Bars & Clubs

Nonsmokers don't get it. They believe, in their lung of lungs, that with enough advertising campaigns and public education seminars, smokers will see the light, become converted, and quit. What they don't understand is that you smoke because it's awesome — that a cigarette with coffee or a frosty pint of beer is the Greatest Thing in the World. Sure, your shelf life is limited. Your lungs are lined with more soot than a coal mine. You smell bad. And you know what else? You don't give a shit. You will not convert. So in an age when smokers are pushed onto patios and exiled from their native habitats (bars), you need a bar that shares your passion — a place where the beer selection is lengthy and British, where the jukebox is packed with funk and soul, where strangers buy you drinks and become friends. And that, my friends, is why you go to the Fox and Hound. Robbie and his dedicated crew are always quick to light your ciggie and empty your ashtray, often with such grace that you hardly know it's happened. They take pride in being the finest pub around, and they welcome all types: even you scoundrels reeking of Marlboros.

Not much in South Florida makes a Philly fan feel at home. It's nearly impossible to find a genuine Philly cheese steak, sports fans are more apathetic than psychopathic, and there is a haunting lack of William Penn statues. The Parrot Lounge is as close as it gets to walking down Broad Street. It's game days when the Parrot really shines. Hours before kickoff during football season, hundreds of people flock to the bar. Once the Eagles take the field, 90 percent of the televisions are tuned to the Eagles and 100 percent of the folks in the bar are screaming (mostly obscenities) at the top of their lungs. Every play is scrutinized, every call is wrong, and every point scored is accompanied by an earth-shattering E-A-G-L-E-S chant. As a bonus, wear a Giants, Cowboys, or Redskins jersey during football season and you're likely to get free drinks... "accidentally" spilled on you and your loved ones. Just don't try it during the playoffs or you'll be asked to leave for your own safety — literally. It's enough to make a grown Philly boy cry.

When relatives come to town, they want to see skin. They're sick of sweaters. And they should tell you this as soon as you grab them from the airport curb. If they don't demand this — because they should be demanding this — do them the favor. Don't take them to some fancy, indoor martini bar even if they request it. It's January, they've forgotten what the sun feels like, and they know no reason. Just drive them to Dirty Blondes. For their sake, ignore any request that doesn't involve the swarms of bathing-suit-clad 20- and 30-somethings who drink at this beachside bar. Remember the tiny bikinis and full liquor bar. Remember all the pool tables and games in the back and the beauty of the beach and ocean that can be seen from the front. And let them see the reason Florida's been crowned the Sunshine State, after all.

Finding the right bartender is like meeting a soulmate: Once it's happened, you'll never stray. If you've been fortunate enough to stumble into (or out of) Maguire's Hill 16 during Trixie's (birth name: Tricia Cline) shifts, you already know this. More charming than a Shirley Temple and wiser than a desert shaman, this red-haired libation mixer adds a dash of positive energy to every drink she serves. When prodded, she'll explain that her cheerful demeanor stems, in part, from her other careers as a spiritual healer and ordained minister. So what is this nondrinking angel doing shoveling shots to you and your obnoxious friends? "I believe that you have to understand the dark to appreciate the light," she'll say, most likely with a wink. Belly up, become a regular, and have this sage pour you a Boddingtons. Just don't forget to tip your life coach.

"You walk in here, it's like Barbie fucked Beetlejuice," quips drag-show hostess Diva about the cabaret establishment Lips, where the disco balls outnumber the queens and performers boast such sophisticated monikers as Twat LaRue. It's Friday, and it's time for the late-night revue. Diva informs those easily offended by bawdy humor, "You've just been fucked out of a cover charge." She circles the room, endlessly singling out targets for questioning. But watching your friends squirm to avoid Diva's merciless interrogations of their sexual history and anatomy is only half the fun and accounts for only a fraction of the show's raunch factor. Bring lots of bills, and not just of the $1 variety. These ladies may call one another whore, but they're not cheap whores.

Alligator Alley's booze selection is nonexistent. But you won't need shots, because the Alley's beer selection is kickin'.

