Don’t let the outside fool you. It’s what’s inside that counts.

The only open table was up at the front, comically wedged between a ginormous inflatable snowman and the cash register. I had to wade through a friendly crowd of retirees, afternoon drinkers, suits, blue collars and toddlers to find a seat.

When my little brother, Scotty, strolled in about a minute behind me, it was like old home week. “Where YOU been?” our chatty, chipper waitress chimed when she caught sight of him. Apparently he’d eaten more than his fair share of Dave’s lunch specials before being transferred to an office up north.

He sat down and, grabbing a folded-in-half 8.5x11 piece of laminated green paper that served as the menu, said, “Is it just me or did that feel an awful lot like a Cheers moment?”

“Indeed. And that would make you … Norm?!? Eat up, Butter Cup, you have some mighty big pants to fill.”

We set about perusing the menu and the “specials board” (which included a tempting chicken lasagna) but both pretty much knew we were going for the half-pound burger as soon as our waitress told us it was piled with Swiss, cheddar and ham, and was served with fries and slaw — for only $5.99.

OMG. Perfect-o. When I inquired about the kitchen (as in, where the hell is it?), Scotty pointed to the small wall on the other side of the snowman standing guard behind me. I’d heard rumors of this tiny den of culinary creation, but never truly believed it. Seriously. The kitchen is about the size of an average walk-in closet. No kidding.

I’m ashamed to admit that today’s visit to Dave’s Bar & Grill was my first. Friends had pointed it out to me (on the southwest corner of Pines & Sprague) numerous times, my husband had sung its praises each time we passed (and we passed a lot), but, well, from the outside it’s rather uninspired and I always kind of figured it was a Valhalla of some sort. Man Town. No girls allowed. Well, dudes, your jig is up.

This gal is telling all the world that Dave’s is totally girl-friendly. It’s darkish and cozy and the walls are lined with nostalgic kitsch that holds your attention when the big screens cease to amuse. The dishes were spotless and the staff was charmingly informal. There were no decades-old Pabst Blue Ribbon-soaked carpet odors, and the stench of one million long-ago-smoked cigarettes was non-existent. In fact, it smelled kinda nice. (As in, not like a bachelor’s basement.) Damn, sisters, even the bathroom was clean!