Ten spots beckon for beach drinking, dining and dancing.

They wait along the gulf, some young and stylish, some weathered and worn, their siren songs calling out to parched and hungry beachgoers.

By Laura Reiley, Times Food Critic
Published August 16, 2007

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In the back seat the conversation got spirited.

"What was the one on stilts we used to go to?"

"Beach Nutts? Oh, that's long gone."

They were Eckerd College and University of South Florida graduates of the late 1980s, different majors, but all minoring in Pinellas County beach bars. They were my passengers and mentors, aiming in a single night to fill a gaping hole in my Tampa Bay area education.

What's to know? I thought.

A little sand between the toes, a fruity rum drink and Son of a Son of a Sailor spooling out from the requisite acoustic guitar-the only wild card is the quality of the sunset.

Much to learn you still have, young Laura.

A BAR EXAM

We started at what turned out to be my favorite.

Undertow Beach Bar in St. Pete Beach is set back from Gulf Boulevard, two buildings and a patio right on the sand.

The bar is dog-friendly and boisterous, with a strange running-water moat inset in the long oval-shaped bar. Cocktail waitresses wear outfits similar to the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, but the bathing-suit-and-flipflops crowd doesn't bat an eye.

The outdoor patio is the place to be, weathered plywood tables set amid a cluster of pillars holding up nothing a Stonehenge motif or the remnants of an aborted patio roof?. Some nights there's live reggae, but on this one the music was canned as we settled in with respectable rum runners (diet Coke for me, the chauffeur) and an order of wings (a generous 12 for $4). Crisp, hot and delicious, they provided ballast and sustenance for all that was to follow.

Down the road, after parking behind a 7-Eleven, we walked across Gulf Boulevard (harrowing) and faced a row of three bars attached to low-rise motels. Swigwam's was mellow, the Allman Brothers' Sweet Melissa drifting out, Ricky T's looked too sports-barish; we opted for the crowd noise and prog rock combo at Jimmy B's Beach Bar.

By day the bands are outdoors, but at night they are wedged indoors amid a handful of bars and party-hearty throngs.

All you really need to know is that the signature drink is called a Hot Wet Spot, equally embarrassing to order and to drink: a pina colada with a drizzle of blueberry liqueur, topped with a floof of whipped cream. Slightly salacious embarrassment seems to be a theme; the "biggest weenie on the beach" is among its sandwiches, bar snacks and pizza. Alas, the kitchen was backed up so we merely eyeballed others' jalapeno poppers, grouper fingers and o-rings.

The outdoor deck is gorgeous, with a long boardwalk down to the beach illuminated by the plastic flaming cauldrons one associates with Halloween superstores. We stood on the sand, listening as the band segued from Rush to Pink Floyd, then made our way back out to the front past the girl peddling Jagermeister shots and other bad ideas.

On to the beach area of Gulfport and Gulfport on the Rocks.

Waterfront but not beachy, it's just across from Williams Pier and Boca Ciega Bay. The thick fog of smoke inside was shorthand for "no food served here," the Edgewater Band ("back from its tour of Pinellas Park") ably making its way through Mustang Sally and other crowd-pleasers.

I asked the bartender if there was a signature drink. She narrowed her eyes as if I might be mocking her. "I mean, is there something you're famous for making?"

"I make shots."

All right. I ordered a round of Washington Apples (another diet Coke for me), a sweet-tart concoction garnished with a vodka-soaked apple slice, a nice accompaniment to a lackluster game of eight-ball (well-maintained table and straight cues, cheap, underutilized). We were wistful leaving the comfy neighborhood bar - but we evidently didn't blend. A regular yelled out to us, "Goodbye, Dorothy," the "You're not in Kansas anymore" subtext taking a moment to sink in.

But where we really felt like Toto et al. in Oz came next.

Continuing north to Clearwater Beach, bordering Clearwater Pass, we arrived at Shephard's Beach Resort, instantly immersed in its buzzy, Party Central feeling. There's the valet parking, then the cover charge, a steep $10 on the weekends.

We ordered fruity poodle drinks with names like Shipwrecks and D Cups, heavy on the Midori, and watched the goings-on at the outdoor tiki bar. Live reggae promoted conga lines; inside at the Sunset Lounge, a house band called Da Jam slid through R&B numbers for a calmer crowd.

The center of festivities at Shephard's can be found at the Wave nightclub, with go-go dancers in big furry boots and bouncers equipped with mammoth biceps and radio headsets. The second-level VIP areas were empty, but the first floor was thronged with differently abled, but enthusiastic, dancers.

