Bars & Clubs

Sure, Bailey's is sated with archetypal showboaters in French maid outfits and Britney-ready schoolgirl garb who slither and spin to rock riffage like AC/DC and Buckcherry. But the scene is hardly reminiscent of the classic strip bar milieu portrayed accurately in the Crüe video for its song "Girls, Girls, Girls."

Darkly lighted with gilded walls, ersatz foliage and inconspicuous patrons who strangely keep to themselves while focusing scrupulously on the sinewy and zaftig dancers, Bailey's has a subtle feel that's straight off the pages of a John O'Brien novel. It's an ambiance dissimilar to any other "cabaret" in town. It's at once strident and discreet, a contradiction that makes it the city's optimal spot for stripper buffs to consort discreetly.

Any place with Guinness on tap is already worth its weight in gold, but this place has more than great beers to recommend it.

It has regulars, loud Irish ones, and more than enough traditional Irish and Scottish performers, including an occasional bagpipe player and a group of acoustic guitar wielders on Tuesdays called the Claire Voyants that plays mixed traditional Irish fare with Sarah McLachlan and Live covers. And make no mistake, people here are friendly indeed at the Dubliner.

All of this makes you feel like Tipperary ain't such a long, long way after all.

Located directly below the Golden West, one of Phoenix's last remaining downtown flophouses, Newman's Lounge could never be confused with Cheers or any other homey sitcom bar. Bleating cell phones, thumping karaoke machines and blaring techno music are conspicuously absent at this throwback to a bygone era -- when bars were designed for hard-core drinking and slurred story-swapping.

At Newman's, you're more likely to run into the Barfly types (you know, wizened regulars with wheezy coughs sporting barroom pallor and stringy hair perfumed with the fermented scent of booze and cigarette smoke). Ain't no Norms perched on barstools here -- and we seriously doubt anyone really wants to know your name, either. Maybe because of the divey, live-and-let-live ambiance, we recommend it as a viable atmosphere for uninterrupted confabulating, not to mention bullshitting and crying in your beer.

Readers' Choice for Best Bar for Conversation: Casey Moore's Oyster House

It's a good thing that libations master Serafino won't share his secret for making the perfect cosmopolitan. If he did, we'd soon be organizing happy hour for our fellow members at a 12-step program meeting.

This is the most exciting cocktail we've had the joy of sipping. And we do mean sip -- only someone with no appreciation for beauty would slam a drink like this. No, it's so much better to let the alcohol in slowly, to warm our tummies, our hearts and our heads.

Perhaps the secret's in the Grey Goose vodka. Could be the slender ice shards that slip from the sides of our martini-style glass, bringing pure, ice cold pleasure. Or maybe it's the way Serafino handles the silver shaker, deftly blending the cranberry juice for a liquid that's the palest pink of sunset.

The garnish of dried cranberries floating in the bottom of the glass adds to the experience. But the best part is at the end, when Serafino pours "just a little more" from the shaker, giving us a bonus like the leftovers from a fresh-blended milk shake.

Seems like some bars clang a bell, give it another shake and before you can say "Doc Otis Hard Lemonade," your happy hour is terminated. But at Faye's Green Room, happy hour lasts longer than most part-time employment.

This establishment has a happy weekday-afternoon-early-evening sorta deal. Mondays through Fridays, from 1 to 7 p.m., there is a "two-dollar-you-call-it" special on imported beers, as well as "dollar jumbo domestic" specials. Even this generous beer bonanza is exceeded by Friday's perks, such as an invitation to dine on two-fisted portions of a three-foot sandwich from Hogi Yogi on University Drive and enjoy the acoustic musings of Dead Hot Workshop's Brent Babb from 5 to 8 p.m.

With bonuses like these, it's not hard to imagine people having their mail forwarded to a barstool. Or make that two barstools.

Readers' Choice: Applebee's

Chef Michael DeMaria has raised the bar on bar food. His sophisticated upstairs bar tops off this high-class restaurant.

We're talking cushy sofas, overstuffed armchairs, a discreet but well-stocked bar and inspiring views of Scottsdale's spectacular sunsets. These are way-above-average bar bites, exquisite eats like potato-and-prosciutto-wrapped scallops with roasted pears and balsamic shallots; and crab-stuffed cannelloni on asparagus with horseradish tomato jam.

