You might have heard someone say they'd "never live west of 95." You might have heard Fort Lauderdale residents talk about the rough reputation of Sistrunk Boulevard. But in a region subtly divided by racial and socioeconomic boundaries, there's no better place to cut through the BS than Betty's: just west of 95, on Sistrunk Boulevard. The highway roars overhead, and commuter trains chug past the front door. But a procession of people from all over comes through the doors for the area's best fried chicken, slow-cooked wonders like oxtail or ribs, and macaroni and cheese that's richer than a Palm Beach heiress. This is Southern food, cooked in fat and nestled in styrofoam. The menu is fairly extensive — catfish, chicken gizzards — and Betty serves down-home breakfast items starting at 6 a.m. Start out with classics like the fried chicken and expand from there on subsequent visits. If unacquainted with Betty's, your dining companions may squeal and groan about how rich and sinful the food is. Pay them no mind, and enjoy your dinner.

After you've crossed the typical tourist destinations — beach, Everglades, and, heaven help you, Sawgrass Mills Mall — off the list, it's time to prove to your visitors that you are the kind of person who's privy to insider info. That's when you load 'em into the car, drive through a nondescript residential neighborhood, and stop in the marina parking lot reserved for Cap's customers. A short ferry ride across Lake Placid will deposit you at a set of historic buildings. Steer your party to the creaky-floored shack slightly to your left. Inside the storied walls, your guests will get a glimpse of a Florida that disappeared decades before terribly unsubtle developers like Donald Trump even set their eyes on this state.

Boynton Beach, once an affordable paradise for grannies and fishermen, has somehow gentrified into Palm Beach South, now overrun with expensive cars and multimillion-dollar condos. But one minuscule stretch of A1A still gives off a hometown feel. Here, sun-kissed beach babes pick up sundries from the legendary Nomad surf shop, and next door, regulars swarm to the Seaside Deli. At a counter in the back, the owner's son, Richie Parker, crafts about 50 kinds of sandwiches with moist fresh breads and Boar's Head meats, burstingly ripe tomatoes and bright green slaps of lettuce, all wrapped in wax paper and sealed with a piece of tape — precisely how a deli man should do it. Can't say Richie always smiles when he hands over the goods, but perhaps he is overwhelmed by the line that perpetually snakes around the aisles. An awesome drink selection takes up two walls and includes everything from Yoo-Hoo to import beers and minikegs to a machine that squeezes fresh orange juice before your very eyes. The deli is open from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m., and it delivers locally — not just food but cigarettes and newspapers too.

Mai-Kai's cocktail menu is ominous. The shrunken skull is "dangerous and deadly." The Bora Bora is an "adventurous challenge," and the 151 swizzle is "only for the sturdy." Although all are tasty concoctions that will have you slurring after a few sips, the real standout is the aptly named black magic. This potent snifterful of dark rums, lime juice, coffee, and other mystery ingredients is frighteningly refreshing and surprisingly complex. From the first sip, the flavor of coffee lingers on the taste buds without overwhelming them. After a few gulps, the stinging jab of various rums subsides, leaving the gut warm and tongue loose. If the $14 price tag is a turnoff, just get to the bar during a daily happy hour, when all drinks are half-priced.

This actually is a hole in the wall, and you wouldn't notice it but for the small sign sticking out into a side street, bearing the word HUT in plain lettering. There's something about bars next to package stores — if you're farther north in Wilton Manors, you'd do well to stop by Red's — that provides a genuine friendliness that 10,000 hipsters couldn't manufacture or reproduce. The bar here circles the middle of the room like a welcoming sandbar for battered ships, open daily at 7 in the morning. Unlike most nightlife spots, this one isn't unbearably seedy in the daytime; its day-shift bartenders are just as good as the night ones, though the bullshit detectors will be turned up high. Be sure to say hi to Zero, the guy who looks like Einstein (he owns the place), and peep the many photos of his travels around the world while you say goodbye to one light beer after another and shuffle over to the shuffleboard, then back to your barstool, then finally into the daylight to go back to work.

In the burgeoning FAT Village Arts District is Laser Wolf, a year-old bar that has quickly made a name for itself among the local scene. Far away from the beachy tourist traps, fist-pumping clubs, and beer-bong-playing crowds, Laser Wolf has established itself as the quintessential neighborhood watering hole. Its hometown feel is emphasized by the long, hand-crafted bar, the murals painted by friends, and, naturally, the Bellus brothers behind the bar serving drinks to customers in the place they brought to life.

There's no sign outside alerting you to the newest Hollywood music venue and fine brew hot spot. But somehow you'll find your way into the Native Florida Tap Room and Music Hall. The venue is owned by Carl "Kilmo" Pacillo, whose beloved venue Alligator Alley closed in 2009. After many years of waiting to open in another spot, this joint's perks make the wait worth it. Since its doors opened early this year, Native Florida Tap Room has booked a solid lineup of musical acts, featuring blues, rock, jazz, punk, funk, and folk, both by locals and out-of-towners. The comfortable bar sports an impressive array of microbrews, craft beers, and cider, both bottled and with 18 options on tap. Don't forget your cash, shirt, and shoes. These are required. Oh, and your taste for live music.

The ideal where-to-go-for-your-daily-pint bar strikes a healthy balance between "record stops when a stranger walks in" and "a stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet/would you like to hear our drink specials?" insincerity. The atmosphere at the Irishmen certainly strikes genuine notes. Live music, plenty of horny and happy college kids, more than 30 beers on tap, servers who are friendly with newbies but tend to spend a bit more time shooting the shit with the regs? Yeah. That's how your neighborhood bar should be.

It's another Tuesday night at Kim's Alley Bar in Victoria Park. You're sharing a table with your significant other at the front bar thinking about all the fighting you two have been doing lately. After gaining some liquid courage, you decide it's time to pull the plug on the relationship. The room is dark, good for hiding any tears and runny makeup. The jukebox is loud, and drunks are shouting the lyrics, perfect for masking any fighting. And when it's all said and done, you can head over to the second, back bar to get away without being too far from a drink.

By the time Sunday night rolls around after a long weekend of fun, it's not uncommon to experience an aversion to activities like cooking and putting on shoes. If this sounds familiar, find your perfect weekend-capper at Rockout With Your Cookout, the weekly Sunday hangout put on by Brotherly Love Productions at Hurricane Lounge. Each week, a different local, regional, or national band is featured — usually of the jam, funk, or reggae sort and often in a stripped-down configuration to match the laid-back mood of the scene. While the band plays, free-spirited folks who smell like incense enjoy free food from the grill accompanied by the last drinks before the workweek.