THE MAN WITH THE COLOGNE TRAY IS WATCHING YOU
The steaks here cost $78, and the restroom has been designed to remind you of that. The marble is real. The faucets are gold, or something that wants you to believe it is gold. The light is low and amber, the kind usually found in a jewelry case or a funeral parlor.
And then there is the attendant, a man in a white jacket who stands beside the sinks with the stillness of a palace guard. He hands you a folded cloth towel with the solemnity of a priest offering communion. Behind him sits a tray stocked with cologne, mouthwash, mints, hairspray, a lint roller, a single cigar and a bottle of antacid, as though any patron might at any moment need to become a 1962 Las Vegas lounge singer with indigestion.
It is spotless. It is also the most uncomfortable restroom in the Midwest. You cannot wash your hands without being observed. You cannot dry them without being served. You cannot leave without the creeping suspicion that a tip is expected, and the further suspicion that the amount you choose is being recorded somewhere.
I left two dollars in the dish and felt judged for it. The man nodded without expression. I have been interviewed by federal agents with warmer eyes. Cleanliness is a virtue, but this place has turned it into a toll booth with sinks.
SCORE: 4 plungers. Docked one for psychological warfare.