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Best Of Broward-Palm Beach ®
Bars & Clubs
2008
Best Neighborhood Bar — Fort Lauderdale
Kim's Alley Bar
Best Of Broward-Palm Beach ®
Bars & Clubs
2008
Best Neighborhood Bar — South Broward
PRL Euro Café
Best Of Broward-Palm Beach ®
Bars & Clubs
2008
Best Place to Meet Intelligent Gay Men
The Naked Grape
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This is not your mother's Chippendales. But it might be your father's kind of testosterone parade. The boys at Boardwalk dance in briefs, for an almost entirely male clientele. And, oh, the variety! Boardwalk employs buff guys, twinks, even bears — all young and tender. Buzz-kill alert for the male patrons: Many of the dancers like women as much as, or more than, men. Females have to sign a waiver promising not to have physical contact with the dancers — although maybe it should be the other way around, 'cause these boys are frisky! They'll slap a girl on her ass, pin her against the wall during a grind session, even give her a peek at their packages. Like any strip club, the drinks are overpriced, but what entertainment! And each night has its own theme, like Wednesday's "Spring Break Amateur Strip Contest." Yowza!
Hunting for the best margarita is a fun job. Aside from getting drunk in the name of research, you can learn a lot about what goes into making a quality margarita. While on the quest, you'll notice that size does not matter. Some restaurants serve margaritas big enough to dive into while some upscale haunts will dish them out in a martini glass. What's important is quality, and the folks at Azteca Real know how to make a quality margarita. Starting with a stellar tequila selection and fresh juices instead of simple margarita mix, the result isn't your average cocktail. Unfortunately, there is an intangible cost: The service at Azteca is borderline comical. But while some of the bartenders may lack tact, they make up for it tenfold when it comes to mixing.
For martini-drinking ambience, head for the lounge at Fort Lauderdale's St. Regis Hotel, where a jazzy score rolls across a vaulted ceiling of blond wood. But the St. Regis, like so many other upscale joints in South Florida, has an unexotic array of gins, and that's bound to rankle the true martini snob. He's liable to follow the scent of juniper berries a few blocks north along A1A to the Trina lounge, inside the Atlantic Hotel. Here one can find Martin Miller's, a brand whose British makers followed their gin obsession all the way to Iceland for glacial waters that are the world's purest. This is perhaps the deft touch of mixology and hospitality guru Nick Mautone, a consultant to the bar and restaurant. Mautone seems to have also imparted a few lessons to the bartending staff, who are wise to the subtle ways of martini creation.
It's dark, dank, and delightfully drunken. The old-timey wooden bar and chatty bartenders say, "Come in and spill your guts. We won't spill a drop of beer." The shadows and TVs constantly playing sports say, "Just have a beer and relax. Life isn't as bad as you think." And even if it is, what's better than a nice neighborhood bar to forget about who said what to whom. So your real next-door neighbors don't like you, and you're not about to stop playing Pantera at top volume when the mood strikes. Come down to Mickey's and meet your new neighbors: the doctor on the next stool who wishes he hadn't married young, the recent divorcee who wishes she'd fought for a bigger settlement, the Red Sox fan who won't shut up about how much he hates A-rod. It's like an episode of Cheers — with better nuts.
In Fort Lauderdale, you'll be hard pressed to find a bar as deeply connected to one neighborhood as Kim's Alley Bar is to Victoria Park. The pub is also a staple for a lot of city residents regardless of neighborhood — there's an allure to Kim's that is stronger than a zip code — but the folks of Victoria Park still love it the best. Everyday from 4:30 p.m. onward, you see locals headed there on foot. That's the best way to go because you can get blind drunk and not need to drive afterward. Kim's has pool, darts, ping-pong, and a killer jukebox, which makes it easy to lose track of time in this watering hole. The friendly bar staff treats everyone like Norm from Cheers , which isn't easy to achieve in today's rushed society. Kim's is a throwback. They're celebrating their 60th year in business for a reason — they know how to treat their customers right.
