309 Clematis St.
West Palm Beach
The coaster under my Rogue Dead Guy Ale reads "Roxy's, licensed in 1933." That's the year Prohibition ended. Clematis Street was not the original home of Roxy's Pub. That was a little spot on Okeechobee Boulevard and Dixie Highway. As the final resting place for Palm Beach County's oldest watering hole, however, this new spot needed to represent accordingly. No biggie. In West Palm, even old age is manufactured immaculately. No, you perv, I'm not talking about your hot granny and her state-of-the-art rack and pinion. I'm talking about the faux brick columns, the replica plaster on the walls, and high-gloss lacquered wood. The Victorian library and the decorative barrels atop the bar from which beautiful amber liquid flows like the rainbow are a nice touch. The bar is crowded — overflowing — with bottles, lit from behind like glowing crystal statues. The pretty bartenders pour and serve you happily, smiling all the while because they know job security is not an issue. Not unlike yours truly. I'm one of two minority patrons, though we may have to revoke the ghetto pass of the man across the way. I caught the dude singing along to Eve 6. Not cool, man. Not cool. The good news is that no one (besides me) seems to mind. They're too busy enjoying Roxy's 50-plus beers on tap and moving swiftly to the college-radio rock buzzing from the satellite feed. Live bands take the stage occasionally, but Live Band Karaoke always rocks on Mondays. Come looking fresh and clean on Saturdays and dance all night as DJ XL turns the tables on the club scene. Guys, you have to be accompanied by a lady, and the dress code is real strict. No thanks, XL. I'll pass. I was glued to the downstairs pub area, where I got my fill of Thunderhead Red, Leinie's Sunset Wheat, Pilsner Urquell, and Sierra Nevada, then stumbled out back from whence I came. Look out for the trolley. Burp.