard 4 o'clock happy hour. And that's just the first reason why this spot hosts the best happy hour in Broward County. (Just think, if you take your break late, your liquid lunch will be half price!) There's never an obnoxious "ladies' night" at this gay-friendly bar and grill, where free drinks leave your soul and patience with a heavy deficit. Rosie's celebrates all the major drinking holidays, like St. Patrick's Day and Mardis Gras, with decorations, specialty cocktails, and music to fit the occasion. A choice between sitting inside or out at this massive bar is the final reason Rosie's gets the blue ribbon.

Named after the man who owned four Kentucky Derby horses and the longest-running illegal casino in American history, E.R. Bradley's knows how to party, and that includes a kickin' happy hour five days a week. Since 1984, when it opened in its original location on Palm Beach, the upper crust and some real heels have packed the place Monday through Friday from 4:30 to 6:30 p.m. — even though there are no drink specials. Instead, the waterfront restaurant lays out free eats for those who buy just two drinks (otherwise, it's $16). With a carving station, finger foods, minipizzas, and wrap sandwiches among the selections, it's a filling, well-balanced and delicious meal worth the cost of a couple of beers. The spacious indoor bar, with its vaulted ceiling, offers both a DJ and lots of seating. Outdoors, the tiki bar beneath the expansive green awning offers smokers a wonderful view of the Intracoastal while they enjoy a stogie from the humidor. But the real reason happy hour is so wildly popular is the people. Financially flush society types, international businesspeople, and professional up-and-comers make for terrific networking and great date potential.

There are 11 Sidepockets around these United States, and all but this one are clustered in Kansas, Nebraska, or Missouri. How a Sidepockets landed this far from the rest is a mystery, but there's no questioning the business plan: Build a big pool hall (43 tables in 21,000 square feet) that serves big food (most notably, five kinds of half-pound burgers for under $8) that you can eat while watching sports on big TVs (four 12-foot-wide high-def projection screens). Sidepockets also pays attention to the little things: The tables and sticks are warp-free, the lighting and space between tables is perfect, and the place is much cleaner than your average dingy pool hall. And the prices? Just right. Tables are $5 an hour until 6 p.m. and $10 an hour afterward. Lunch and dinner specials start at $6.50, and if you buy lunch on a weekday, you get a free hour of pool.

Before smokers became second-class citizens, cigarette equaled sophisticate. Fitzy's Lounge returns dignity to tobacco lovers with an industrial-chic décor (check out the illuminated, 47-foot arced bar) and a cigar list that starts at $8 and ends at $100. Owners John and Marit Fitzpatrick understand a good pairing, and that's why they offer a selection of blended and single-malt scotches to set off a chocolaty figurado or silky robusto. Likewise, they offer a twist on the classic coffee-and-cigarette combo with their Fitzy's Fuel martini, made with four potent shots of espresso, chocolate vodka, and Bailey's. On Tuesdays, a jazz quartet plays for no cover or drink minimum — although you may still want some champagne to go with your smokes. It's a great combination, and Fitzy's claims to sell more bubbly than any other Delray establishment.

This ain't ugly: no cover charge, and last call at 5 a.m. The party rages until closing time with cover bands Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, and everyone is just drunk enough not to notice that your dancing was once compared to an epileptic seizure. Knowing that late-night revelry also means early-morning appetite, this West Delray sports bar offers a full menu from 11 a.m. until 4 a.m., with Philly cheese steak, wings, and pizza among the selections. If real food cuts too far into your beer budget, you can grab a cheap snack from the vending machine. And don't worry about being low on smokes, because the Mug's got a machine for that too. There are also a half-dozen TVs, a couple of pool tables, and a dartboard. And because this sports bar doubles as a package store, you can get booze to go and keep the party going until the break of dawn.

Club Voodoo casts its spell on the ladies on Wednesdays, luring them with the magic words Free drinks! and having hard-bodied hunks serve them. With three clubs in one, Voodoo gives the chicas the seductive power of choice: rock in bordello-chic Rodman's Rehab, bust old-school moves in ultrawhite Envy, or work it to techno beats in the trippy main club. And for those ladies who thrive on attention, there's even a large stage for them to strut their stuff like a pro. Voodoo keeps them lubricated from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m., so your odds never looked better on hump day.

