Bars & Clubs

Ice Breakers should be a chain, but it’s not. At least not yet. It’s got a great concept — brew your own beer, alongside an encompassing brewery menu (sliders, Cobb salad, Reubens, baby back ribs, fish and chips, and burgers). And that personal touch adds up to a better-than-chain experience.

Ice Breakers offers interactive brewing. This means you get to brew your own beer, but, not being professional hops masters, you get a coach to guide you through the process. The deal even includes custom label design with your name, image, logo or other clever idea on each bottle. And you use the same equipment and ingredients as served in professional restaurants. You’d better really like beer, though — the smallest batch available is 15 gallons — a full keg (the equivalent of 72 22-ounce bottles).

And you’d also better be patient. The initial brewing takes up to three hours. Fermentation time is two weeks. Bottling the finished beer takes about an hour. How long it takes to down the final keg, though, is completely up to you.

Comely ladies, accommodating bar staff, sharp-looking men, and a charming atmosphere are the ingredients necessary for beguiling a client. And the Merc Bar is just classy enough to show that you have taste, but cozy enough to avoid pretension. You can call it a refined hole in the wall. And Troy, the energetic general manager, will even make you his specialty, Caipirinha, which earned last year’s Best Cocktail award from New Times.

We are positively mesmerized by the crowds at Barcelona. The location in Chandler is pretty neat, throbbing with fine young things looking beautiful and looking to get lucky. But the outpost in Scottsdale is a much older, much more interesting group. Just look to the headliner, the Zowie Bowie Band, a punk-retro completely camp act with takeoffs of classic lounge-lizard songs like Sinatra’s “My Way.” This is a clientele that’s not bothered by pricey cocktails and even pricier snacks. These are guys with slicked-back hair and sans-a-belt pants, women with high top hair and fancy dress clothes that remind us of the days of disco. Plus, the setting is sublime: The signature domed ceiling with hand-painted dancing cherubs appears to float over the main dining room, which later transforms into the dance floor. It’s 25,000 square feet of old fart fun!

We’re not sure who Casey Moore is, but we sure do like hanging out at his house. In fact, all historic homes should be this happening: 13 beers on tap, jocular bartenders who do handstands on the bar, and decidedly un-bar-like dinner specials. And should you find yourself eating in one of the second-story dining rooms, there’s no need to order spirits: The home, built in 1910, is reputedly haunted.

Mr./Mrs. Moore’s front porch and side yard are strewn with tables and benches where the laid-back and liquored-up can lounge. The crowd encompasses all kinds, from hard-drinking hippies to hot NFL has-beens, but the overall vibe is one of ease and unpretentiousness.

Beautiful places attract beautiful people. And O is just that kind of place: a voyeur’s paradise. Sit back and enjoy the people, the decor or the TV screens playing music videos. The people here are the cream of the crop, at least as far as looks go, in a city that is already known for its highly groomed folk. These guys and girls are hot and dressed to kill. Still, don’t be fooled into thinking that the lack of a cover charge means you are getting a free show. You will more than make up for it in the price of drinks.

Michael’s is one of the only restaurants in town where we don’t mind if we can’t get a table right away. Because while we’re waiting, we can head upstairs and settle in at his high-class bar. It’s almost like our own private dining area, plush with long cushy sofas, overstuffed armchairs, an incredible selection of wines and spirits, lovely views of Scottsdale’s sunsets, and, if we’re lucky, musical selections from our favorite lounge talent, David Grossman (he does a meltingly tender rendition of Kermit the Frog’s “Rainbow Connection” and “It’s Not Easy Being Green”).

Plus, we can order selections from Michael’s menu, like his always amusing amusé of Michael’s “Silver Spoon” hors d’oeuvres, shrimp-stuffed rigatoni in Chardonnay tomato thyme sauce, seared foie gras on Sauvignon poached pear duck confit salad, or soy-glazed calamari on gingered crab risotto.

Hmm. Maybe we’ll just table those dinner plans and stay right where we are in the bar.

Looking for a place that plays more than just the four most popular dance songs? “Batucada” has moved to Soho on Wednesday nights, and if it weren’t for the musical stylings of DJs Sinbad, Pete Salaz, Maji and others, you wouldn’t be able to get the house-heads from Phoenix to mix with the posh Scottsdale crowd. This sultry music will make you want to move, and the atmosphere is relaxed and sexy. Plus, we guarantee that you won’t hear another remix of “Rapture” or “I Can’t Get You Out of My Head.”