There are two brews from Unibroue, those incomparable Canadian brewers. There are Caribbean ales. Key West ales. Triple-fermented craft beers. And the bar food is prepared with an attention to detail and inventive flair that's hard to find at other watering holes. Fried oyster poboys are better than much of the competition in New Orleans, and mind-bending spicy gumbo is cooked to secret specifications in ten-gallon batches.

Yet it's not the beer nor the food nor even the Alley's reliably great jazz and rock music that make it so spectacular. It's the place itself. Go in, drink, and eat and you'll meet some of the coolest heads around. Old session musicians who'll riff on their glory days with Buddy Guy, science fiction writers, painters, psychedelic visionaries — all just sitting around, shooting the shit, treating the place like a second home. For lots of us, it is.

Sometimes you want a bar with a generous selection of top-shelf liquor and tasteful décor without the pretensions of a dress code. This is South Florida, after all, and you live here because Reefs are appropriate footwear pretty much everywhere. Georgie's Alibi in Wilton Manors boasts three polished wooden bars with marble countertops, good booze, and awesome specials, including $1 domestic longnecks on Wednesdays and $2.50 margaritas on Mondays. A Wheel of Fortune-type contraption on the wall dictates what additional specials will be at various designated times. Floor-to-ceiling television sets seem to rotate Britney Spears, Kelly Clarkson, and Madonna music videos. But if sensory overload brings out your Baudrillard-esque paranoia, you can move out to the patio tables. You won't be able to stare at the cute barback, but so goes barhopping.

When the powers that be decided to renovate the underused outdoor patio at Revolution Live and reinvent it as a permanent pool party, they went long on fun and short on pretension. They hired tiny, clean-cut, young barmaids; adopted the tagline "Grillin' and Chillin' "; built the center bar as a replica swimming pool; and narrowed the musical set list to highly singable mainstream anthems. Should you pop in at America's Backyard for happy hour (4:30 to 9 p.m. Friday only) straight after work, don't be too anal about your nice J. Crew outfit, because you are highly likely to get caught in the crossfire of the bartenders' water-balloon fight. Said bartenders (dressed like lifeguards, down to the board shorts or bikini tops and whistles) will make it up to you by passing out free drink tokens as freely as Halloween candy and by putting three or four straws in those giant, bucket-sized fruity cocktails. You know this is a place where things regularly veer out of control because they feel compelled to have a whole "Lost & Found" page on their website. "Good morning!" it says, knowingly. "You had a lot of fun last night, huh? So what did you lose; cell phone, keys, a present, a friend, credit card, shoe, camera, boyfriend, your panties, your pride?"

Education is important, so cheers to learning in classrooms, and cheers to learning in bars — near FAU classrooms. And cheers to the never-ending lesson of learning one's self. Mull the following questions over discounted drinks at Nippers any time from 3 to 9 p.m. Monday to Friday. Is "happy hour" a marketing scheme designed to get you drunk? No, wait, put down the drink and listen for a moment. Are you supposed to be getting drunk during these hours? Hey, don't throw that empty glass in this direction. OK, you're heard: The only thing that matters here is being smart and saving money, and Nippers lets you do both.

It has been said that O'Malley appeared on Hollywood Beach after the hurricane of 1926. Accounts vary as to where he came from: Some say he drifted ashore, some say he arrived by boat from the Bahamas, and some say the real story is much less interesting. One thing is certain — it doesn't matter. O'Malley's Ocean Pub is a place where the worries of everyday life just wash away. It might be the fact that it's located on a busy stretch of Hollywood Beach — outdoors but at the same time covered and protected from the sweltering sun and unpredictable rain. Or it could be the variety of frozen drinks, double-shot mojitos, and low-priced, all-day refills served in carved coconuts. Maybe it's the bevy of televisions tuned to every sport available and the collections of people eagerly watching their fantasy teams on laptops thanks to the free WiFi. Most likely, it's a combination of these things and the fact that more locals and regulars populate O'Malley's than you'd expect at a busy beachside bar, proving it's not a tourist trap or fad like so many other bars littering the beach.

