Bars & Clubs

The promise of free alcohol ain't what lures ladies to Round Up on Wednesday nights. That's just a marketing strategy to appeal to the male mind: "Hell, I'd go to any bar that lets me drink for free," he reasons. Rather, women flock here because this saloon has what women call an "activity": namely, line dancing. However sausage-heavy the male-female ratio may be in the bar's aggregate, you'll notice that the fenced-in dance floor is dominated by dames. Each is aware of how the line-dancing moves show off her curves and her rhythm. It's up to the lone rangers hanging on the fence to go ahead and ask that divorcée from Tamarac exactly how to do the achy breaky. You might not lasso the first one, but keep at it, cowboy. When it comes to the mating dance, practice makes perfect.

With its rustic, wall-to-wall wood and brick décor complete with moose-antler chandeliers, the Lodge Bar and Grill is the antithesis of any place you'd expect to find in chic downtown Boca Raton. Being an antipode to its Mizner-style surroundings is not what makes this cozy gem stand out; the rotating lineup of 24 imported and microbrews on draft are the main attraction here. With a blackboard denoting what's on tap in chalk scribbling, weekly tastings of savory suds from the likes of Belgium's Duvel and Colorado's Left Hand breweries, the Lodge is a beer lover's paradise. For around $20, take home the "Lodge Growler," 64 ounces of its favorite craft brew. The kitchen puts out some quality accompaniments too; juicy Angus beef burgers that have never seen the inside of a freezer and tasty truffle fries infused with white truffle oil and topped with Parmesan cheese make the perfect pairing to wash down a syrupy Ommegang Abby Ale.

Everyone makes bloody marys differently, and that's what makes them the ultimate brunch drink. Any Southern belle would be remiss not to sip hers with a skewer of pickled okra. The bon temps in Louisiana are most commonly supplemented by house-pickled green beans. Here in Florida, we're bastard children: We want our marys strong and extra bloody (read: spicy), and the more ingredients, well, the better. Enter Lauderdale Grill's weekend bloody mary bar. The restaurant offers an entire buffet table's worth of fixins and lets you concoct your own. Just ask one of Lauderdale Grill's waitrons for a glass and a double shot of vodka (only $4 each), and saunter up to the table to assemble. Choose from about five kinds of tomato juice, then spice your drink up with any of the following: cherry tomatoes, celery, scallions, spicy peppers, horseradish, A-1 Sauce, Worcestershire, Tabasco, okra, green beans, cilantro, pickles, onions, garlic, lemon, and lime. The combinations are as endless as the weekend is long. And if you want to go the simple route, there's always the most popular recipe: Owner Jamie Baker's own zesty secret blend made in-house from fresh vegetables.

Some you've already fallen in love with. Others will be entirely new. But if you're feeling lonely, any of these ladies will gladly go home with you for an uncomplicated romp. The smart gay girls you'll meet on the shelves at the Compass lending library include novelists Sarah Schulman, Sarah Waters, Dorothy Allison, and Rita May Brown; lefty lezzie social critics Karla Jay and Donna Minkowitz; British photographer Della Grace; sexperts Pat Califia and Susie Bright; and classic midcentury philosophers like Germaine Greer and Monique Wittig. Peruse hundreds of anthologies, biographies (Dusty Springfield, Melissa Etheridge), trashy Naiad romances, diaries, Gay & Lesbian Almanacs, tomes on film and history — any of which can be checked out for two weeks or read on the spot. The new Compass Gay and Lesbian Community Center in Lake Worth is a blue and white oasis of pristine leather chairs under ceilings painted to look like sky, tasteful sculpture, and vintage Madonna playing softly in the background. Compass hosts events and meetings and runs HIV programs, but you can also hang here with your laptop and use the wi-fi, peck out a tune on the white baby grand, or just sit and wait patiently. Ms. Right is bound to show up eventually to return that Jeanette Winterson novel.

Chef/owner John Zimmerman closed this casual neighborhood hangout in 2006 with plans to refurbish the kitchen and completely redesign the outdoor drinking and dining areas. Problem was, he ran out of money. But Zimmerman convinced a group of local patrons to pool their resources and invest, raising more than $2 million to complete his tiki-themed dream. Now the winding paths are in place between screens of banana and bamboo, the coconut palms and the waterfall have been installed and the docks rebuilt: It's a tropical fantasy that looks like a set some Hollywood King Kong might come crashing through in search of a damned good margarita. That Zimmerman was able to do this is testament to how well loved his waterfront bar has been over the years. The same oldies, hipsters, pleasure boaters, and reggae aficionados have come back to chow down on fish tacos and bloody marys. And they're still not dressing for dinner.