Maybe it's all that manly, dark wood or the robust beers on tap, but for some reason, it's always a sausage fest at Brogues Irish Pub. Maybe it's just that the pub knows that the way to men's hearts is through a full menu of Irish favorites served until 11 every night and bar munchies served until 1 a.m. on the weekends. Ladies, you may have trouble getting any attention if you venture out during a soccer competition. Better to come after the game, when all that testosterone can be redirected toward a potential mate. With regular live entertainment in the main room and terrific local bands — like El and Truckstop Coffee — in the back "Banshee" room, there's always something going on that keeps the crowd circulating and prevents it from becoming just a stale set of Lake Worth regulars.

Smart men in South Florida do exist, but they're not where you'd expect them to be — say, at the local Mensa meeting. That's because the regular Mensa meetings in Palm Beach and Broward counties are at the Bennigans just off Cypress Creek Road. Bennigans? Even a Chili's would be an improvement. Whatever. Here's where you can meet men smart enough not to settle for chain restaurants: Hollywood Vine. It's a smart wine shop featuring well-attended winetastings every Tuesday evening from 6 to 8. When they opened the shop last year, owners Luciano Armellino and Steven Kracow set out to create a sophisticated space of granite and mahogany where you can "unwind, enjoy, sample, savor, and socialize." So wander around the shelves containing up to 600 varieties of vino from around the world. Try one of the ever-changing varieties offered daily, ranging from $3 to $20 a glass, relax at one of the tables outside, or perch on a barstool in the back of the shop. You'll still be able to see who's walking down Harrison Street through the storefront glass. If you find a bottle you like and don't want to take it back home to share with the cat, crack it open there and wait for your social life to bloom.

Do you come here often? I see you've moved beyond primary-level stretches and on to modified secondary; it really shows in your lotus. I have always fancied myself more of a Bikram yoga kind of guy, but when I see you glide into the plow, my body temperature jumps to 105. A little earlier I was rubbing some tiger balm on my muscles — they're very sore because I work out so much — and I couldn't help but notice that deep in your yoga bag is a copy of Essential Rumi; yeah, as far as medieval Persian philosophers go, he's one of my favorites too. I see that you're busy meditating right now — good work by the way, it looks like you're really in touch with your core. Maybe when you're done ensnaring your power animal, we could go out for some carrot sticks and ginger root and, you know, just shoot the shit about asanas, discuss the finer points of sublimation, and then go back to my place and, you know, adjust each other.

In 1961, Vincent Capone owned the Flicker-lite Lounge on Grand Avenue in Chicago. Dreaming of warmer climes, he headed south to a sleepy town called Hollywood, where there was only one restaurant on the beach. Capone opened the second. His wife, Joan, did the cooking, and when they added Chicago-style pizza to the menu, a local institution was born. The Capone family still runs the place, which added waterfront dining in 1980, and some of the bartenders have been around since that decade. Another expansion in 1994 didn't mess with the local flavor. The barstools are still well-worn, the meatballs are still homemade, and every Bears game is still watched religiously. So Green Bay Packers fans may want to stay away on NFL Sundays.

It's the best neighborhood bar in Fort Lauderdale, but it feels like the best neighborhood bar in Johannesburg, South Africa. For 40 years, thirsty patrons have found a home in the Kalahari's cool interior, decorated with zebra pelts, old-man chairs, a mock fireplace, a pool table, antique photos and maps, and a bookshelf. To step inside is to join the secret club that watches rugby, can turn a phrase or two in Afrikaans, and knows a warthog from a wildebeest. To participate in Saturday karaoke or occasional "Bring and Braai" barbeques is to have a really "lekker jol" (nice time). Sadly, current proprietors Hal and Dee Hofmeyr are retiring — Hal's turning 80 — so the bar is up for sale. But we have faith that the trusty bartenders — all of whom have been there for five years or more — will keep the place intact. After all, the family that drinks Springbok cocktails together, stays together.

