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Dungeons and Pagans at Poached Flint

Flint wants to know your business. All of it. So does Poached. There’s no secrets here, not even your underwear colour or the devotion you may or may not have to hand washing. These pagans prop open the door so all of your insecurities and genitalia have no where to hide [not really, actually. It seems very exposed but it’s actually quite private. They still want to know, though].

Flint/Poached [F/P] is long and narrow, like some roof’d over alleyway in Queens [or Riversdale]. It’s part of it’s charm, which F/P certainly has in no shortage. In fact, most things are long and narrow and charming in F/P, from the building’s layout, to their menus, to their head bartender/manager/pagan, B___.

Finding their washroom requires one to descend a set of stairs [which are both long and narrow and charming], until reaching the F/P’s washroom dungeon [“dungeon” used affectionately in this instance, not at all in the manner in which Eli Roth or Buffalo Bill imagines dungeons]. Both Women’s and Men’s bathroom doors have been propped open, and feelings about this are very conflicting. Bypassing any need to touch a washroom door-handle is a great charity, but comes at a sacrifice of privacy, in which any passerby can get a full eye of you struggling to get your pants zipper to cooperate. And while public washrooms always offer a bit of a over-exposing risk, it seems more admissible when the witness to your private bathroom moments is a fellow washroom attendee, and not some casual passerby. This is somewhat alleviated by the fact that the only thing located down in the F/P Dungeon are the washrooms themselves and the propped open door reveal little aside from the sinks themselves, so unless you make a practice of dropping trouser well before reaching stall or urinal, you’re pretty much covered.

The washroom’s sorest spot is undoubtedly the stall, which is the exact same dimensions, roughly, as a telephone booth. To get the door of the stall closed, you have to cram your legs against the toilet to make space, consequently sopping up all the toilet-misfires from washroom visitors past with your pant-leg [fortunately, the cutting edge fashions of the Jean Shop are just down the street]. But as luck would have it, the washrooms were quite clean and my pants were spared. Overall in good repair [aside from the green piece of abstract washroom graffiti] and an experience that one could call dungeon-cozy.

The rest gets a pass. Full size urinals are without splash guards, but are equipped with nice baby-blue urinal pucks. The sink scores near-full points. The facet is not automatic, but nudging it up with a fist is very doable. The soap isn’t automatic either, but the bottle matches the colour of the urinal pucks, making for a pleasant sort of tonal symmetry in the dungeon. F/P has smartly opted for a simple pile of paper towel, which rests beside the washroom’s most exciting and dungeony feature: the hole disposal. The hole disposal is a thick hole cut into its counter, with a garbage can place underneath, and encourages one to shoot basketball-style whatever sort of waste you can fit into it. And what sort of dungeon is complete without a dark, creepy hole? For this subtle thematic touch, F/P ranks as one of the smartest and understated thematic washrooms in town.


[Washrooms are rated on a scale of 1 to 5, with a maximum rating of 1 and a minimum of -5]