The stretch of Dixie Highway from West Palm to Boynton Beach is a wonderland of dive bars: the Office, Harry's Banana Farm. But the Little Owl Bar is the coziest, with its mix of blue-collar Budweiser drinkers and the Lake Worth progressive set (you shall know them by nose rings or dangly earrings). The Owl's dark main room, sticky floors, old pool table, and flickering TV are always welcoming sights, whether you're here to suck down a longneck on a hot summer day, attend a Food Not Bombs potluck, or watch your favorite all-girl punk band play (Go, Angry Pudding!).

And you thought you were in the know when you discovered Le Tub! Ha! This place is so low-rent that it doesn't even have walls. There's no door, no sign, no cash register — just a thatched-roof hut decorated with bric-a-brac and a couple of tables nestled right on the shore of the Intracoastal, hidden just south of the Dania Beach pier. Whiling away hours at this gem of a hangout is just like chilling in a buddy's backyard... if your buddy had a backyard minus a house. Owner Ed Colville opens from noon until dark, or whenever he feels like it. He need earn only enough to pay taxes on his little scrap of land. Ed will be happy to grill you a hamburger if you bring some (he doesn't have a food license) or get you a beer out of the fridge he keeps in his shed ($3 for a can, $4 for a bottle). But most of all, he seems to enjoy hanging out here with his family and his dog, loving life and watching the boats pass by. That, and telling dirty jokes to his visitors.

Dear Margarita,

Banish from your mind those newfangled "martinis" sold in the trendy bars by unscrupulous mixologists. You know the ones. Their active ingredient is vodka, and all kinds of weak boozes have been added to the mix to make them taste like Key Lime Pie or an espresso or an Almond Joy. These drinks are often pretty, and they are often tasty. But they are only "martinis," never martinis. A real martini is a pre-Prohibition gin drink with an unapologetically booze-ish flavor. To try one, go to href="http://bovaristorante.com/">Bova Prime on Las Olas, for there they serve a mighty example of the form. Bova is as upscale as any restaurant on the boulevard — a full meal, plus cocktails, could easily run you $100 — but you'll feel as dapper and happy as any diner if you stop by for just a single Hendrick's martini. Yes, they've got Hendrick's — that wonderfully crisp, cucumber-infused gin in the thick black bottle that looks like it came from an old-world archaeological excavation. They serve it diluted with just a tiny bit of ice water from the cocktail shaker, which emphasizes and excites the gin's rose-petal overtones till they seem to skitter across the tongue. Order mostly dry with a cucumber garnish and discover how good booze can taste when it's not busy tasting like something else.

Calling the Living Room a "bar" is like calling a McLaren F1 a "vehicle" or calling Jackson Pollock "messy." Really, just trying to describe a place this chic and transcendentally futuristic with regular sentences seems inadequate. On a typical Saturday night, you might find a red room full of heated bodies, pumping chest-to-chest to the music; a purple room that seems as relaxed as an opium den; and an open-air patio full of beautiful people looking for the right person to go home with. The architecture and design blend water, flowing scented air, shifting colors, and the urban landscape to confuse your senses and open your mind. The place turns your typical evening out into a serene, poetic experience. The only problem: When you awake from this dream, you have to walk back through the rest of Riverfront to find your car.

We're a few hours into a happy hour at this perfect tropical garden when somebody brings up the idea of going someplace else for dinner. Sure, we all probably need something to soak up hours' worth of alcohol, but nobody likes the idea of leaving a place that feels like an ideal Old Florida backyard. Tables and chairs are scattered across a patio amid tiki torches, a fountain, and tropical fauna, all comfortably spaced out to give groups of drinkers their room. At the full bar nearby, the friendly bartender overhears our dilemma about dinner and offers, "Why don't you just order in? Pizza Girls delivers." Brilliant idea, sir. Before we finish off — what was it? — a fourth round or so, a few boxes of steaming pizza pies arrive from nearby Clematis Street. The guests here — this is a B&B, after all — have probably long gone to bed by the time we ask for the check, which always seems to be missing a few rounds. We join the crowd outside passing between Clematis and CityPlace and then head home, envious of those smart enough to book a room at href="http://hibiscushouse.com/">Hibiscus House who will in a few short hours wake up to a slice of Florida as comfortable as any backyard paradise can get.