In the wee hours of a recent Wednesday, an unlikely couple entered the Chit Chat Lounge. One tall white kid and what appeared to be a teeny-tiny but very-butch black lesbian spied a few regulars lazily throwing darts in a corner and a dressed-down man and woman at one end of Chit Chat's worn-but-gleaming bar, speaking and laughing softly in a non-specific Southern accent. It was an unpretentious crowd, not at all rambunctious and remarkably good-natured for 1 a.m. The bar, which had been standing for about 60 years, was filled with pictures of a pretty blond lady named Sherry, the proprietor for the last 16 years; that's just about how long George, the gent tending bar at that weird hour, had been working there. There were no musicians on Chit Chat's little stage, so George was slowly feeding dollars into the digital jukebox in between pours. The teeny-tiny but very-butch black lesbian let out a whoop of delight as she recognized Teddy Pendergrass' welterweight soul croon, exclaiming, "That's my favorite goddamned song!" Smiling, George proceeded to program a solid half-hour of Pendergrass into the machine, while somehow keeping everybody's glass full and carrying on conversations with all patrons simultaneously across the great expanse of Chit Chat's wide, dark-wood floor. He never even raised his voice. The easy congeniality of the evening was not a fluke. This is a place where quiet nights cuddle side-by-side with big events — NASCAR, blues, open jams on Wednesday with the Joe Friday band, karaoke Thursdays.

The fact that it's been a bar since 1953 makes the Sail Inn Tavern a historic neighborhood bar. The boat on its roof and its staunchly loyal locals make it an institution. The place is so beloved, the bartenders come up through the ranks after many years as regulars. Decorated with salvaged nautical elements such as portholes, ocean maps and boat ropes, and personal memorabilia from the bar "family," the place is both kitschy and homey. With just one pool table and a few TVs, the real entertainment comes from the characters: bikers, golf and tennis pros, writers, tattooed bad asses, loudmouthed lesbians, metal heads, meatheads, and the late-night party set. With the best Jäger bombs ever, don't plan on getting tanked and sleeping it off on site. The Sail Inn doesn't actually offer lodging, but the name is a convenient setup for its motto: "Sail Inn, stumble out!"

The second oldest bar on Clematis Street — younger only than Respectable Street on the same block — is a family-owned pub that has long been a second home to local artists, musicians, and poets. The loyal (and frequently smartass) staff always remember the regulars and often greet people in a brogue straight from the Emerald Isle. Lots of dark wood and quaint pastoral knick-knacks hark back to the Old Sod without being pretentious about it. With honest pints (none of those skimpy 12-ounce posers) and $2.50 Guinness on Mondays, O'Shea's even offers a hangover cure in the form of a delicious Irish sausage hoagie that's even better dipped in the potato and leek soup. And while it's not exactly Irish, there's free barbeque on the spacious back patio (which also hosts periodic indie rock shows) for Friday's happy hour.

The mermaid is back! According to local legend, it was circa 1956, when the Yankee Clipper was built (in the shape of a ship), that the landmark hotel started offering regular mermaid shows. Back then, at the height of kitsch culture, wannabe Rat Packers would step down into the dark wood bar, order martinis and highballs, look out through the porthole windows, and be treated to the sight of beautiful creatures gliding flirtatiously through the water. These were, of course, performers who reached the pool only by going outside and upstairs, but the dreamy effect was like looking into an aquarium or out of a submarine window. Sadly, the world lost a whole lot of style when the mermaid shows ended around 1962. But earlier this year, the lovely Marina Duran-Anderson decided to pin a flower in her hair, slip into her gold-lame tail and seashell-bikini top, and jump in the pool. Marina — whose side jobs include fire eating and belly dancing — can hold her breath for 90 seconds and open her eyes underwater. Order a tall one and watch her pass by the window when her shows take place during happy hour on Friday nights. And at this poolside bar, you don't even need to bring sunscreen.