The hottest damn thing in Arizona isn’t the summer sun; it’s the “Suicide” wings at Long Wong’s in college town. When you order the “Suicide” wings, they ask you, skeptically, if you’ve ever had “Suicide” wings. Realizing that the unsuspecting might have tried the wimpy version at other Long Wong’s outlets in the Valley, the staff then follows up its initial question with: “Have you had our Suicide’ wings before?”

They ask with a smile. There are no refunds.

These wings immediately encase your skull in flop sweat on the outside and trigger a Gatling gun of endorphin firings on the inside.

The secret ingredient in this kitchen is chili powder ground from habanero peppers, nasty little boogers variously estimated at 30 to 50 times the heat of a mere jalapeo. They ladle the habanero powder into the sauce with a shovel for the “Suicide” wings.

There is nothing spicier anywhere in the Grand Canyon State.

We’ll keep this one simple. How can you go wrong when you mix two crowd-pleasers: a martini and bubbly? You can’t, and the proof is in The Flirtini, a concoction of champagne, vodka and vermouth you’ll find at Zen 32. The result is the confidence of a martini and the lightheaded delight of champagne, quite the social lubricant. And the taste is even better than it sounds. But be warned: It goes down a lot easier than a regular martini and hits you a lot faster, too. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.

For more than 50 years, the Durant family has been treating us to “good friends, great steaks, the best booze and bisquits [sic].” Is there something to be respected about tradition in a virtual baby town like Phoenix? Oh, yeah. Several years ago, Durant’s management (old man Durant had died) tried to shake up the system and redecorate, renovate and rehabilitate the traditional menu for modern tastes. Well, why not just call a press conference to drown kittens in the canal?

Durant’s is old-fashioned, and that’s it. Nothing more needed. Which is why its martinis taste so much better than anywhere else. They’re served by waitresses who have worked here for more than two decades. We can have a cigar alongside, should we want. Cell phones are ceremoniously tossed. We can drink martinis at lunch, and no one in the dark dining room will tattle to our bosses. We enter and leave through the kitchen, because it’s nobody’s business what we’re up to once we enter Durant’s. Life doesn’t get any better in any generation.

As its name implies, the ultra-luxe Sanctuary Resort pampers its guests with seclusion and serenity. Elegant and intimate, perched on 53 prime acres of Camelback Mountain, the gorgeous property certainly encourages us to abandon our cares. The most stressful aspect of any visit, in fact, is deciding just where to relax as we enjoy a fine cocktail and a spectacular, rose-gold-azure sunset.

The opportunities to be impressed are endless. Perhaps we’ll settle back on the outdoor patio of Jade Bar, watching as the city lights sparkle up into nighttime. It’s so private it’s almost a personal retreat, where we sip martinis or specialty sakes. Maybe we’ll treat ourselves to dinner at the adjacent Elements restaurant, indulging in farm-fresh American cuisine sparked with Asian accents amid a sleek setting of wood, stone and fire. Wrap-around floor-to-ceiling windows mean panoramic views of Paradise Valley. Or we might just kick back by the swimming pool, an outrageous infinity-edge pool overlooking Camelback’s Praying Monk rock outcrop. After the sun sleeps, the pool glows with light and dances with flames flickering from surrounding fire bowls. Simply Zen-sational.

BEST POOL HALL

Pink E’s
3227 East Bell
602-482-8350

BEST BREW PUB

Four Peaks Brewing Company
1340 East Eighth Street, Tempe
480-303-9967

BEST DIVE BAR

The Coach House
7011 East Indian School, Scottsdale
480-990-3433

BEST SPORTS BAR

McDuffy’s
230 West Fifth Street, Tempe
480-966-5600

BEST BAR TO BE SEEN

Six
7316 East Stetson, Scottsdale
480-663-6620

BEST BAR FOR CONVERSATION

Zipp’s Sports Grill
7551 East Camelback, Scottsdale
480-970-9507

BEST GAY BAR

Amsterdam
718 North Central
602-258-6122

BEST LESBIAN BAR

Ain’t Nobody’s Bizness
3031 East Indian School
602-224-9977

BEST BEER SELECTION

Timber Wolf Pub
740 East Apache, Tempe
480-517-9383

BEST HAPPY HOUR

Applebee’s
several Valley locations

BEST BAR FOOD

Zipp’s Sports Grill
7551 East Camelback, Scottsdale
480-970-9507

BEST PLACE TO DROWN YOUR SORROWS

Jugheads
5110 East McDowell
602-225-0307

Sanctuary has revamped its old, overcrowded VIP room, and not a moment too soon. VIPers, remember what a suffocating box it used to be? Now it’s bigger and better. They’ve even expanded it to overlook the main bar and dance floor below, so that you can really feel above it all. Of course, if you’re trying to sneak in, it’s just a tad more intimidating, but if you make it in, it’s worth your toil.