Of all our destinations, this had the youngest, most head-turning crowd. Just at the water's edge, the patio outside sported leather-clad beds-shades of South Beach, but too hip for us.

Onward, further north in Clearwater Beach to something a little more our speed. On the other side of the street from the beach, Shipwreck Bar is a classic end-of-the-night dive. Here, my posse mutinied: No more fruity rum concoctions.

Beer - cheap, cold and American - was the mandate. With heavy smoke and a sound system that tips from Metallica to Jack Johnson, Shipwreck has a short bar and a handful of tight booths.

Taking advantage of my abstemious evening (theirs, less so), I challenged my tablemates to Scrabble, the worn board a little sticky from barroom use. A couple of triple-word scores later, I realized my friends still had much to teach me, even with my beach-bar education well under way.

FOCUS ON THE FOOD

On the other hand, a night of fruity rum drinks isn't - and shouldn't be - the only way to enjoy Pinellas County's beach bars. They're there in the light of day, some of them serving competent food.

My know-it-all pals had to weigh in on this, too. Sure, Salt Rock Grill, Bon Appetit and others are waterside dining. But they're not beach bars. Too fancy.

They sent me in search of places with splintery picnic tables in the sun and opportunistic seagulls poised for sneak attacks.

When locals talk about the Hurricane, they almost always get a little grouchy and wistful about how good it used to be, back when it was small and uncomplicated. It's neither now, but I thought the grouper sandwich was just fine.

There's the outside deck on the ground floor with its picnic tables, crisscrossed fishing line overhead to discourage avian encroachment, the gulf right across the street. Stormy's, a more upscale dining room, is upstairs. There's a third-floor rooftop bar/club (good for sunset scrutiny), and the bustling indoor dining room downstairs is done up in a comfortable, shambling Florida Keys style.

Tropical drinks are the order of the day (a coconut haze with Frangelico, planters punch, and a Kahlua colada-many delicious quaffs that promote instant brain freeze) but the menu is a little tougher to navigate. The house special calamari is just plain weird - thick breaded logs sitting atop several sauces that yield a flavor cacophony. Onion rings (good beer batter and fat, sweet onion) are a better appetizer choice, as is the smoked fish spread. The place may be touristy, the menu fraught with minefields, but with the sweet white grouper, fried, grilled, broiled, blackened or jerked, tucked into a bun and accompanied with tomato, lettuce, and a big swath of mayo, I can't complain.

We can thank the hurricane of 1928 for Woody's Waterfront outdoor restaurant. It dates nearly as far, to 1946, when it was just a tiny bait house for anglers doing their thing along Blind Pass, a rocky little inlet carved out by that ferocious storm. Back then it was burgers and dogs.

It's still burgers and dogs, and on an average weekend, the place is packed. Servers hustle through the patio, tight-set with high-gloss picnic tables and turquoise sun umbrellas, no one making it look easy as beers are dispensed, orders taken. Meanwhile, Tom Davis or another regular slides through a repertoire of familiar sing-alongs (live music six nights a week, usually a single guy who manages to sound like a whole band), and regulars settle in for a casual, waterside good time amid the condos.

A fried shrimp basket sums up the kitchen's M.O.: no-fuss paper-lined basket filled with slightly pallid fries (the spicy version is better) and decent-sized shrimp, the breading a bit sweet. It's familiar, but pleasant and generous at $7.95. The house ultimate Woody burger (mushrooms, fried onions, bacon, cheese) is a monster, suitable for sharing and likely to leak.

Wings weren't my favorite, the breaded kind that get gunky when heavily sauced.

No matter. Watching the fishermen and people on personal watercraft off in the distance, enjoying a half-price margarita and the afternoon's lengthening shadows, it was all good.

While Woody's lacks an actual beach, Caddy's has plenty of sandy space. It's got ramshackley charm - sunsets, volleyball, kids building sand castles, all accompanied by a set-list of beachy cover-band greatest hits. The picnic tabletops are sticky, it takes a while for a server to notice you've ambled up, and if you overstay (1 1/2 hours maximum for diners) they suggest you move to the beach chairs down the way.

The only parking is in Caddy's $5 lot. That $5 is applied to your bill, but you have to ask.

That's the downside.

The upside is that eating a chili cheese dog and sipping cold draft beer from a plastic cup is seldom as enjoyable as it is on this stretch of Sunset Beach. The house corned beef and brisket make for laudably tasty sandwich innards; the half-pound burger is juicy and nicely seasoned.

