Hello, friends. I’ve moved my blog to www.porcelainpress.com.

Growing up in a household where at least 98% of the films we watched were in black and white means that I regularly suffer the humiliation (if I were the easily embarrassed type) of not knowing anything about the popular films made during my youth — which, in turn, meant that I was unfamiliar with basically everything at the recently renovated Museum of the Moving Image in Astoria. I mean, really, they had Mrs. Doubtfire’s fat suit on display, and I’ve never seen “Mrs. Doubtfire.” But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate the moving trash image (the trash literally moves to create an image of you as you pass by!) or the extremely hip, very spare, whiter-than-white restroom.

I’ll admit that even I, the self-proclaimed Porcelain Princess, am sometimes too lazy to snap photos of bathrooms. I just wasn’t feeling it this particular day, but as soon as I saw the stark white door with 3-D black block letters spelling “WOMEN,” I knew the camera had to come out of my bag. And whoever redesigned the Museum of the Moving Image did not disappoint.

Inside, everything was white, with the exception of stainless steel fixtures that might ordinarily seem boring and commonplace, but in the midst of all that purity, they seemed dazzling. It didn’t hurt that the faucets were also uniquely shaped, very square, angled pieces that would be a Cubist’s dream. My favorite part was the long bench in front of a mirror that took up the whole wall. I think benches are one of the coolest, yet useless, pieces of furniture. They’re low to the ground and don’t have backs, so they aren’t really very enticing as a place to sit. Especially in a museum bathroom. Who wants to just hang out in there, chewing the fat with your best pal while she rinses her hands, when there are Muppet exhibitions to be seen? Still, though, there’s something I like about benches, and the way they’re so uncomplicated and fit so neatly against a wall or under a coat rack. Don’t be surprised if, someday, all the walls in my apartment are lined with benches — and I would really love a white one like the bench in the bathroom at the Museum of the Moving Image.

When you maintain a restroom blog, having a camera malfunction in the bathroom could be worse than having a wardrobe malfunction during the Super Bowl. Normally, I would pass that one up for irrevocably lost, but the bathroom at Warren 77 is worth recording, so you will have to rely mostly on my elephantine memory and witty wordsmithing to get a glimpse.

I’ve walked past Warren 77 a number of times and always noticed it — that’s a good sign that the bathroom will be above par because it means they’ve put in enough extra effort outside the establishment to make their spot memorable. It’s very antique looking, with old rusty handpainted metal, and therefore doesn’t at all scream Financial District. I finally made it inside for Rosee’s birthday happy hour, and was more than pleased with the atmosphere, the clientele and my $9 malbec. And the bathroom? Of course!

I first entered the restroom about 10 minutes into happy hour because I managed to spill red wine on my white shirt. Brilliant move, I know — I guess I find it really exciting to learn that, apparently, Australian law forbids parents from bestowing bizarre monikers on their offspring (like, for example, Mars Ice-Cap). Typical of a bar bathroom, it wasn’t well lit, but I did a fine job of de-wine-ing myself and preserving my shirt. Tucked near the bathroom door was some sort of antique medical chair — perhaps used for dentistry, or electric shock therapy? Random, right? The sink was stocked with a bottle of liquid soap, but there was also one of those ancient powdered borax dispensers, something I haven’t seen since elementary school, and even then it was ancient technology (if soap dispensers are advanced enough to be considered “technology”; not sure even a Neanderthal would be impressed). So, definitely an antique theme going on here, you’re thinking. This all makes sense. The theme makes sense. Yes, and then you look up, and there’s a large framed photograph of Batman and Robin. I’ll leave it at that.

Terroir Tribeca was my first wine bar experience, and I couldn’t have been happier: the antioxidant-rich malbec was divine, the wild boar sausage was unique (although this bread-obsessed gal sadly couldn’t pair it with baguette slices, because of a temporary gluten-free experiment), the conversation with my colleague Rosee was delightful and the bathroom was totally fitting for a classed-up joint that, nevertheless, has a 30-page menu featuring Harry Potter, organized in a 3-ring binder.

For starters, there was the heavy metal door, all rusty and rustic like a weatherbeaten entrance to an early 20th century pencil factory. The theme continued inside, with ripped up bricks and destroyed hinges. The crowning achievement, though, was the sign on the outside, which I didn’t read in detail until my second potty break: “The Bathroom. Metal forbed from the hellfire of Middle Earth, blessed by Pope Pius, IV, designed by Richard Lewis and crafted by the former Governor of Alaska.”

I learned that wine bars are definitely my thing…but maybe I need to stick with slightly off-beat ones, where the wild boars frolic with Hermione Granger.

Everyone talks about those mysterious and sometimes anxiety-inducing restrooms where you can see through the stall door from the inside, and just have to trust that the door is made of some kind of material that allows you to see out but prohibits others from seeing in, but I hadn’t experienced it myself until Bar 89, a SoHo bar / art gallery (currently installed is strips of denim with cave-like paintings of cows).