We love wine-tastings but are turned off by what often adds up to high prices. What’s up with the $65 tab for a nice dinner paired with three-ounce pours? We’d rather skip the châteaubriand and go for another cork.

Sun Devil Liquors supports our penniless status, hosting tastings of approachable wines like Kendall Jackson for a low $5. But the best deal is every day in the basement, where a cozy brick-floored wine cellar awaits. Grab one of the few wooden tables, or take a seat at the bar and groove to piped-in jazz. Sample as much wine as you like, priced from just 50 cents to $3 each. Nibble on complimentary cheeses, or pack in your own snacks. Still too rich? There are free tastings every day from 3 to 5 p.m., from a more limited selection. Cheers!

Since 1946, the Bikini Lounge has been the Valley’s most unabashed tiki bar, and well it should be. It has everything that those Swingers-style posers would give their martini shakers for: the fake thatched roof over the bar, the bamboo light fixtures, the black-lighted batiks on the walls, and in the place of honor behind the bar, a giant painting of a topless hula girl. Or is it the Girl from Ipanema?

Then there are the added benefits: $1 Kamikaze shooters, $2 mini-pitchers of Milwaukee’s Best, Roy Orbison and Tony Bennett on the jukebox (four plays for a dollar), and the knowledge that if you show up, tip well, and buy your tee shirts untested, you can still do your part to keep the posers at bay.

Oh, no, you’re thinking. Not another theme night, like “Pimp-n-Ho” or “Ghettofabulous,” where normally well-dressed crowds pull out the ol’ do-rags and wife beaters, or the boas and stilettos. Well, you don’t have to worry about that here. No, Devil’s Martini, which gained recognition as the place with the hairdresser in the ladies’ room, has “Carnival,” when the champion “flair bartender” has often been seen flaunting his skills by juggling bottles Tom Cruise-style. Overall, Carnival’s vibe is creative and flamboyant instead of trashy and stagnant. Finally, a theme night with class!

Though the calendar says the ’80s are long dead, the decade of Sarah Jessica Parker, hair product buildup and economic recession lives on. (Hey, wait a sec . . .)

On Saturday “Retro Nights,” Anderson’s marks the spot for a handful of phenomena that left the building when Reagan did: $2.50 Long Islands, Duran Duran videos and Robert Smith-grade eyeliner. Yet somehow, this place revisits the ’80s without getting cheesy, campy or Scottsdale-swanky. There’s no attitude here — just sweaty young people sporting everything from Nikes to neck spikes.

Yes, Anderson’s attracts a faithful throng of somber goth kids, and it only makes things more interesting. As the lighthearted revival rises in the Main Room, the goth group mopes about the Elbow Room, weaving in and out of elevated cages and wondering how soon is now. The rooms’ opposing moods make for a nice contrast — Aerosmith vs. The Smiths, AC/DC vs. ABC — but the overall vibe is so laid-back that any spot on either dance floor is fair play, whether you’re doing the dance Safety, Neutron or Humpty; walking the dinosaur or walking on sunshine; dancing on the ceiling or dancing with yourself.

Slinging sauce since 1959, the Coach House is purportedly the oldest tavern in Scottsdale. In a city obsessed with places new and fabulous, how refreshing it is to find oneself in a charming, friendly, old-fashioned shit . . . er, watering hole.

Its homespun character rises in part from the collages lining the wooden walls, displaying the drunken-to-varying-degree visages of thousands who have passed through — or out. And because liquor and literature are natural complements, a shelf full of paperback books sits within reach of the bar.

Singing the House’s praises, perennial patron Greg mentions its “tight-knit group” of regulars. Indeed, when ex-bartender Tim enters, his name rises in a Norm Peterson-style chorus. The place is, above all, accessible. It opens at 6 a.m. daily, except on Sundays, when the sobriety of the Sabbath is observed until 10 a.m.

