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.
Liz Dzuro
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.
Courtesy of Shooter's Waterfront
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.
Carina Mask
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."

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