HI, I'M in my forties. You'll be expecting a little more maturity from me henceforth, I know. I expect the same; in fact, I promised as much, I think, at the end of last week's column. Nothing but seriousness, gravity, and high-minded hard workmanpersonship from here on out, in other words.

Here's where, in my youth, I would have burped or said something about boogers. Instead, watch me work:

Frankie's Bohemian Café is on the corner of Divisadero and Pine in Pacific Heights. It also occurs in North Beach, on Columbus. I don't know about that one because I've never been there, but I can assure you that in Pacific Heights on a Sunday afternoon, at Frankie's, you will be as good as dude.

"Get you anything to drink, dude?" the waiterdudeperson said to me – me, and I'm in my forties! Didn't he know?

I took off my hat. "Just water," I said. "Thanks."

He brought me a tall, icy glass of water, with lemon, and he brought me a basket of bread, with a bowl of garlic and herbs soaking in olive oil. Then him and the other bohemian waiterdudeperson stood behind the bar for a while, eating french fries and calling each other dude.

Women's fast-pitch softball was on TV. It was a one-one game, bottom of the 12th. To think that until one week ago I talked almost exactly like these guys, even looked like them, roughly, which is to say, untucked and cool. If my hair wasn't as greasy as theirs, it was only because it wasn't really exactly there anymore.

On the menu, burgers looked good. Half-pound ones, fresh ground, it said, with fresh-cut fries for $7.95, $10.95 for a one-pounder. I was thinking about a bacon cheeseburger for $8.95, and then I turned the menu over and saw, for the same price, "Frankie's Feast," which is half a chicken with fries. I'll go for half a chicken over half a pounder any day of the week. If it's Sunday afternoon, late for lunch, and I'm starving, and women's fast-pitch softball is on TV, bottom of the 12th, no outs, Cal's got a runner on first ...

One problem: the menu said the chicken was oven-baked and fried, which seemed like one too many kinds of cooked, to me, until I went on to read that it was also served in barbecue sauce – which put the right sort of twist on the thing. If you're going to cook your chicken too many ways, in other words, you may as well barbecue it to boot. If not on the grill, at least, you know, in the saucy sense of the word. Having grown up on the spicy sides of Youngstown, Ohio, I'm a sucker for fried chicken with barbecue sauce on it.

The other waiterdudeperson took my order, which was of course Frankie's Feast (first and second, nobody out), but first I had to ask: Oven-baked? Fried? Barbecue sauce?

Yeah, well, you see (he explained), the chicken is baked in the oven every morning to a part-ways doneness, and then fried the rest of the way to order.

"Is it good?" I asked.

Now, you may as well know, dear reader, up front and in print that my new mature-guy restaurant reviewing strategy – since after all these years (40), I still don't know Thing One about food, other than that, dang, I sure do enjoy eating it!... My strategy, I was saying, is to ask a lot of questions, and then tell you what the waiterdudeperson or waitressperson or dishwasher or whoever, has to say.

In this case, for example, he said that, yes, it was good. He did not call me dude.

Bases loaded, one out.

He didn't call me dude, but when I had to ask for more barbecue sauce, because sure enough the chicken was dry as death-done-one-too-many-ways, he said, and I quote, "Totally."

The sauce was homemade and good. The dark parts of the chicken were delicious, and the skin, of course. It was just the white meat that needed dousing – you know how it goes. The french fries were excellent and plentiful, but my favorite thing about the whole thing was that the plate incongruously included slices of onion and tomato on a leaf of lettuce, as if it were a burger.

Two words about the atmosphere: flawlessly boho, just like the waiterdudepersons. Dark red walls clutter-collaged with cool old beer and cigarette signs, some funky paintings, a record album, antlers, collections of colorful labels and postcards. Pair of skis. The ceiling is painted deep, dark blue with big gold stars, and the next batter drills a base hit over the bag at third, bringing home the winning run.

Way to go, girls. Or, in other words: Dude!

Frankie's Bohemian Cafe. 1862 Divisadero (at Pine), S.F. (415) 921-4725. Daily: 11 a.m.-midnight. Takeout available. Beer and wine. American Express, MasterCard, Visa. Wheelchair accessible.