The only real reason most bars need to have food in South Florida is to offer those patrons who libatiously overindulge in the booze — which is what brought them to the bar in the first place. Hello! In a handful of other, more tight-assed localities like Plantation and even entire states farther away, like Virginia, pesky governmental types use their lawmaking powers to require that every drink-swilling establishment operate a full kitchen. That said, even when you're out-of-your-mind drunk and need to eat right now, you couldn't do better than the Rum Shack. Here, the fries go beyond just soaking up the alcohol in your belly that's beginning to rebel. Here, these hand-cut treats can come with oozing gorgonzola. Not in the mood for the tater-based version? Try the ones made from the vitamin-rich sweet potato. They'll make you feel like you're making a healthy choice, at least until you remember that the only reason you ordered them is because you popped back eight Jäger shots and two of the hardcore, will-always-get-you-there Rumpleminz variety. Oh, about the homemade onion rings: They're shoestring and not overly coated with heavy batter. Forsake the fried and try the very smoky fish dip — just the way smoked fish dip should taste. Use the warm garlic bread it comes with to dish it all up.

Despite having been around for two years, the Naked Grape is still basically undiscovered. It's a state of affairs that must endlessly rankle the proprietors, but it's damned lucky for the regulars: The vibe at the Grape is mellow enough that you can have a quiet conversation with friends without straining your throat, and the bar is usually half-full, resulting in quick and friendly service. The moment you step through the door, bright, soft light gleams on clean metallic surfaces across the bar's airy open spaces, and you realize this is a place for casual oenophiles — a community watering hole as much as an outpost of serious viticulture, where you can see a few selected faces from the neighborhood gathered and talking for hours amid the free-form arrangement of big, comfy sofas near the bar's entrance. As you step in, reds are on your left, whites are on your right, and the more intense fuller-bodied wines — along with ports and assorted oddities like the "chocolate" wine, Trent Adue — are farther back, along with the Grape's pricier selections. The bar offers a small but intriguing mix of beers hailing from the Netherlands, the Bahamas, and all points in between, a selection of sakes and sake cocktails, and an assortment of cheeses and chocolates. Proprietor Michael Bocraft has a laissez-faire attitude toward live entertainment, so just about anybody could be doing just about anything on just about any night. It is this sublime relaxedness that makes the Naked Grape stand out so: Come as you are, do you as you please, and stay till it suits you.

Bloody Marys used to be a simple, utilitarian way to deal with a hangover. Then some brilliant drinksmith got to tinkering with the recipe, and the next thing you knew, it wasn't a Bloody Mary anymore unless it was made with freshly ground peppercorns harvested by indigenous pygmies, free-range hydroponic celery sticks, Finnish vodka made from purified rainwater — plus a special, supersecret hot-sauce blend. Those accouterments are all well and good (especially the last one), but the real secret to a good Bloody Mary is consistency. As in consistently drinkable. Not so tangy your tongue catches a seizure, not so tomatoey you feel like you're sucking on a ketchup packet, and sure as hell not made with that Clamato crap. Bloody Mary fans — there aren't as many as you'd think anymore — fiending for a feisty wake-up call know Shooter's has the most dependable recipe around: a dark (but not too dark) red (but not too red) glass of courage sure to start off your Sunday morning on the right foot. Or any morning, really. Everyone has an opinion about how a Bloody Mary should look and taste, but a real aficionado knows that instead of bickering over the ratio of Tabasco to Worcestershire, it's better to just down a couple right off the bat to get that hair of the dog barking.

If you're talking about margaritas, here's a simple truth: Quantity trumps quality every time. Not that ten bad margaritas are better than five good ones. It's simply that a very good margarita the size of a Seaworld holding tank is gonna do a lot more for you than a totally excellent margarita the size of, say, a margarita. And it's this truth that keeps sauce-monsters returning religiously to Tequila Sunrise, a delightful Mexican eatery that combines American excess with Mexicali vices— as in 12 different margaritas all available in 46 ounces! Dear reader, that's bigger than your head. And those 12 varieties are inventive, delicious, and thoroughly worth exhaustive exploration (though, please God, not in a single sitting). There's La Rosita (with its splash of cranberry), the cool Gringo (made with mellow melon liqueur), El Presidente (a monster filled with brandy and Triple Sec), and the Prickly Pear, with pears peeled (as the menu says, "to keep pricks away from your margarita") and tequila-soaked for three days. Then there's the most lushly decadent of them all, "The Tequila Sunrise." That'd be Cuervo mixed with orange juice, a mélange of citruses, and a dribble of grenadine. The damned thing looks like a sunrise, but by the time you're through, you'll be seeing stars.

