Talking Shit

A New Yorker's First Time on the Fort Lauderdale Bar Scene

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Our Saturday night began at American Social, on Las Olas. On entering the bar, I see exposed brick walls plastered with retro copies of Life magazine and sepia-stained Old Glory flags. So far, the polar opposite of the South Beachy über-cool cocktail bar this alabaster-skinned New Yorker was dreading. It seems great time and effort has gone into making this place seem authentic, the real deal, as if it's been there since Eisenhower was in the White House and Rock Hudson adorned the screen as America's beefcake.

However, the illusion is short-lived, as distinctly 2014 chart music pounds from speakers and a gazillion flat-screen TVs broadcast a basketball game no one is watching. We are in an episode of Mad Men, soundtracked by Miley Cyrus.

At the bar, I am literally rubbing elbows with our fellow tableless refugees, eying those who sat at booths with "pour it yourself" beer taps with envy. Yes, "pour it yourself" beer taps -- on the surface perhaps the greatest invention since beer itself, where you simultaneously get to play Sam Malone and Norm from Cheers, pouring and drinking at will. While one would imagine, and I can only imagine as all are taken, that this might be fun to indulge in for a couple of hours, the thought of the traditional American bar becoming a Roman bacchanalia is not necessarily a pleasant one. This should be shelved under "fad," lest the bartender go the way of the bank teller, the elevator operator, and the moderate Republican congressman as an obsolete profession.

American Social crams as many draft beers on its taps that most New York neighborhoods do in several city blocks. There's everything from pale ales and fruit wheats to heffs and Belgians. It's quite stunning. A Wynwood La Rubia Blonde Ale does not disappoint. Naturally, my primary goal is now to sample the 33 other beers available on draft before the end of the evening.

Eventually, we are sat outside on Las Olas, and the music dims to allow audible conversation. Here, the benefits of the Floridian climate become clear. In the ceaseless winter New Yorkers are experiencing at present, this would be impossible without thermal underwear. Friends tell me it is as "cold as balls" up there, and with the ever-shortening springs, it will next be "hot as balls" as the inescapable heat of the NYC summer kicks in and Manhattan gets moist. By comparison, Fort Lauderdale in March is bliss.

American Social's menu is vast. I imagine that the cafeteria at the United Nations does not list such a clumsy array of global fare. Starters range from foie gras sliders to an Hawaiian poke tuna tower. Scanning the main courses, we have Thai chicken, a smorgasbord of burger options, and crab-encrusted filet medallions -- a concoction worthy of The Island of Dr. Moreau. We settle for the pretzel sticks, spinach dip, and pikliz and pork tostones. The snobby New Yorker in us rears his ugly head at the doughy pretzels but is tempered by the down-to-earth loveliness of the beer cheese. The spinach dip was similarly quickly dispensed with, while the pikliz and pork tostones were a tasty combo of roasted pork and pickled veggies that belied the dish's silly name. Maybe next time, I'll give those crab-encrusted beef medallions a try.

The patrons of American Social are an eclectic mix of young and not-so-young, couples, groups, and families. There are even children gallivanting down the street. It's a far cry from the flimsy fashionable crowd of some of New York's hipper bars, where Pabst-guzzling, Parliament-puffing hipsters play lords of the manor in increasingly gentrified and ethnically uniformed neighborhoods. That's not to say such doesn't exist in South Florida, but whatever lofty pretentions American Social may have, its patrons tonight are refreshingly unpretentious.

Moving on to the Himmarshee area of town, we hit upon America's Backyard. I'm told that it's the beginning of spring break season and that South Florida attracts America's bright young things like bees to honey this time of year, as they put down their Kafka, Freud, or medical journals and indulge in sun, booze, and casual sex. America's Backyard is supposed to be one of the hubs for this, but tonight this tiki-ish, partly open-air bar seems strangely muted. The place gradually fills while we sip surreptitiously on our Sex on the Beaches as the gents and ladies cluster in gender-specific groups on either side of the dance floor, exchanging the odd glance, giving the occasional exaggerated flick of the hair, as if they are at a junior high prom. This isn't the orgy of mindless partying I had expected or slightly feared. Perhaps it descends into wacked-out pleasure seeking later on, but for now, it's all actually rather agreeable.

Next door, Poorhouse is even less rowdy and just a little more dungeon-like. However, as far as dungeons go, this isn't one I'd mind coming back to. It's drafty and dark, and amid the cheap cans of Miller Light being thrown back, there's a band warming up. The general vibe of the place harks back to New York dive bars of yore.

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Steve Brennan