Tossed back with some Krug Grande Cuvee Brut champagne, it's the most elegant experience we can imagine, bar none.

For a beer joint chiefly associated with its day drinkers, live rock and chicken wings, Long Wong's on Mill offers a surprisingly extensive menu of bar fare. For vegetarian hell-raisers, there's a heady carte du jour of veggie clubs, subs, pitas and Garden Burgers that ring in at fewer than six bucks a pop and come with a heap of fries or onion rings. Carnivores, meanwhile, can opt for fetchingly titled burgers like the Chi Chi (jalapeos and Cheddar) and the San Fran (on sourdough with Velveeta and red onions); hot dogs; and sandwiches, like the Shroom and Swiss, a chicken concoction.

And for those who like to temper their libations with hangover deterrents? Basketfuls of seasoned curly fries and fried zucchini go down quite nicely, as do, of course, Long Wong's culinary signature, hellaciously hot chicken wings.

Readers' Choice: Four Peaks Brewing Company

While it seems that Muzak has gone the way of the dodo with the advent of custom-tailored satellite radio, most eateries trying to provide a soundtrack to your visit are still guilty of offering up warmed-over MOR leftovers. In a land normally populated by Dan Fogelbergs, Anne Murrays and Billy Joels, we've found an oasis in the form of BD's Mongolian BBQ. While the do-it-yourself Asian eatery has already earned a culinary cachet, it's the house music that we've most come to enjoy.

One recent visit included eclectic mealtime platters from David Bowie ("Panic in Detroit"), the Count Five ("Psychotic Reaction") and Bob Dylan ("Stuck in Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again"). Granted, the sonic bill of fare isn't always flawless, as we were also forced to endure a predictably tepid Eagles track ("One of These Nights"). At least that blue-eyed soul stab is better than having to suffer through "Witchy Woman" or the flamenco-ized version of "Hotel California," songs that are sure to disrupt anyone's digestion. Yet despite the occasional bad bite, the bulk of the musical meals here are first rate.

Tequila's not just for killing brain cells and sorrows anymore -- premium tequilas today are good enough for respectable sipping and have many of the nuances and personalities of fine wine. There are three grades -- fresh-from-the-still blanco, reposado aged in oak two months to a year, and aejo aged more than a year -- and Via DeLosantos offers them all. It has almost 200 labels, including several rated best by Bon Appétit. A sign attached to the massive tequila bottle display -- housed behind chicken-wire fencing, presumably for the sipper's safety -- boasts that the restaurant has 193 types, including Baja rose strawberry, tarantula citrus and twisted Sheila. Tequila shots are served in clever, fluted glasses that make slamming seem almost sophisticated. At $3 to $25 a shot, getting buzzed can be a bargain, or a bust.

There are other restaurants in town with longer wine lists. But they don't have what makes Cowboy Ciao so special to us -- wine flights.

What a wonderful concept -- giving us three different wines, at three-ounce pours each, for one fixed price. It allows us to sample and savor fine new wines we might never have tried otherwise.

The presentation is clever -- a heavy wooden board carved with three nooks for the wineglasses, and three nooks for the mini carafes. A long strip of paper attached to the board with a clip identifies our drinks, describing what we're drinking.

Six choices on white wine trios are offered, and seven choices on red trios. These aren't your everyday wines, either, but cutting-edge tempters like a '98 Ken Wright Chardonnay Dijon 76 clone from Oregon and a '98 Penfolds shiraz/cabernet blend from Koonunga Vineyard in Australia.

We love to lift a glass -- or three -- at Cowboy Ciao.

When Ernie's Inn opened three decades ago, the place was a darkly lighted, smoky rumpus room for serious drinkers looking to tie one on. A lot has changed since then. Today, Ernie's is a darkly lighted, smoky rumpus room for serious drinkers looking to tie one on and belt out a karaoke tune.

It's pure fun. The stage opens every night at 8:30, playing to senior citizens weekdays, then giving way to yuppies on the weekends. Anything goes here, except pretension. Look too serious, and you're likely to be volunteered as the opening act by one of the matronly waitresses who've called Ernie's home for longer than they'll admit.

Go ahead. Choose your poison, step up to the stage and wail with the rest of us. You're among friends -- or at least you are until you segue into "Feelings."