You want three things from the perfect bar. 1.) You must be able to smoke inside. 2.) Your fellow drinkers should be fun, interesting, approachable, and represent all neighborhoods and backgrounds. 3.) They've gotta have a lot of beer — like, over 100 varieties. In Hollywood, there's only one place that does all this right: PRL Euro Café. No matter what time you show up during business hours, from 5 p.m. to 2 a.m., you'll be pleased. During happy hour, from 5 to 7, you get two-for-one drinks. We're not talking just domestic Rocky Mountain swill, either. Think Old Speckled Hen, Belzebuth, and other tasty treats from far-off lands. Pop by in the evening and the long, narrow space is shoulder-to-shoulder with other Euro-brew aficionados. It's an easy environment for mingling since you all share a love of good beer and a loathing for shitty domestic draft. On the weekend, walk into (and stumble out of) underground art shows and drum 'n' bass DJ sets — all with a lit cigarette in hand. PRL might be heaven on Earth. It's definitely the perfect bar.
Sporting events are a drunkard's paradise in every respect but two: The tickets make a vicious cover charge, and getting a round means either waiting for the beer guy or waiting in a beer line, the last place you want to be when the game's big play goes down. You won't find those obstacles at Dania Beach Jai-Alai. You get the same vicarious, hop-induced ecstasy from athletic competition as you do at the football game, but without ticket charges or long lines. Jai-Alai being a European game, a certain amount of hooliganism is tolerated if not encouraged. So boo lustily, good sir! The more pickled you become, the more this bizarre sport seems to make sense. Soon you'll summon the courage to lay a wager on that boy in the yellow jersey, just because you can pronounce his name. And remember: All it takes is two friends to start a wave.
Your boy toy left you. Your momma yelled at you. Or you gave your phone number to a hottie who never called — and you scribbled it on the backside of your winning Powerball ticket. There is only one thing left to do: throw your worries in the fuck-it bucket and get totally schnockered. It has to be someplace where you won't run into the boss. A place where there is a decent chance you could end up playing tonsil hockey with a good-lookin' stranger. It's imperative that the dress code allow you to wear a revealing tank top. At Mr. G's, fun-loving bartenders and a friendly crowd will support you in turning your frown upside down. Start off with a game of Beer Pong (on Tuesdays) or by observing the college-aged eye candy. Wash down those sorrows with a Jager bomb and keep your stomach in check with the Axl Rose egg salad sandwich (or just nachos). On a good night, the band will be loud enough to drown out your whine, the bar will be clear enough to dance on top of, and by the time G's closes at 5 a.m., a slew of silicone-enhanced dancers will have stopped in after their shift to help you refine your moves on the five stripper poles. If you need anything at all, darlin' (a cab, maybe?), just ask the manager: his name is Bubba and he's totally got your back.
Once upon a time, gold digging was an art form. You had to master that "No, I'm not just into you for your money" look and not cringe when grandpa swooped in for a tongue kiss. But nowadays it's part of a mutually convenient, publicly acceptable arrangement. For validation, see Larry King and his string of ladies; Anna Nicole Smith and that really old rich dude; or former GE CEO Jack Welch and his 30-years-younger wife — who have been spotted at Seasons 52. If a man's there eating the filet mignon with veggies in a thyme-shallot reduction, he can afford to buy you a drink. And maybe later, a new wardrobe. And a penthouse in Manhattan. In return, you're expected to step up the appearance a notch: heels, manicure, short dress. Boys, you're in luck, too: A young male spy who was once scooped up by four European women and spoiled all over Palm Beach adds, "There's a lot of cougars there, too — a lot of women looking for young beefcake."
New Times has visited the Naked Grape thrice. The first time, we got into a long conversation with a toned fortysomething stud about the relative virtues of Renata Tebaldi and Maria Callas. The second time, we met a queeny young thing who had very interesting things to say about why Wilton Manors would instantly become a bastion of heterosexuality if ever viewed through a Hegelian dialectical lens (we had our doubts about that one, but it's what the man said). The third time, one of the Grape's crack sommeliers effused to us about Schopenhauer's Essays and Aphorisms . This is not the kind of track record you accrue in any old gay bar — and probably not even in most gay wine bars, of which the Naked Grape is one. Nay: this is a weird, weird confluence of forces. Comers to the Naked Grape should bring cleared palates, a desire to socialize, and big brains.