It took the nightlife dream team of Cleve Mash and Rodney Mayo — the guys behind Monkey Club, Respectable Street, Lost Weekend, Dada, and more — to (finally!) make it worth going out dancing again on Clematis. Two things establish Monarchy as a dance club that seems plopped out of South Beach. First, it boasts a top-of-the-line sound system blasting modern club bangers — there's no lame Top 40 playlists and no tired '80s nights here. And second, the décor is both campy and sexy. The theme is very French Revolution, as though the riff-raff just broke into the castle, ousted the king, and turned up the stereo. Brocade wallpaper is ripped in places to reveal a concrete wall underneath, chandeliers shake with every electro thump, and in-house dancers exuberantly make their way through the crowd in tight bodices and curly white wigs, like 18th-century courtesans gone wild. This is the party palace the bourgeoisie has been waiting for — where the beats are deafening, the dance floor is slammed, and the vibe is downright decadent.

I sometimes picture my liver in the glass bottle of vodka behind the bar. On tough days, it's in the whiskey. If this just worried you, stop reading here... because in the dark, dank world of Fat Cat's, shame isn't welcomed. I know this — I'm the regular, not you. I am not worried that this self-proclaimed acknowledgment will expose me. The barkeeps and fellow patrons don't know where I work or what I do. The staff didn't just walk off the sitcom Cheers. At Fat Cat's, there is no time to get to know you — so shuffle up to the bar and order your drink. That kind of cheery welcome satisfies the lovely, low-maintenance bartenders. This is not the place where female quasi-bartenders stand on the bar — if there's ass shaking in your face, that's because you fell on the dirty ground. Take my lead: Bring to the bar only the companions who understand the lush, drunk, or zombie drunk side of you. In this liquor shop, succumb to the drunkenness and embrace a look that says you have nowhere to go. Be nowhere and everywhere at once — be in your watering black hole.

Most people know about the endangered Florida panther, stalking the Everglades. But an even more incredible beast is the lesser-discussed (but infinitely more ubiquitous) South Florida cougar. These creatures have been spotted in bars and nightclubs up and down the coast; witnesses often report seeing them with a martini in one paw and a demur post-adolescent male cub in the other. They're known to travel in packs tagged with Louis Vuitton insignia and marked by the scent of mature, lustful uteri. They are an extremely intelligent species whom nature has provided with a dangerous array of weaponry: from large houses to expensive cars to alimony checks with lots of zeros. And there's no better place to see a sleek cougar in her natural habitat than Christopher's, along the Intracoastal. If you really want to hunt a cougar, though, you're out of luck. Not because it's illegal (cougar season is open year-round) but because a cougar simply refuses to be prey. The best you can do is show up, make eye contact, and hope she wants to sink her teeth into you.

You see it all the time: women flocking to ladies' nights at Dicey Riley's or the Cove, tottering in high heels and wearing shiny tank tops. Their hair is perfectly flat-ironed, their Prada bags on display. This the worst possible way to meet single men, because the competition is stiff and the men are intimidated. Oh, and it could qualify as fraud — c'mon, you know that after you snag the guy, you're beelining for sweatpants and a ponytail holder. Ladies, let's try this the easy way. By showing up at a Fins game, you have the guy-to-girl ratio in your favor. Then, when you find a nice boy (he's under that XXL mesh jersey!), you can put him at ease by asking about subjects he knows, like two-point conversions — not what ingredients may be in your $13 Cosmo. He can tell right away that you're not after his money — for God's sake, you're shotgunning a can of Coors! And if you find your heart skipping a beat for a man wearing orange and turquoise (together?!) — that's true love, sister!

Typically, this award goes to venues that hold several pool tables, but this year's winner does not have — surprise! — more than two. Located near the docks of Port Everglades, this seafarer's bar mixes boaters, locals, and expats — all ready to share stories in between a maelstrom of shots and swears. So with the two pool tables and full liquor bar comes the modern Odyssey — the Lotus Eaters (drunk men), the Sirens (drunk women), and the shipwrecks (drunk men plus drunk women). And unless the actual cue-to-ball motion is a drug for you — and the ones who get "high" off the game are fun to watch too — pool is sometimes not enough. Instead, travel to play pool in the sea world.