Until now, Going South conjured a host of images — for some, a market price dive and for others, subnavel plunge. But at the Cottage, "Going South" is a cocktail that's the equivalent of receiving a French-vanilla kiss from an angelic lover between nibbles of pineapple and sips of margarita. The drink is an infusion of juicy pineapple, brown sugar, and vanilla in a tequila and triple sec mixture, which is shaken with sweet-and-sour mix before serving. Straight up or on the rocks, the Cottage's signature drink will have you rolling your eyes in gratitude as you stare transfixed at the illuminated stained glass behind the bar.

Also known as "Hippy-Dippy Mike," Michael Sinasac makes a mean drink. It's the only not-nice thing about him. His curly gray hair frames an always-there big, bright smile. Sinasac was slinging cocktails at this beachside place for years until the day it closed this April; it was a place with a small army of loyal regulars. Sinasac remembered everyone's signature cocktail and knew who drank Bud Light and who preferred Miller Light. He'd have your scotch and water ready before your butt could hit the stool. Hippy-Dippy's behind the bar because he clearly enjoys the people. That's why he remembered everyone's name, drink, and entire relationship history! He's taking a break for a bit to work on his real love — stained glass windows and designs. But when he comes back, be sure he will remember you so don't forget him.

Some are in it for the cash, some for the hours, and some for the sex. Stephanie White may be the last bartender on Earth who likes the barkeep gig because she genuinely enjoys hearing about somebody else's problems. She likes cheering folks up, and with her killer smile and droopy doe eyes lined in black, she has a way of doing just that. White grew up in Coral Springs and started working as a server in restaurants as a teenager. She kept it up for seven years, then got promoted to bartending. She's been doing that for the past seven years — but she won't say where she worked previously because it's a competitor of Smokey Bones. How's that for loyalty? On a recent Wednesday night, she was cleaning up and getting ready to cash out when she spied a longing look on a regular's face. "Do you want your peanut butter pie, Christopher?" she asked a cherubic man at the end of the bar. He did, and she dutifully fetched it. White learned to toss bottles way back, but that's for showoffs. Her favorite bartending moments are when people come in with big news to share. Like a new baby. Or a promotion. Who knew there was actually a bartender in South Florida who gave a crap? We weren't sure whether to be creeped out or give her an award.

It's hard to believe that owner Jaroslaw "Jay" Rottermund can fit 114 beers from 22 countries into this tiny nook of a bar. But he manages to stock everything from Argentina's Quilmes (essentially the Budweiser of Argentina) to Turkey's Efes Pilsen (which has a basketball team named after it) to 15 American brews. Although Rottermund says he won't look down on you for ordering a Bud Light draft, the most popular flavors among the bar's young, artsy crowd are Belgium's Delirium Tremens ($6), Belzebuth from France (also $6 but 13 percent alcohol!), and the number-one bestseller, Zywiec ($4), a lager from Poland. For mental stimulation, Rottermund has sprinkled the bar with trinkets like chessboards, books, a computer with Internet access — and a giant birdcage in which naked Barbie dolls live side by side with a plastic swan. "It is forbidden to feed the swan," Rottermund says. The punishment for transgressors? "You will have to buy a beautiful, exotic beer."

Not all girls are sugar and spice and everything nice. The Fantasy Party at the Seminole Hard Rock Paradise plaza is a bachelorette-themed bash that takes place behind the velvet ropes and closed doors of Passions Nightclub every Friday and Saturday night. Preliminary cocktails loosen the lips and hips of 20- and 30-something women before the real sinning begins, which includes (dirty) dancing, adult-only games (i.e., fake orgasm contests and something called "abs for grabs"), pole-dancing lessons, and full access to a bunch of boytoys in underwear. This scandalous soiree begins at 9 p.m., and it doesn't come cheap: $39.99 for the regular treatment, $49.99 for premiere seats, $69.99 for VIP. Of course, the cost comes with free drinks galore, party favors, and a free night's admission to the 15,000-square-foot club. You also get this free advice from the proprietors: "If your boyfriend asks where you're going... lie! "