PENSACOLA, Fla. — Past the shops and eateries that line Palafox Street downtown, a wedding reception fills one of several restored historical buildings with light and laughter on this Saturday evening.

Guests spill out onto the sidewalk, while out back, couples dance on a terrace overlooking Pensacola Bay. Fireworks burst against the starry sky; they’re set off at the nearby stadium after every home game, win or lose, played by the Blue Wahoos, the city’s minor-league baseball team.

There’s a quieter, more romantic vibe as I skirt the wharf and stroll pass the boats. On the deck of one sailboat, lovers slow-dance in the shadows to Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect.”

I ran into this mix of peaceful intimacy and full-on partying throughout my stay in Pensacola. My husband and I came here for our niece’s wedding and quickly succumbed to its eclecticism.

Nestled on the western edge of the Florida Panhandle, Pensacola has a small-town feel. This is “Deep South” Florida, not spring-break-college-destination Florida. It’s a slower-paced alternative to a typical Florida winter retreat, with the overt friendliness of folks who like to live it up and want to share the fun.

Day drinkers, here’s your haven — some happy hours start at 11 a.m. or even earlier. And cheese grits are always an option.

Sandshaker

A colorful retro sign at the foot of the Bob Sikes Bridge points the way to Pensacola Beach. It’s topped with a striped sailfish and the proclamation “World’s Whitest Beaches.” You can spot sharks, dolphins, manatees and rays from the pier, a popular spot for sunset-watching and fishing.

The beach boasts all the routine human comforts — seafood restaurants, hotels, paddle board and water scooter rental shops. But don’t miss its unique feature: the famous healing waters. By this I mean the slushy alcoholic milkshake called a bushwacker.

Recipes for this dangerous brew include rum, vanilla ice cream, coconut cream, Kahlua — you get the idea. I poked into Sandshaker before noon on a Sunday, by which time the bartender told me she had already mixed dozens, including one she whipped up before the bar opened for a guy waiting outside.

Goat Lips

Larry Cowan likes to quote an old Southern saying, used to calm people down: “Don’t worry, it’s going to come together like goat lips.” He says it so often that when he opened his deli-turned-beer-garden, friends dared him to call it Goat Lips. He did.

He regretted it at first: “It’s just not appetizing. But it’s turned out to be an asset. It’s memorable.”

Thus was Goat Lips Chew & Brewhouse born. It houses a small “nanobrewery,” which turns out a half-dozen or so beers on tap. The most unusual — and my favorite — is the jalapeno cream ale.

Most breweries don’t offer food, but Goat Lips has a full menu, featuring giant muffuletta sandwiches — a half fills a plate and rises, oh, 4 to 6 inches on a base of Gambino’s bread delivered from New Orleans, with layers of mortadella, salami, provolone cheese and olive relish. Then it’s baked, so the edges of the meat get crispy.

The shrimp Creole is peppery and rich; the menu also features comfort-food staples, meatloaf, pot roast. Goat Lips has a mellow, casual vibe.

Cowan likes bonfires and makes them big enough to withstand even a light rain. The covered back deck is a popular spot for live bands and a weekly Trivia Night — which my husband and I stumbled upon and were immediately swept up in.

Out back, there’s a statue of a goat carved out of cypress wood, elevated on a little platform.

Says Cowan with a laugh, “I’m afraid it’s going to be my tombstone one day.”

Paradise Bar & Grill

“You turn the lights on, and they come every which way, like roaches,” says Renee Mack, speaking with crusty affection of her customers at Paradise Bar & Grill. “They come by boat, by foot, by golf cart, by Jet Ski.”

Paradise is an authentic little hideaway on the bay side of Pensacola Beach, a restaurant, bar and vintage motel. You can swim up if you like. Bring a wet dog. Hang up your own hammock or lounge at one of the picnic tables under an umbrella.

Paradise has an old-Florida feel. There’s no view of the high-rises, just a good look at that gentle bay surf. Evenings, locals gather to hear a live band and dance in the sand of the private beach.

Mack moved to Pensacola in 1984 from New Orleans and brought some Big Easy traditions with her, such as a penchant for the blues and oyster po’ boys, featured on the menu.

Her biggest seller is Renee’s Shrimp Salad, from her grandmother’s recipe, made with fresh, wild-caught Gulf shrimp. Its kicky Cajun flavor comes from fresh herbs.

The special sauce in her bushwackers? “We put in a lot of liquor — a lot of rum. And real soft-serve ice cream — none of that powdered stuff.”

Mack, as you might gather, likes to keep things simple. Bad weather gets a shrug. “We roll,” she says. “We don’t close down.”

5 Sisters Blues Cafe

A sidewalk aroma tells you all you need to know about the fried-chicken haven that awaits you inside the 5 Sisters Blues Cafe.

This stylish restaurant serves up comfort food galore: The black-eyed peas are soft and velvety; the collards have a tart punch; the grits are so creamy they’re like an emotion. Sweet potatoes raise to ambrosial heights, honeyed and warm. Wash them down with the bloody mary of your dreams: Garnished with okra and a fried chicken wing.

“It’s your fix for the day,” says co-owner Jean-Pierre N’Dione with a laugh.

Born in Senegal, raised in France, he’s lived in Pensacola for 20 years. With his cocktails, food, live music on many evenings and a Sunday jazz brunch, he strives to evoke the spirit of the restaurant’s Belmont-DeVilliers neighborhood. Historically, it was an African-American hot spot during segregation.

“We owe it to those people,” N’Dione says, “to re-create that atmosphere.”

Captain Joey Patti’s Seafood

Seafood restaurants crowd the waterfront, but the bustling Joe Patti’s Seafood market stands apart, under a towering neon shrimp sign.

Enter by the beignet wagon, and you’ll find an enormous fish market, which is worth a visit just to gape at the sea-dwelling varieties and their sizes.

The humble restaurant next door is Captain Joey Patti’s Seafood Restaurant. This low-ceilinged blue bunker has no view of the water. It has no atmosphere. Ceiling fans whirl overhead. You eat over paper place mats with plastic utensils.

Start with the thick, fiery seafood gumbo, but leave room for heaping platters of fried fish. Mullet — you might know it elsewhere as a bait fish — is a rich-flavored specialty.

“Did y’all get coleslaw?” our server asks, sliding crisp, sweet bowls of it across the table.

Everything here is fresh. Stick a fork in the fried oysters, and juice jumps out; the oysters melt in your mouth.

Did the cheese grits descend from heaven? Maybe so; they are that luscious.