EMERGENCY BATHROOM AT THE BONGO ROOM

Forget my bullshit promises about Chicago. The most interesting thing that happened was when I tried to enter the emergency bathroom at a place called The Bongo Room. I don’t know what kind of horseshit the waitress was trying to pull when she pointed toward what looked like a closet door right in the middle of the restaurant floor in response to my “Where’s the bathroom?” I thought it was weird that they’d have a john right there next to a table, and I was kinda wondering why the lady with the baby agreed to sit there, also, leaning on the wall behind the door was a couple of brooms and mops and a chair, so when I tried to go in, I could only open the door about six inches. Trouper that I am, I turned sideways and attempted to wedge myself in and had one thigh fully through the gap when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a nice Hispanic busboy who was smiling—and not in friendliness, I assure you, this guy was laughing at me—and gesturing down a nearby hallway to a PROPER SET OF RESTROOMS. So thanks, asshole lady at the Bongo Room. I bet your Bongoing days are numbered. The food was okay, of course Stavros liked it because they had apple-cinnamon waffles with cherry-maple compote or something like that. One other quick thing about this “Bongo Room”—they open at 9AM and not a second earlier. This means that even if there is a line of people outside the door and the wind is howling up your hoo-ha and it’s 8:58 and the wait staff are all standing around picking their noses just inside the door and staring at you, they’re not letting you in.