In the great grouper shake-up of the past year, Caddy's has decided to punt, offering salmon instead and a vague fried "fish" sandwich. The menu leans much more heavily to meaty barbecue than seafood.

Grouper has resoundingly stayed front and center at Frenchy's Rockaway Grill in Clearwater Beach. Part of a small seafood empire, it benefits from the owner's foresight in buying his own production fishing dock and fishing boats. Thus, the catch is of the same just-caught freshness at the original Frenchy's, Frenchy's South Beach Cafe, Frenchy's Saltwater Cafe or the Rockaway Grill, the largest, opened in 1991.

Order the grouper sandwich (fried, it's delicious, and beats the baked stuffed grouper with its heavy buttery sauce). But don't miss out on the lush, velvety she-crab soup.

Beyond the food and the eloquent rum runners, Rockaway boasts a wide swath of white-sand beach, a comfy pastel indoor-outdoor dining room and bands that know their way around '70s and '80s favorites.

BREAKFAST AT THE BEACH

Now, in all of this, I've left out the idea of pancakes, omelets and bottomless cups of coffee. These, too, are good things on the beach.

The Seaside Grille across from the Hurricane in Pass-a-Grille is at the site of a historic beachside snack bar started in 1905. A cluster of sea grapes, a few palms, concrete tables and benches with umbrellas, and a broad expanse of beach are the backdrop for homey, moderately priced breakfasts (watch the birds, they are pancake peckers extraordinaire) and sandwiches at lunch.

It's the usual breakfast lineup, with efficient service and a lush gulf breeze. An easy place to regroup and repent after an evening of beach excess.

Did I miss some great beach bars, gloriously offered up at the edge of the Gulf of Mexico? Maybe. But as Anne Morrow Lindbergh exhorted in Gift from the Sea:

"The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open choiceless as a beach - waiting for a gift from the sea."

Weigh in on your favorite beach bar at Laura Reiley's new blog: www.blogs.tampabay.com/dining. Reiley dines anonymously and unannounced. The St. Petersburg Times pays all expenses. A restaurant's advertising has nothing to do with selection for review or the assessment. She can be reached at (727) 892-2293 or lreiley@sptimes.com.

Undertow Beach Bar
3850 Gulf Blvd., St. Pete Beach
(727) 368-9000
Hours: noon-2 a.m. Monday, 11 a.m.-2 a.m. Tuesday through Saturday, 1 p.m.-midnight Sunday

Jimmy B's Beach Bar
6200 Gulf Blvd., St. Pete Beach
(727) 367-1902
Hours: 11 a.m.-2 a.m. daily

Gulfport on the Rocks
5413 Shore Blvd. S, Gulfport
(727) 321-8318
Hours: 10 a.m.-2 a.m. daily

Shephard's Beach Resort
601-619 S Gulfview Blvd., Clearwater Beach
(727) 441-6875
Hours: Tiki bar, 2-11 p.m. weekdays, 1 p.m.- 2 a.m. weekends; the Wave nightclub, 9 p.m.-2 a. m. Thursday through Sunday; lounge, 9:30 p.m.-2 a.m. daily. Live music is performed from 2 to 11 p.m. Monday through Friday and 1 to 11 p.m. on weekends.
Cover: $10 Friday through Sunday

Shipwreck Bar
Mandalay Avenue, Clearwater Beach
Hours: 11 a.m.-2 a.m. daily

The Hurricane
807 Gulf Way, St. Pete Beach
(727) 360-9558
Hours: 11 a.m.-9:30 p.m. Sunday through Thursday, until 10 p.m. Friday and Saturday

Woody's Waterfront
7308 Sunset Way, St. Pete Beach
(727) 360-9165
Hours: 11 a.m.-11 p.m. Sunday through Thursday, until midnight Friday and Saturday 

Caddy's on the Beach
9000 W Gulf Blvd., Sunset Beach, Treasure Island
(727) 360-4993
Hours: 11 a.m.-11 p.m. daily

Frenchy's Rockaway Grill
7 Rockaway St., Clearwater Beach
(727) 446-4844
Hours: 11 a.m.-midnight Sunday through Thursday, until 1 a.m. Friday and Saturday

Seaside Grille
900 Gulf Way, St. Pete Beach
(727) 367-8300
Hours: 8 a.m.-4 p.m. Thursday through Tuesday

[Last modified August 14, 2007, 17:42:09]