On the myspace page for Firehouse American Eatery and Lounge, the owners recall “realizing Pacific Beach was growing up” as the reason for bringing their “American-retro-chic” vision to this two-level beachside joint, which stood formerly as a weathered watering hole under different proprietors.

A scroll through the Web site’s “friend” section further reveals the likes of Lynda, Ste-fun-e, Jordanna and Chelsea, plus several equally young males displaying their handsome machismo, all lending present-day testimony in one form or another as having had a “really fun time” at Firehouse. And plastered in the center of the drink list is a large jpeg of three bikini-clad babes in high heels, standing on tables on the rooftop patio as though auditioning for “The Girls Next Door.”

Coastal Pacific Beach is as straight as Hillcrest is gay – and that’s fine by me. But the culture that Firehouse embodies is hardly “grown up,” unless we associate “maturity” with the successful passage of San Diego’s beach ban on booze, prompted by a Pacific Beach melee in 2007 between partiers and police. In my book, an evolved neighborhood is a locale where straights mingle comfortably with gays, and vise versa; where 20-somethings can skateboard into conversation with 30-somethings and older; and where you don’t have to fear getting hit in the head with a water balloon on hot summer days.

Hillcrest is there. Pacific Beach and so many of its eating and drinking establishments haven’t even approached the onramp.

This isn’t to say that the vibe at Firehouse is homophobic. I’d be blowing a different whistle if it was. Although if you choose to lovingly napkin-wipe the lips of your same-sex partner while perhaps sharing a “blue collar” burger dripping with barbecue sauce – the gamble is yours.

Two recent visits (for breakfast and dinner) yielded a mix of dude food and a few stylish presentations that seem aimed at the fresh-out-of-college-with-a-job crowd. In either case, we were serviced by young, pretty waitresses who have mastered the art of perkiness, pleasantries and hip wiggling much better than they’ve grasped what the kitchen puts out.

Following a morning beach hike, a friend and I ducked in for a plate of strawberry pancakes, with the berries appearing both inside and outside the fluffy discs. Striped with fruity compote and accompanied by warm Vermont maple syrup, they were a treat to the eyes and mouth. But priced at $9.50, they’re an assault to the wallet.

Filet mignon served over two poached eggs with Hollandaise sauce runs expectedly higher ($14.95). When we asked our leggy waitress sporting crotch-crunching hot pants about the weight of the filet, she chirped, “Oh, ya know, it’s the size of filet mignon.” After sending her to the kitchen to inquire, she returned with a more scientific answer of “four ounces.” The quality of the meat was so-so. The eggs were proficiently poached. And the Hollandaise was silky and lightweight. Most memorable, however, was the mound of country-style potatoes on the plate, with each soft cube having deeply absorbed the flavor of peppers and onions during their tumble on the grill.

Service on the night of dinner confirmed again we were in Pacific Beach. So did the atmosphere, which was haunted by a gaggle of loud-talking, overly macho bros clustered in a small downstairs sofa lounge that sits between the bar and dining room. Thankfully, all six flat-screens showing basketball were muted, so we could hear the decent contemporary music. In comparison, the morning scene is tamer and more family oriented – and probably something of a fantasyland for young pubescent straight boys as they’re served bacon by qualifying Hooters girls.

With a different companion in tow, we asked what types of curds comprise the three-cheese fondue appetizer.

“I don’t know, but it’s really good,” the waitress responded as though we’d be charmed into ordering it without further thought. Turns out it’s made of white and orange cheddar with a hint of Swiss, and served in a bread bowl that keeps it hot and creamy.

For our entrées, we ordered baby back ribs, stacked in crisscross arrangement like Lincoln Logs. Though alluringly tender, our disappointment rested with the powerless cider-molasses barbecue sauce, as well as the accompanying coleslaw, which could have withstood a little extra sugar and vinegar. As for the fries, they were way salty.

Lastly, a trio of grilled fish tacos with guacamole and salsa fell into the realm of standard beachside chow, with the exception of a nice fiery kick originating probably from microscopic bits of jalapeños within. The fish was white and generic, peppered with Mexican seasoning. Mahi mahi perhaps? The waitress didn’t have a clue. And I was finished at that point asking food questions in a neighborhood more familiar with limes and tequila than the sustenance used for sobering up.