F Street Station knows what real men really want, and it's not what all the snarky men's magazines and beer commercials and truck ads would have you think. To satisfy real men, you don't need flat-screen TVs the size of Mack trucks hovering over the crowd. No flashing lights are required. Neither are scantily clad, drippy-lipped waitresses who bend themselves over the table to serve greasy burgers. The male-dominated F Street Station has no piped music; it does have two old televisions that may or may not be tuned into sports. The restaurant's decorated with pictures of old Cessnas and model airplanes. The waitresses and bartenders are total ladies who look like they've stepped right out of a Botticelli painting.

Although you can get a burger, it won't be greasy. The main attraction, though, is a nightly special that is always inventive and never leaves you holding your tummy moaning. On a recent Monday evening, the special was seared swordfish atop a heap of brown rice. Other entrees include one of the best (if not the best) halibut sandwich in town; a pasta that features black olives, leeks, tomatoes, pine nuts, and balsamic vinaigrette; fried oysters; and a turkey sandwich. The food is diverse and affordable enough to attract both newcomers and those regulars that keep a place grounded.

On a recent evening, pilots elbowed up at the bar were telling tales of their rough landings in Kotzebue and Juneau. They ate and spoke out of the sides of their mouths, their eyes glowing as they pealed onto the beautiful bartenders and the model airplanes. A group of men sat around a table, munching lovingly on swordfish and halibut sandwiches. One guy was shaking his hand, "Just let her go. She's out of here," he told his buddy. None were being told to wipe the crumbs from their beards or to remove their elbows from the table. All of them looked absolutely satisfied.