What's that, you say -- aren't all open mikes equally hellish? Sure, buddy, and all aspirin are alike. The difference is that this one knows it's from hell and has two hosts, Matt Strangewayes (formerly of Windigo) and Page the Village Idiot, on hand to gladly fan the flames.

With his bizarre stage introductions, Strangewayes will try to convince you the young hopeful onstage has some fleeting connection with Starcastle and Foghat. In truth, most of the musicians who perform free of charge are members of heavy bands going light for a few songs, musicians passing through town or rock-rap hybrids of the slim or shady variety.

Sure, there's an occasional "earnest" folkie who makes it through the blockade, but to counteract them there's Page the Village Idiot with his self-penned paeans about Joe Arpaio, crystal meth freaks and people with bad hygiene.

One Tuesday night when things were winding down, we caught members of Big Blue Couch backing up a guy named Russel Walton on a free-form William Shatner tone poem called "Fire the Lasers." Beam us down, Scotty -- way, way down!

Once one of Phoenix's better kept secrets (there's still no exterior signage), Amsterdam is not only the city's swankiest gay boîte, but one of its most elegant, to boot.

Filled with marble, gilt statuary and a massive carved wooden bar over which pass some truly serious martinis, its charms now play host to such an ever-widening spectrum of scenesters that on some nights, the uninitiated may well wonder who's gay and who's not. Which, as it turns out, just adds to the fun.

If your clubwear passes inspection, you will feel positively famous walking into Scottsdale's premier nightspot.

Here, where the women look like reporters from Entertainment Tonight and the men look like they're drinking creatine cocktails, you will find 14,000 square feet of self-conscious decadence -- and, if you're lucky, an occasional bona fide celebrity.

Excuse us -- we're sorry, do we know you?

Readers' Choice: Axis/Radius

Pool tables, beer bottles and mullets.

Individually, not much. But toss them together in a storefront cocktail lounge and you've got sapphic synergy that just won't quit.

Taking its name from a Billie Holiday lyric, Ain't Nobody's Bizness has been the Valley's premier women's bar since long before anyone heard of lesbian-come-lately Anne Heche. And if history is any indication, Biz will be popular long after that dizzy fence-straddler has publicly exploited yet another alternative lifestyle.

Readers' Choice: Ain't Nobody's Bizness

Say, isn't that Enrique Iglesias? No, but if you manage to squeeze through the crowded, man-packed dance floor for a closer look, he'll probably be flattered to know that you thought so. Looking for the gay Mexican cowboy of your dreams? No? Well, Paco Paco dance club is probably the best place to start looking, anyway.

The cramped, strobe-lighted dance floor is always well-stocked with buff, sweaty bodies pulsating to Latin techno music. A full-length mirror runs the length of one wall for those narcissistic dancers who like to watch. It's a cozy, dark venue, mostly Latino, with a smattering of white boys for you closet Anglo lovers.

The music is popular dance remix, plenty of Jennifer Lopez and Ricky Martin, with some salsa and merengue thrown in for tradition. Paco Paco is the best the Valley has to offer in gay Latino culture, and also a great place for women who like to dance and be left alone.

What makes a superlative bartender? Good conversation? Nah, anything that delays putting a drink in your gullet is about as welcome as a speed bump. But in dealing with teeming masses of demanding patrons and egotistical musicians, it does help to have a seasoned grasp of the English language and a penchant for caustic rejoinders. One person blessed with both is Nita's Hideaway barman Ridgely Fitzsimmons, or Ridgely, as he's known to all who love and fear his acerbic tongue.

Ridgely's garnered something close to legend status among East Valley barflies for serving searing barbs in equal proportion to booze. One infamous tale even has him shooting down the free-drink requests of a couple local "rock star" girlfriends with the admonition that performing oral favors on the talent didn't entitle them to complimentary libations.

Ah, yes, Oscar Wilde couldn't have said it any better himself!

As someone (and no, it wasn't President Clinton) once remarked, "A woman is just a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke."

What he meant is anyone's guess, but it's a cinch that had he lived in Phoenix, he'd have been a regular at the Ritz-Carlton's cigar lounge. Appropriately called The Club, the darkly masculine room is, well, clubby -- with oak-paneled walls, hunting prints and a selection of high-end smokes that might tempt the surgeon general to light up.

If you're really serious about your tobacco, inquire about the club's private humidors -- climate-controlled stashes that rent for $1,000 a year. So much for the proverbial "good five-cent cigar."