Strip clubs appeal to the simplest impulse of man: sex. So how did we let the strip club become so damned high-concept? Is the modern man really unsatisfied with merely the sight of impossibly gorgeous nude women? Must he also be seated on some regal piece of furniture within a palatial space throbbing with neon, nibbling on an impeccably cooked filet mignon? No, give him a stiff drink and show him some boobs and the modern man's a happy camper. This is the streamlined, classic approach at Cheetah's in Pompano Beach. Five beautiful women are dancing nude on stage while another dozen or so cavort in various states of undress on the club floor, in the VIP areas, or on the 13 "full friction" chairs. The music isn't so deafening that you can't have a conversation. There aren't laser beams shooting off every wall. This place isn't trying to be anything but what it is: a good titty bar.

Pub crawls are usually the sort of thing randomly cooked up by groups of friends or orchestrated by groomsmen. But if the city wants to sanction this drinking tour and throw in a trolley to transport drinkers from bar to bar, well... who are we to argue? During a night out on the Fort Lauderdale Bus Loop, you'll be chauffeured around town via a red-and-yellow Sun Trolley. You'll be getting blasted for a good cause, as proceeds go to charity. After forking over $18 beforehand or $25 at the pickup stations, you score a drinking card — sort of a passport to get smashed — that allows you free drinks and some appetizers from nine hot spots along Las Olas Riverfront and A1A. Each venue stamps the card, leaving you with a nifty souvenir at the end of the night. You can stay at each bar as long as you like (total drinking time: five hours), although it's hard to stay at the bar when you can drink on the trolley. Just be courteous, and try not to spill anything, especially on the bus loop driver.

For those who have a well-built neighborhood bar, the world is simpler. Take this man: It's Friday night, and he's exiting his job at the Corporate Center. We won't shoot you with his troubles — hell, he's not even thinking of them — because he's only minutes from his neighborhood bar. That bar for him is Maguire's Hill 16. He can already taste the pint of Guinness. On a more stressed day, it might be a car bomb to shoot and a whiskey to sip. This cozy Irish bar keeps a stock of full liquor, and tonight, he'll be tucked away in one of the wooden back booths. Most nights, it's nicely packed with folks of all ages, and tonight happens to be no different — and what this means is that he doesn't feel like he's missing out on the action on Himmarshee. What a wonderful bonus, he muses, of not having to deal with parking downtown. When he wants a smoke, he'll head outside and sit in one of the swinging booths. After a while, he'll order some food, perhaps the bangers 'n' mash or the lamb stew mingles. Afterward, he'll stumble home, being one of the loft/condo/apartment dwellers of north downtown, which has itself one sturdy neighborhood bar.

Double-apple-flavored smoke churns through the water of an ornate pipe. It passes through lungs and curls from parted lips, finding itself floating through the heavily wrought, massive party complex of Off the Hookah. The smoke clings to the Middle Eastern-inspired curtains, the flamboyant décor, the beautiful furniture. It appears thick and ghostly under the bright spotlights and flashing colors. That scented smoke wafts past the olive-skinned, barely clothed belly dancer as she swallows a ball of fire. It finally dissipates in a gyrating mass of sexy partiers in high heels and short skirts. You, the inhaler, get a heady, delightful buzz.

What do Hendrick's gin, Patrón tequila, and Bulleit bourbon have in common? Each liquor can be bought in a bottle larger than a human head (Let's not spend too much time imagining how many human livers you could stack up, mmm-kay?), and each is in stock right now at Cellars Wine & Spirits Warehouse. Now, it's probably bad form to lick spilled Sauvignon Blanc off the floor, but you probably could — that's how immaculate this place looks inside. From the back "cellar" wine section to the midpriced racks in the center to Johnny Blue they keep behind the counter to the neon stuff that tastes like a melted Jolly Rancher, it's all right here at absurdly low prices. Monthly winetastings turn the store into a neighborhood social scene, so you never know what (or whom) you might bring home.