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According to the Bible, our ancient ancestors Adam and Eve grew ashamed at their nudity in the Garden of Eden after sampling forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge, and thusly, mankind was forever cursed with a sense of body modesty. Well, you can finally feel good about dropping trou outside the confines of your residence (without getting thrown in the cooler) inside the confines of El Dorado Hot Springs. This picturesque mineral-water spa located 45 miles west of the Valley is a clothing-optional compound with a bounty of bathing pools and tubs filled with natural H 2 O pumped straight from a subterranean spring. Five private areas located inside fenced areas and historic buildings including a small post office where old-school civil servants soaked their letter-carrying carcasses back in the day allow you to take a dip away from the prying eyes of the public for only $10 an hour per person. If you're feeling a bit more exhibitionistic, there's also a semi-private pool for $7.50 an hour per person. Cell phones and cameras are forbidden, however, so you needn't worry about any saucy pics of your skinny-dipping adventures getting posted on the Internet.
The appletini is the quintessential frou-frou cocktail. Flirty. Tasteful. Fun. Grilled Expedition at Desert Ridge Marketplace offers an appletini that's shaken, not stirred, and garnished with a Granny Smith apple slice. Its house special martini isn't exactly a trade secret just vodka with a splash of sour apple liquor but the restaurant's bartenders manage to get just the perfect combination of sweet and tart. This is an apple that will definitely sink its teeth into you.
Best Of Phoenix ®
People & Places
2006
BEST GARDEN OF EDEN IN THE DESERT
The Wright House
Phoenix summers are hell. By August, the only flowers left alive in this town are on night-blooming cactuses. Wright House proprietors Peggy and Michael Wright must have made a pact with Satan's gardener, because somehow their lush landscaping manages to stay green and flowering nearly all year. The property houses three buildings a historic cottage house, an English ballroom and a recently added French villa that can be rented for weddings, special occasions and private parties. Wrought-iron fences and delicate gazebos are covered with ivy and fragrant jasmine. Stone walkways snake through country gardens planted with roses and perennials bursting in vibrant shades of fuchsia, pink and saffron. The best part? There's not one goddamned cactus on the lot.
For those of you who specialize in committing the most profane acts of immorality, now you can royally piss off God in a variety of ways at Apollo's Greek God Revue. As if the infamously sassy GLBT clientele that frequents Apollo's wasn't enough to get on the Lord's bad side, now guests can further annoy the Most High with the overt idolatry of Dionysian-loving tranny sing-alongs, the likes of which some fundamentalists might say could invoke the wrath of God with more urgency than the folks in those little towns called Sodom and Gomorrah. To add injury, the party happens every Sunday night, a day typically reserved by the rightest of the right for spiritual fasting and meditation. Perhaps the guys at Apollo's view their wacky Sunday night Greek drag extravaganzas as worshipful in their own way. Since the Lord hasn't struck them down yet, be sure not to miss a week; that would really light up this already fabulous party!
Best Of Phoenix ®
People & Places
2006
BEST WAY TO TURN YOUR BLACK THUMB GREEN
Garden Territory at The Farm
So your last houseplant turned black, you think putting leftover meat loaf in your orchid's pot means you've fed it, and you've now proven (multiple times) that you can, in fact, kill a cactus. No worries. The folks at Garden Territory have heard it all before. The shop offers gardening classes for all skill levels, from novice to seasoned grower. Learn how to plant an herb garden, grow tomatoes, or design and execute a backyard flower bed. Most of the instructors are self-proclaimed "Barn Goddesses" ex-hippies who now hover somewhere between corporate clone and tree-hugger. These ladies are so relaxed from morning yoga and afternoon aromatherapy that you could accidentally kill their whole demonstration garden and they'd just give you a hug.
