The most frequently asked question at the restaurant has to be “where are your restrooms?”, or some variety of the same inquiry. Even those who don’t ask an employee make their perceived destination clear as they walk slowly and curiously around the bar tables, confidently into the kitchen, or get frustrated after trying to pull open a series of locked doors.
And it’s not simple either. There’s a men’s restroom in the corner of the bar, near the front door – but only a men’s, and only the availability to stand up. I will say that seeing a man wander back onto the floor, embarrassed, after having been sent to the nearest bathroom that apparently did not meet his needs, this creates a highlight for the week. But the women have to walk through the main dining room to the host stand, at which point they turn to leave the restaurant, but duck down the staircase to find the restrooms. It takes a long time to explain this whole adventure, and make a joke about it all in one breath.
But there’s one man I never did meet, only saw through the bar mirror, who didn’t need directions anywhere. He’d come in early, before the lunch rush and sit at the end of the bar, not too far from the door. Ordered a beer or two and left. But he only left after he had [and I’m not kidding] peed all over the floor and on the barstool. He never made a big scene about it, just half-sat, half-stood on the stool and peed right down his pants and everything. Then he paid and walked out.
Can’t be? I didn’t think so either. He must have had a problem, right? You can’t be a grown man and just walk into a bar day after weekday and pee on the stool and think that it’s okay! Can you? Maybe a little drip, I could see – if it was his 5th amber ale and the line for the bathroom was twelve people long. But not a whole bladder’s worth, twice the size of his beer, in puddles on the floor at 11:45 in the morning.
Next time, I’ll give restroom directions as quickly as possible – so they don’t get any ideas.