A man with a fervent passion for allthings horror,Tom Rampage works the back bar at the Poor House. He's the lead singer of local metal band Murderous Rampage (read more on them above), so his kindness may come as unexpected. In this romantically gothic bar off Third Avenue, Tommy welcomes you — like only a happy man could when being surrounded by half-naked zombie chicks. Of course, you must take that last statement correctly: To make him happy, he must be really into zombie chicks, which he is (just check out the music video for "Eat, Shit, Sleep"). The man says his "thank yous," and they're genuine — and that's not the norm for Himmarshee. Even though the back bar at the P-Hizz is next to the stage — even in a packed house — Tommy will spot you through the dancing dervishes. His interests are seen though the classic horror films he plays on the flat screen above the bar. Side note: He was also homecoming king.

Leave the tux and the ball gown at home; there's no dancing at Whiskey Tango. Those initials are code for white trash, and this is the kind of bar a trailer-park dweller would build if he ever hit the Pick 4. Big screens plastered on every wall, a menu full of American comfort food, and drink prices to ensure that a workin' man (or nonworkin' man, for that matter) can get shitfaced by halftime. The two-for-one happy hour starts at 11:30 (yes, that's a.m.) and doesn't end until 8 p.m.

The newest way to meet a guy might be the internet, but the oldest, surely, is at the bar. And the bar at the 90,000-square-foot Xtreme Indoor Karting complex is soundproofed. That's right: The 25 go-cart engines zooming by — one of which possibly carries your beau-to-be — can't break your focus. The men — chipper from exiting the go-cart-ride part of their night — will now be sprinkled throughout the bar. The black-and-white-checkered tile that covers all the ceilings and floors will help amplify the mood — the room itself seems to transform into a giant race flag. Feed into the adrenaline yourself. It's your race now.

Wind your way past the throngs of skinny-jeaned teenyboppers, up the escalator to the third floor. There, across from the movie theater snack bar, is a dimly lit bar. Inside, the dance floor is tiny, made of mosaic marble ideal for spinning. The rotunda ceiling is painted sky blue with white clouds. By 11 p.m. on a Friday, this space is filled with writhing bodies — thrusting hips, glossy red stilettos, metallic belts, greased hair. The people sweat and sparkle as if with one breath. The DJ, speaking only in Spanish, feeds the frenzy, spinning crowd-pleasing salsa, bachata, merengue, and reggaeton. Almost no one is stumbling drunk or leering. Dancing is the only thing that matters here. Beginner salsa students shyly pair off beside the people who were born to move their hips this way. Newcomers watch, mesmerized and breathless, as the best couples compete in impromptu contests. Stand on the sidelines long enough and someone will take your hand, clear a space for you on the floor. You dance until you're exhausted. Then you stumble back out into the air-conditioned theater, wondering how anyone could watch a movie on a night like this.

Dinner and intimate conversation? Sexy, exotic martinis at a swank bar? Drinks and covert groping on the low-lit patio? Sweaty body-slapping on a crowded dance floor? You'd have to hit every other gay bar in town to even come close to getting the Manor experience. Its compartmentalized rooms and copious bars make this the most diverse place in Wilton Manors to get blitzed — whether you're tossing back signature Red Apple martinis with the entire YMCA or you're alone celebrating your 40th birthday (with a tray of tangerine-flavored shots and a pink tiara). The dance floor of its Epic Nightclub boasts more shirtless, muscular men per square foot than the sauna at your local gym. And if the Manor weren't already everything you need it to be, the cherry on top is Coffee Talk — a wi-fi-equipped sweetshop smack-dab in the middle of all the sexiness.

There's just something picturesque about a pair of cowboy boots tapping across a shiny, polished dance floor. Maybe it's a deep-seated longing for the romance of the Old West, with its saloons, shootouts, bustiers, and whiskey-swigging good ol' boys. Well, pardner, those days still live at Scandal's Saloon, the best place for both country hoedowning and riding cowboys. You'll meet Florida's finest cowboys (and cowgirls) as they Texas-two-step across the expansive dance floor and line-dance under the gleaming cowboy-boot-shaped disco ball. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, Scandals hosts lessons for those who long to join the ranks of footloose dancers. But even if dancing's not your style, toss a few cowboy cocksuckers (shots) back with Pooch and the rest of the beefy bartenders. Scandal's is all the good of the Old West with none of the bad or ugly.