We all want to be rock stars, even if we frighten children when we sing in the shower, can’t play an instrument, and have the stage presence of a banana slug. At Hollywood Alley’s Sunday night open mike, you get your best shot to feel like a real live rock star, if only for three songs. Facilitator “Optimist” puts together a great slate of folks of all levels of talent. From a talent-free “wanna-be” to the occasional, fabulous “could-be,” the evening is entertaining regardless. If you don’t like one performer, just order a beer, count to 10, and it’s all over. If you want your shot at 15 minutes of microcosm fame, this is the best place to do it. There’s even a prize for the best act — though rumor has it the award has more to do with Optimist’s eyes than ears.

Among the titty bars, porn parlors and machine shops of East Washington, it’s hard to resist its charms. In the giant asphalt pasture that is the parking lot of the Stockyards steak house, you’ll find the 1889. And once you reach its swinging saloon doors, you just might feel like you’ve stumbled from a dusty frontier street into a Tombstone-style watering hole, complete with card games, whiskey by the bottle and painted ladies.

Only if. But still, while everything outside is blinding heat and stark industry, inside the 1889 is an antiquarian’s fantasy of Old West atmosphere. The back bar is a colonnade of cherry wood, mirrors and brass. A baroque glass chandelier hangs overhead. And below, fat guys in neckties drink Bud Light, and girls’-night-out types drink Burgundy by the balloonful. Maybe best known as a happy-hour spot for east-downtowners, the 1889 still earns its keep as the standard-bearer of the frontier-saloon mystique, which it flaunts with the bar’s most famous trademark: the antique-style murals you find on every wall — scenes of vaudeville starlets turning away suitors, coquettes in neck-to-ankle swimsuits retaining their virtue, and the like. Plus, it features one of the Valley’s truest and fastest-vanishing bar experiences: coming in from the blazing sunlight and into a windowless darkness so total that you have to stand at the door for 30 seconds, let your pupils dilate, and then step up to the bar for the business at hand.

It usually takes more than a discounted pint of cheap beer to lure us into an entertainment venue defined by its amateur status, but out of loyalty to our readers, we braved the karaoke scene. Bill and Twyla, the poster children for the axiom “there’s someone for everyone,” guide the full-capacity crowd to find their muse with karaoke tracks of everything from “Peggy Sue” to Peggy Lee. Here, the waiters wear cummerbunds, the men dance without coercion, and no one would dare try to sing Linkin Park. Twyla even teaches the Electric Slide during the breaks. Folks with an overly developed sense of cool should avoid the place, but for anyone out for a good, completely unpretentious great time, Bill and Twyla have room in their lineup for you.

Is it nostalgia? Or maybe the sing-along factor? Something about the music at TT Roadhouse (oh, and that hot poster of Brigitte Bardot in leather hiphuggers) sets the place apart from being an ordinary pub. Guinness definitely goes down more easily with a little Ramones, some Bad Brains, and a healthy dose of Misfits. And you can’t help feeling camaraderie along with your buzz when everyone around you knows the words to the Johnny Cash song on the jukebox. Throw in some ska and reggae tunes and you’ve got the perfect soundtrack to your night.

Requirements: Darkness. Wood wall coverings a plus; and a wood bar itself, better. A hard-to-define but present odor, either coming from the belly-up buddy next to you or the ancient, labyrinthine pipes also preferred.

Plus: a sense of history (in Phoenix, this means at least 25 years old). Draft beer, of maximum three flavors. A less than six-dollar pitcher. A cold-ass bottle of Bud for around two bucks. Affordable shots of your favorite amnesia. At least one pool table and one pinball game; shuffleboard and darts a bonus.

Finally, a jukebox featuring ’70s rock, tear-in-my-beer country and eclectic oldies. And a good, take-no-shit bartender.

Mecca fills the bill. It’s dark and smoky, old and wonderfully worn. The indoor/outdoor carpet was once burgundy, the patrons range from neighborhoody to weekend hipsters to indigent.

Having opened in 1933, it boasts the second-oldest continuous liquor license in the county. The paneled-cum-patchwork ceiling droops poetically in the right places, making the average Joe feel 10 feet tall. The bar has a seasick quality to it, seemingly designed by munchkins with a desire to add on, like a vortex house on the side of the highway.

And if you have to break the seal, the rest room features a green shower curtain tween urinal and toilet for moments of reflection.