Let's get one thing straight up front: Clowns are fucking creepy. And circuses are mostly filled with sanctioned animal abuse and freaks who don't believe in gravity (until it hits them in the face). But not all big tops are bad. The Circus Sports Bar and Grill in Pompano has a fantastic collection of clowns and party animals sitting on both sides of the old wooden bar every night. These Ringling-worthy souls won't jump through fire on command or crowd into a tiny car with a bunch of men in makeup (well, maybe after a few drinks). But most of the neighborhood men and women who've been coming here since the '70s will buy a stranger a round and sit around shooting the shit. There's no bearded lady or tight rope, but there are enough pictures of clowns to scare all the children in Florida twice over. Clown paintings, clown drawings, clown sculptures, even a stained-glass clown. Luckily, the friendly faces (and cheap drinks) more than make up for the eerie setting. Plus, it doesn't smell like elephant shit.

The Mai-Kai was a mini Polynesian theme park in the middle of Fort Lauderdale when Fort Lauderdale consisted only of a beach and a few condos. Except for some recent, hurricane-induced renovations, the restaurant hasn't changed much since its opening in 1956. Its over-the-top jungle décor, flowing rivers, and roadside torches remain. The drinks are your typical island-vacation fare, except for one: the "mystery drink," which might fail to be much of a mystery to devoted South Floridian fans after 50 years. Still, it's the only drink in the area that will get you and three friends noticeably hammered as — spoiler alert! — hot Pacific Islanders dance for you. If you keep drinking and decide to roam through the Mai-Kai's tropical gardens, be mindful of all those pesky waterfalls and rivers that totally come out of nowhere.

A ship set sail many moons ago. Across a harsh, turbulent sea, the vessel pushed forward. The rugged crew, tested by times of famine and poverty, was a surly but fun bunch. When the ship docked in local waters, it brought strange and exotic spices from the faraway land of "Pitts-berg." The ship's colors were odd: a mix of what the sailors referred to as "Black and Gold," and the crew spoke constantly of a set of great warriors they called "The Steelers." There were other ships with bigger, better weapons (and thousands of giant plasma screens), but those ships lacked the soul — the loyalty of a pack of lovelorn sailors in tropical exile. To witness such dedication — the clan generally worships on Sundays in the fall — is to peer at the fickle desperation deep in every seaman's heart. They say the shrieking sound of the pleas from the despairing men aboard would reduce even the most stoic admiral to tears. The ship eventually became known in legends as "The Wayward Sailor Pub." Yes, there might be shinier boats on the water, but none so pure and true as she.

The taxicab top in front of you at the stoplight advertises Scarlett's Cabaret. This is spotted as you drive to work, and you curse your keen detective eye, because maybe this Tuesday you wouldn't have been thinking of naked ladies during office hours. And now the unreasonable side of you already has you positioned in front of the main stage when doors open at noon, tucking a bill into... well, nowhere, because this is a full-nudity strip club. And full liquor bar. And hours are so reasonable that they can fit around anyone's work schedule. Scarlett's doesn't shut its doors until 6 a.m. Monday through Thursday and 8 a.m. on Friday and Saturday. The fact is (and any fact that involves strippers is a damned good fact) that once the bars close at Hard Rock and in downtown Fort Lauderdale, your partying won't be interrupted, because you know the procession of stripper after stripper never quits. Now that's a reason to get dressed in the morning, so sanctify this cycle of daily life: Wake up, put on clothes, find that damned cab, and take clothes off.

Remember penny candy stores? Save your allowance for a few weeks and you could pick and choose among hundreds of forms of sugar. By the end of the shopping trip, there would be 30 types of candy in your bag and some change left over for next time. Vino is the grownup version of that candy store. Purchase a Vino-branded smart card for $5, load it with as much as you'd like to spend, and you're ready to be transported to Willy Wonka's wine factory. More than 40 bottles of wine are hooked into high-tech machines designed to dispense happiness a taste at a time. Place your card into the slot above the wine of your choice, place your glass under the stainless-steel spout, and hit a button to get a taste, an ounce, or a glass of wine. Each wine is individually priced in three tiers, and the bottles start at $20, making it easy to afford a taste of the good life. You can bring the bottle home or drink it right there and pair it with some food. Vino is a wine lover's candy store, and it's time to get your inner child drunk.