When I finally hit that glorious age of 21, my friends and I made the trek from West Palm Beach down to Fort Lauderdale for a very specific reason: Beach Bar. If you've been to the beach at the end of Sunrise, you know the place. It's that corner open-air bar that looks out onto a "café district" (which is actually devoid of cafés). Beer and tattoos make up for the lack of latte shops and wrapperies. And the real drinkers know to stumble toward the pirate flags at the Beach Bar. For decades, under a string of different owners, the bar has been slinging brews to overheated tourists looking for a shady, breezy spot. Frank, the new manager, has some big plans for the three-story bar. Live music is back after vanishing for a few months, and he's brought on a cook who slings breakfast and bar food from 7 a.m. until midnight. The beautiful thing about Beach Bar is that for all these years, it's always been an inclusive place. It never fell into the trap of becoming a "Bikers Only" bar or a punk bar. Any tourist can stop in, grab a beer, and watch the locals (or Iowans or Ohioans) stroll past in their itty-bitty bikinis carrying boogie boards.