Readers' Choice: The Famous Door

If you like sports, but are turned off by macho beer guzzlers talking about chicks, Roscoes dishes up a welcome curve ball. Billed as an "alternative lifestyle sports bar," Roscoes is that perfect postmodern cultural hybrid: a sports bar where macho beer guzzlers talk about guys.

Roscoes has the usual sports-bar amenities: big-screen TVs tuned to various games, pool tables, and a diverse beverage list. But, more important, it's also the only local sports bar where an end-around isn't necessarily a football play, and hitting the rim isn't limited to basketball. And rest assured, at Roscoes, no one will penalize you if your backfield's in motion.

Score!

Readers' Choice for Best Bar to Watch the Game: McDuffy's

Call us purists, but a CD jukebox is about as sterile as the jewel case the CDs come in. Who wants the same sound you can get in your car stereo or home entertainment center when you're in a bar? No, you want a layer of grime and filth on your music to go with the beer and cigarette surroundings.

And that's just what the Emerald Lounge's old war-horse provides: old, battered 45s teeming with distortion and surface noise. Even rappers factor in vinyl pops and clicks -- crackles spell comfort. While a 45 jukebox has fewer selections than a CD, you still can't beat a machine that has Aretha, George Jones and Tommy James and the Shondells all jamming its gears.

Worried that someone from your Gamblers Anonymous group might catch you at Greyhound Park? Then Horse & Hound is the bar for you -- the OTB parlor regularly features simulcasts of some of the biggest races around.

The H&H is also the place for enthusiasts of the wildly popular Golden Tee golf video games -- the Hound features Golden Tee 2000 on a big-screen monitor, as well as the brand-new Golden Tee Fore!, which contains some amazing 3-D action. Be the ball.

The Hound's got a great selection of other options for those of us who like to play while imbibing: pool tables, car-racing video games and even shuffleboard (of the tabletop variety, not The Love Boat kind).

Readers' Choice for Best Pool Hall: Pink E's

Inside the cozy Emerald Lounge you'll find no oversize TVs belching out jock-o fare, no smug bartenders, and no barmaids whose hopped-up attitudes are in direct proportion to their surgically augmented breasts. Hell, the Emerald doesn't even employ a barmaid.

What the lounge does offer is cheap booze served up by genial drink-slingers in an unaffected atmosphere that's equal parts Bukowskian watering hole and trendy Silverlake lounge. On any given night, a live rock band or DJ booms the gamut of punk rock to hip-hop for an unusual mix of off-duty strippers, hot rodders, professional drunks, working-class stiffs, and the usual cadre of artists, writers and musicians. One of the lounge's bartenders -- the ever-charming Miss Cary -- is a woman who's been pouring drinks in the Phoenix underbelly for the past 50 years and still takes to using words like "baby" when greeting you.

With its smoke-stained, Prussian red and black interior, Mondrian motifs and pool tables, this dingy den is a hip hellhole to some and a glorious old-man bar to others. But no matter how it's perceived, Phoenix's sole bastion of boho can never be accused of taking itself too seriously.

"The Martini is to middle- and upper-class American society," says martini maven Barnaby Conrad III, "what peyote is to the Yaqui Indians: a sacred rite that affirms tribal identity, encourages fanciful thought and -- let's be honest here -- delivers a whoppingly nice high."

We'll drink to that.

And given our druthers, we'll be doing it in the understated elegance (Southwestern chandeliers, ornate wooden columns, a tuxedoed jazz pianist) of the cocktail lounge at Harris' Restaurant, where martini protocol amounts to religious ceremony -- right down to a signature crystal carafe nestled in an ice-filled mini-barrel. God forbid that one's last drop of martini be anything but properly chilled.

Readers' Choice: Martini Ranch

Yeah, yeah -- we know what you're thinking. Rum, lime juice, a spoonful of sugar (powdered, of course) and strawberries -- a daiquiri is a daiquiri is a daiquiri. So what's so special about the Improv version?

Rim shot -- the consistency! The Improv has mastered the perfectly blended daiquiri -- not too fruity, not too bland, and, most important, not too slushy. And while it's not traditional, and it's certainly not necessary, we also relish the whipped cream topping, itself topped with a maraschino cherry, skewered by a tiny sword.

The Improv? Take its daiquiri, please.