How does your garden grow? Probably quite nicely, if you've hooked up with the folks at the cooperative garden at Scottsdale Community College. Spread across a couple acres on the northeast end of campus, a fragrant plot of tilled earth has provided fertile soil for SCC's students, faculty, neighbors, and other local residents to cultivate all manner of fabulous flora for more than a decade. This field of dreams is open to anyone willing to join a non-credit class for only $10 and pay a six-month watering fee ranging from $14 to $65 in exchange for their swatch of land (the size of which varies). Fruits like watermelons and cantaloupe sprout alongside rows of herbs and veggies ranging from turnips to tarragon. There's also a greenhouse-size selection of budding plants and trees in the garden of earthly delights, ranging from pine trees to yucca plants. And just because it's on a college campus, no, you can't relocate your cannabis collection here, so don't even bother asking.
Best Of Phoenix ®
People & Places
2006
BEST PLACE TO TAKE YOUR SHIRT OFF
Monkey Pants Bar & Grill
After attending a few of Monkey Pants' "One O'Clock Shirtless Shot" promotions, we wholeheartedly endorse going topless at this wacky watering hole in Tempe. A single one-cent shot of any liquor in stock including such premium spirits as Patrn and Hennessey is doled out to anyone engaging in the half-naked high jinks (ladies are required to wear bras). It's quite often a post-midnight madhouse, as the nightly event is jam-packed with ASU frat boys, urban cowboys, and dreadlocked hippies, all of whom wanna get bare-chested for booze. We recommend doing some crunches beforehand.
Father Francis LeBlanc leads a church in El Mirage that celebrates the traditional Latin Mass as well as numerous other ancient Catholic rites. The rest of the Valley's Catholics celebrate the modern Mass born out of the widespread modernization of the Catholic Church in the 1960s known as Vatican II. Because LeBlanc refused to change to the modern-style Mass, he was kicked out of the diocese by former bishop, pedophile hide-and-seeker and Native American hit-and-runster Thomas O'Brien. This summer, a diocesan priest incorrectly stated in his parish bulletin that LeBlanc had been "excommunicated" by the pope. A minor faux pas, you say? One would think. But the mistake sent LeBlanc into an old-school tizzy. He filed a lawsuit. He demanded a very public apology. What was more fun, though, were the letters sent out by LeBlanc and his fellow traditionalist priests, in which they blame Vatican II, and the priests schooled under its liberal laws, for just about every heresy committed by a Catholic priest in the past 30 years. Some nuggets: "You people don't even use the proper Roman Catholic Bible!" one priest wrote. "Your job is to save souls; it is not to destroy them. When you discourage Roman Catholics from attending the true Mass the Roman Rite Mass you are destroying souls. You are leading the souls of your flock straight through the gates and into the fires of hell." Ouch! Yet another thrust of the spear. "Is it any wonder why those of us who desire the true Mass the Roman Rite Mass abandoned your 'mainstream church' with your heretical bishops, pedophile priests and hootenanny services?" That last little stinker really hit home. "Hootenanny services." Have you been to Mass lately? They remind us of the fevered Baptist revivals of the hillbilly South. The weird little hand dance thinger. The blaring band of Creed wanna-bes. Women reaching for the sky like peyote-crazed medicine doctors. What's next? "Heal!!!!"? LeBlanc calls for solemn reverence in his church. After seeing enough Diocese-sanctioned services, that seems like a pretty damn good idea.
Underwear night definitely operates under the premise "less is more." Every Thursday night, promiscuous persons flaunt what they've got at the LGBT-friendly bar while enjoying all-night drink specials. The house lights aren't the only thing that drops at 9 p.m. when men move and groove on the dance floor in tighty whiteys, and exposed ladies shake it all out to DJ Doom's house beats. It's not necessary to bare most of your bod to enjoy the evening, but there is a buck off the cover charge reward for those brave souls who decide to strip down or just show up in their undies.
Now, there's a lot of competition for this honor. We've read of pedophiles in Arizona who've each accosted scores of children. But Warren Jeffs, prophet of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, has not only had sex with minors himself, he's required multitudes of his followers to commit the crime since he took over as Polygamyland's top dog from his dad. Between Rulon and Warren, the Jeffses have forced young girls into sexual slavery for a couple of generations now. Which is why the FBI had the junior Jeffs on its Most Wanted list since August 2005, and why he was eventually nabbed on a highway in southern Nevada this summer and sent to face charges first in Utah and then in Arizona. His polygamist community of Colorado City, Arizona, and Hi
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