May 7, and I've discovered the single best bathroom in all of Manhattan, and possibly the universe

Bathrooms are heavily underrated. Societies measure progress by a number of dynamic factors, like infant mortality, enfranchisement, literacy rate. However, economists and social anthropologists tend to neglect one vital aspect of development: bathrooms.

Bearing this in mind in computing economic growth, I discovered that Manhattan far exceeds its peers, and has excelled in providing for its citizens bathrooms of stellar quality.

And this is due in large part to Beauty and Essex, a testament to old Manhattan, the glamour and the glory.

Last night, an old friend and I met up to both catch up on each other's lives and bid farewell to one another. Beauty and Essex was on my bucket list, so we decided to consume each other's stories and cocktails there. I was a bit surprised when I first arrived at the restaurant. It was dingy from the outside, looked as though it would implode, and, worst, was surrounded by a block of mundane, grey emptiness. We walked into what seemed to be an overpriced, cash-only jewelry store, and though I was initially tempted to buy red sequined baby shoes, I walked towards someone who seemed to work there (either as a waitress or earring designer), and hesitantly told her I had reservations. She smiled, and motioned for us to walk through a door I had not seen earlier. We walked into a spacious, grand, softly lit room, adorned with intentionally gaudy chandeliers and old frames and dusty mirrors. It was, literally, bejeweled, and yet the excessive tackiness took on a class and finesse that was intriguing, inviting, not at all suffocating.

My friend and I sat down in between two couples, and behind a group of about ten girls. The intimacy of the restaurant caused in us a surge of estrogen that had forever been dormant, and after my friend's second "Barbie drink," as she dubbed it, we were both suddenly, uncontrollably ranting about birth control and career women and long term relationships and whether or not it was appropriate to have only sandwiches at our weddings (neither of us is getting married any time soon). "I don't know why we are yelling about Plan B," I hysterically sobbed to my friend, who, shook her head with equally strong emotion and said, "I think it's because this place is for girls."

As soon as we ordered, (rather, after we were conned into ordering more food than we planned), we were given quarter sized, complimentary snacks from the kitchen. A circular, small papadum type of spicy, crispy wheat, topped with pureed beet, which was then topped with a dollop of burrata and a mint leaf. I had not been hungry until that point, when I popped about .25 cm of gustatory foreplay into my mouth.

small, tantalizing, delicious

Suddenly, I was famished.

fruity

We ordered cocktails to maximize our dining experience. My first cocktail was a mojito made with, among several other surprisingly obscure but fresh ingredients, Dominican rum and a French raspberry soda. My friend ordered something that she aptly characterized as a garden (it's actually called the "emerald gimlet"), as it tasted like all of the earth's finest in my mouth. We were so impressed by the art and adoration with which alcoholic creations were fantasized, that we ordered two more. The blackberries in my next drink were smoked on the premises, and so smoked fruit thickened and enslaved my tequila. My friend's second drink was the aforementioned "Barbie drink," which tasted like a terrifying combination of middle school and Limited 2 and lip gloss.

Our food was staggered, so we were able to enjoy the flavors--both eclectic and traditional, much like the city--of each dish without the unfortunate mixing and forgetting and neglecting of the artistry of each dish. At the risk of sounding like a trite food reviewer, I'll say that the "classic" pan con tomate, which we had with creamy burrata with which I played with my tongue, made it seem as though bread, tomatoes, and cheese were the only three ingredients one would ever need for any meal, for any moment, ever and forever. The empanadas we ordered tasted eerily like samosas, and, coupled with the papadum type freebie earlier, I was not sure if "India" was actually another theme of the restaurant. The pieces of eggplant on my "pizzetta" (which is a sexy way of saying large personal pie), were baked till crispy  and encrusted with Parmesan and bread and all things delectable.

After consuming great quantities of Barbie drinks and Barbie foods, I naturally had to pee. I was waiting on a long line for the single bathroom at the end of the restaurant, when a waitress came up to me and said there was another bathroom by the entrance. I nodded insincerely, because my bladder was too full to walk, and she shrugged and said, "I mean, there's free champagne."

rosé, candles, toilets

I blanched, and then immediately texted my friend the news, who replied in capital letters and exclamations and sheer wonder. After we paid the bill, we walked down to the exalted bathroom, and walked into the a room that may have been larger than most NYC apartments, and that smelled of lavender and love and lilacs. It was warmly lit, with couches and coffee tables in a carpeted area of the room. Across from the seating, there was a champagne bar. A lovely, tall, Swedish looking woman was popping bottles of sparkling rosé, and, thinking that we could have been delusional, perhaps because of the aforementioned artistic cocktails, we reluctantly hovered around the bar. "Um, can we have a drink?" She eagerly obliged, and filled two delicate flutes of sparkly, bubbly, pink, complimentary, bathroom drink. We sat by the lounge area, still in the bathroom, and sipped and appreciated and savored, and when I had to pee again, I was grateful all over again for the convenient location and luxury of Beauty and Essex and of America and of Manhattan. We decided to have seconds, and took our drinks to the lobby, after passing the men's bathroom, which, in gorgeously heteronormative fashion, smelled like beer.

bars and bathrooms

Still shocked that our dreams really had come true, that there actually was a land of milk and honey,  where happiness and champagne and bladder relief saw no bounds, we parted ways in silence.

Manhattan may not be the greatest city in the world, it may not be the center of the universe, but it can, like few others, boast of wonderfully luxurious bathrooms. New Yorkers really like to pee.

End of Day 7.