The most terrifying thing about any restaurant is the bathroom. This is a room that seems designed to undermine your faith in the establishment that you've chosen.
First there's the hand blower -a device that says "we don't really value your time. Stand here for fiteen minutes drying your hands in front of a jet engine, because you are not worth the half a cent a paper towel costs. We will, however, plow the savings back into the establishment, and employ a full time staff member to stand in the bathroom to make you feel creepy and unfcomfortable as he helps you do things you have no difficulty doing yourself. Also, he'll offer you mints and cologne.
Who is this guy? This job is so bad you kind of want to say to the guy - hey, why not just be homeless? It would be less embarrassing for eveyrone. If you are willing to take a job handing people paper towels, you are at the absolute bottom of the social/economic ladder. Crack whores feel superior to the bathroom attendant guy. And who thinks I need personal hygene help from a sketchy illegal immigrant with a creepy grin that belongs on a retarded boy or a dolphin? I don't want a bathroom attendant. That's the one room in which I feel fairly comfortable about what to do. I want a kitchen attendant. I want a bedroom attendant. I want a "my girlfriend is talking about intimacy again" attendant.
But my favorite insane thing about restaurant bathrooms is the postcards you can now get right outside the bathroom. Who is walking out of the bathroom and thinking "Gosh, this is the perfect time to send a loved one a quick note."
You were right, the prunes worked. Also, I met a wonderful ex con named stevie who was kind enough to give me a two cent mint in exchange for a dollar tip. Wish you were here, Jeff