Comfy leather couches, charmingly mismatched tables and chairs, silverware that comes in a small basket — this restaurant is the perfect substitute for your living room. The vibe is warm and romantic, with red walls and strings of twinkling white Christmas lights making the place glow. Ceiling fans spin lazily overhead. No one here is in too much of a hurry. The menu is impressive but not intimidating. You can share some tapas — spanakopitas, perhaps, or fried pumpkin ravioli — if you want to show your date your adventurous side. Or you can dive into a huge bowl of gnocchi or a plate of braised lamb shank. Sip some wine from the generous selection, and admire the kitschy paintings on the walls. In the middle of the room is a headboard that looks swiped from someone's bed. That's a good conversation starter. Sink back into your chosen couch and enjoy.

South of the conspicuous partiers, cheesy gift shops, and corporate chains like Fat Tuesdays that comprise much of Fort Lauderdale beach, is Bierbrunnen Beer Garden. It hides in an alley off A1A. The open-air bar doesn't shy at the Florida beach weather: no air-conditioning here. But when you grab your first cold one, it's as good as the ocean breeze that winds its way through the space. Enjoy a menu chock-full of bratwurst and an extensive beer selection that includes German imports like Warsteiner, Franziskaner, Spaten Oktoberfest, Erdinger, and Spaten Optimator and domestics like Smuttynose and Rouge Dead Guy Ales. You may be miles away from Germany, but more important, you'll feel miles away from contrived tourist traps.

So you partied too hard — again — last night. Your head throbs. Your stomach lurches. What's a committed nightlifer to do? Stop partying? Stop drinking? Oh, the humanity! Wait! Matty's on the Drive, a Wilton Manors bar with hot music, beautiful people, and a classy, laid-back vibe, holds the holy grail of healing in the form of its signature drink: the grape martini. In addition to containing antioxidants, grape juice packs the power to fight heart disease, high blood pressure, and other nasties that could seriously impair your sexy bod's dancing capability. And yeah, you might wake up the next day with a hangover — but it'll be the healthiest hangover you've ever had.

Prevailing economic forces would have you believe that you shouldn't spend money you don't have; that if you're not a rock or rap star, you shouldn't party like one. But there's another way to treat this moment in history: as an opportunity. It separates the true players from the pretenders. MI-VI in Gulfstream Park is a leap of faith in the resilience of South Florida's playa population. And we're happy to report that on a recent Saturday night, the foyer was totally jammed with slick-dressed revelers, all elbowing one another for the chance to get past the doorman, then to pay $13 for a splash of liquor. The club, on the second floor of Gulfstream Park's entertainment complex, opened in January. It's decked out with chandeliers, tables, and chairs that look like they were swiped from the castle of a French dauphin. The music somehow manages to sound crisp in a club space that could otherwise be an airplane hangar, which suggests that performances from the stage will also enjoy fine acoustics. Decadence isn't back as a South Florida trend, but it is within the walls of MI-VI.

This Pompano neighborhood bar is for storytellers. As the bartender will tell you, sometimes they're the same stories. You'll be the thousandth ear that's heard that Buccaneer regular, the middle-aged ex-yachtie or rabble-rouser, relate the time he got pulled over with rum and pot. Spoiler: The cop let him go — phew. But here, you're among friends. And you'll listen to him tell his story 1,000 more times if you decide to dock at this bar that also functions as a liquor store. Tucked away off Federal Highway in Pompano, in the back of a shopping plaza, the Buccaneer is as inconspicuous as a bar gets. The side that faces the plaza is a liquor store. The only way to get to the bar is through the store, or around the back along a small neighborhood street. Don't miss the small round window with the neon sign that reads "Bar." That's your only landmark. (Well, that and the door that's usually open.) Once inside, the mural will transport you to the islands. But good conversation and good stories will make you realize why you love the neighborhood again.

Not much lingers on that South Federal Highway route to Fort Lauderdale Airport, but near State Road 84 — right next to the skating rink — lies the Monterey Club. It's a joint built for folks who choose a night's location based on music. The bar stands out as a small music venue — it books both killer national and local acts and has a fully functioning sound system. Outside, hot rods fill the street (the owner has a 1950 Mercury Monterey), and inside, it's rockabilly retro. Cushy couches line the walls, and animal-print rugs decorate the floors. It's hard to get stuck on the absence of hard liquor (it adjoins a tattoo shop, so this might be a good thing), because they serve about 35 beers, including Dogfish Head, Brooklyn Lager, and Flying Dog as well as ciders and wine. Some nights, South Florida's best DJs spin; other nights, there's karaoke, burlesque, or swing dance. Now, along the barren terrain in the middle of South Federal Highway, there's a watering-hole oasis.

It's all about betting beneath the beautiful blue skies of South Florida. Inside Gulfstream Park, you'll find the same type of things you see in all the (non-Seminole) casinos: a sea of slot machines, a few electronic blackjack machines, a bustling poker room, simulcast betting. But Gulfstream's recent renovation left it cleaner and newer than the other South Florida casinos. Right next to the track, you can patronize the massive development of new stores, restaurants, and bars. But the best thing about gambling at Gulfstream is betting on — or just watching, for that matter — the stunning thoroughbred beasts that race here. The horses are the finest and fastest in Florida. The facilities are immaculate. The jockeys are nothing but professional. On a nice afternoon, you can take off work early. You can finger through the program as you sip a cold $1 beer in the sun. You can watch the ponies galloping around the track. And if the air is clear enough, you can see all the way to the ocean.

The closings of the Bamboo Room and City Limits had left a gaping hole in the Palm Beach County live music scene before this quaint venue on Lake Worth's J Street swooped in. With the help of booking genius Steve Rullman, Propaganda offers lineups stacked three to four deep, often four or five times a week and regularly filled with up-and-coming local acts. It's an amazingly personal setting for national acts like Dashboard Confessional, Cracker, and Vivian Girls. West Palm Beach's blogger darlings Surfer Blood owes a lot to this Communist-themed club as well, cutting its teeth for months there before taking its show on the road. And, considering the spot's limited square footage, man, does its sound system pack quite the punch.

Sweet yet hellaciously bitter. Full bodied yet smooth. Drinkable yet ultrapotent. Big Bear's Double Diablo is both the devil on your shoulder and the angel sent from heaven. Double Diablo is the creation of brewmaster Matt Cox, who has fashioned a strong amber ale made from intensely rich caramel malt. That sweet base is balanced with a heavy dose of floral, bitter hops. The result is as tenacious as its name: rich, fruity, and piney. It's also deadly potent at almost 9 percent alcohol by volume. The beer debuted at the Jupiter Craft Brewers Festival this January and stayed on at Big Bear's brewpub in Coral Springs for a couple of months after. Knowing Cox, the next batch probably won't come around until this winter. Heaven (and hell) will just have to wait until then.

The Starlite Lounge is hidden in an indistinct Pompano strip mall, behind a bank and a Super 8, parked between a laundromat and an antiques store. Stepping through the door, though, is like walking into a dark, wonderful warp zone that combines all the comfort (and pricing) of a bar in 1970s South Florida with all the toys of today. Inside, you'll find clean pool tables, dartboards, shuffleboard, a Wii that begs to be played, a collection of flat-screens tuned to local sports, weekly live music, and a jukebox full of classics. The drinks are cheap and stiff, the colorful cast of regulars is warm and welcoming, and the small team of bartenders is attentive and accommodating. It's easy to miss, but once you've been, it's hard to forget.

If your gay best friend bought a condo, this is what it would look like: an intimate room with sexy, low lighting. Red couches, black chairs, and a disco ball in the corner next to tasteful paintings of naked men. Hidden discreetly underneath the coffee table are games of Yahtzee and Monopoly and decks of cards. One back wall is lined with bottles of wine, primarily from small, boutique vineyards. The abundantly friendly waiter helps you read the menu by candlelight. After you pick out the perfect pinot gris, he selects the most delectable cheeses to go with it: one soft and tangy and French, another made from Parmesan spiked with peppercorn. Each plate comes with fancy little crackers, green olives, and spicy red peppers. The snacks are made in the tiny back kitchen, just large enough for a cutting board. You have to pass through the kitchen on the way to the bathroom, but you don't mind. Because this is your friend's house, after all, and he's made you dreamy with wine and cheese. If he's not careful, you might move in.