You have to expect that this kind of place, which the bartender informed us is frequented by celebrities (aren’t we cool?), would have an unusual bathroom, so I wasn’t fazed by the fact that the stall doors were glass. Plus, I’d heard of such a thing — I do wonder how someone would react who was clueless about this latest trend of uber-hip restrooms. When you lock the door, the glass turns a hazy lime green, and “Occupied” appears at the top in bold, glowing letters. The haze comes on gradually, and you can still sort of see the person’s silhouette when they’re close to the door (the toilets are set back a bit). The view from inside is foggy, too, but you can still see clearly enough to recognize your friends, who may or may not be waving at you, even if they can’t see you, just to freak you out.

But there’s more to Bar 89’s bathroom than it’s tricky stall doors. It’s murky inside once you’ve locked the door, so a strip of cobalt blue light shines from the wall through a slightly opaque covering, very much resembling a giant glow stick. The fixtures are very sterile, with a round, dentist’s office style sink and stainless steel paneling around the perimeter. Orange gerbera daisies are strewn about in vases, matching a theme from the bar and dining room downstairs, and a “wall” of oddly shaped metal blobs (not sure what else to call them) shields the restroom area from view.

Fit for a celebrity? Sure is. Would I go back? Probably not. Nothing but the bathroom set Bar 89 apart for me, and my glass of wine was fine — just fine — and expensive.

Turkish Cuisine’s restroom is the one that most inspired this blog, a good 8 or so months before I finally put fingers to keyboard to share my toilet-viewing adventures with the world. Why? There is a full-length mirror right next to the toilet in the women’s room. Yes. Talk about a fascinating and unique public restroom.

I first went to the aptly but boringly named Turkish Cuisine last summer, and went again this summer because a rice, vegetable and meat-filled menu was perfect for my new gluten-free diet, and was so struck by the bathroom the first time that I excitedly told my friends about it, and couldn’t wait to go back to take photos once I’d started the Porcelain Press. But it’s not just the mirror next to the toilet that makes Turkish Cuisine’s bathroom unique — the vestibule outside is painted gold, and there are glass evil eyes strewn about, along with a heavy gold-framed mirror. Inside, the ceiling is slanted like an attic, and the decor looks very much like Grandma’s tea party exploded: there are houseplants, “wash room” placards, slatted wooden shutters around the mirror (there are a lot of mirrors involved here) and a floppy polka-dotted hat ceramic wall hanging. Yes. Amidst all those very fitting evil eyes, there’s a floppy hat with gerbera daisies growing out of it. This place is truly priceless.

While waiting to get in the women’s onesie restroom, a waiter told me I could use the men’s room, because, he said, “it’s the same.” I pushed open the door, but he was mistaken: the men’s room did not have a mirror next to the toilet, and that was the reason I was taking a trip to this particular bathroom. I proceeded to wait at least five minutes for the woman inside to finish fully washing and drying her hair — or whatever she was doing in there besides the typical bathroom activities — so that I could snap these shots. Worth the wait, I’d say. 

Turkish Cuisine also gets a big bunch of thumbs up for their, well, Turkish cuisine. The chicken special over a bed of spinach is fantastic — so fantastic that even chicken-hating K talks enthusiastically about going back for it. I tend to go for the eggplant casseroles, loaded with rice and covered with tomato sauce and cheese. When you leave Turkish Cuisine, you feel happy and healthy (as opposed to heavy with grease), and you also got to watch yourself, uhhh, evacuate — weird, perhaps, but certainly unique.

Who knew Indian cuisine could be so much more than the greasy takeout stuff or the phenomenal meals cooked by ex-boyfriend’s mother, who was born and raised in India? I never expected one of my fanciest meals in NYC to be at an Indian place — Tamarind Tribeca — with sumptuous cream-colored leather and gold details throughout the extremely spacious, high-ceilinged dining room.

I don’t often get to check out restrooms at fancy-schmancy restaurants, so I was pretty excited to wash my hands when my friend Ms. Saxobeat invited me out to Tamarind with her mother before moving to London. Tamarind’s restroom lived up to to the rest of the restaurant’s interior, including a corridor outside the co-ed onesies (each had an “M” and a “W” on its door), softly lit by square votive candles and a glowing orange lamp, and outfitted with a comfy bench if you needed to wait in line. Inside were bronze bowl sinks — my favorite! — atop hardwood tables, and my favorite aspect: white molded walls. I love intricately detailed white things, because they are able to maintain their simplicity despite being devoid of color.

It wasn’t just Tamarind’s restroom that I liked so much; the food was absolutely fantastic, and a far cry from the greasy takeout, even if the chana masala didn’t hold a chickpea to what my ex’s mom makes. I always thought lamb was a tough meat, but Tamarind’s literally melted on my tongue, and I was overjoyed to sink my teeth into some well-seasoned venison, now that my dad’s coworkers back home in Pennsylvania have stopped bestowing the spoils of their hunting trips on him. And, as I’m not a food writer, I don’t have the talent to describe the truffles on the dessert menu in words. Tamarind is not cheap, but it’s worth it — this place is really magical.

Sylvia’s Restaurant is one of the famous soul food places in Harlem, known for its fried chicken and waffles and gospel brunch on Sunday. A group of us were excited to experience this hallelujah-filled Sunday meal, but unfortunately, for some reason the gospel show was not on the day we went. So be warned.

Sylvia’s restroom was pretty dismal, boring fixtures that hadn’t been updated in decades and instructions on the soap dispenser to put your hands underneath (uhhh…this isn’t rocket science). Someone even left the rag they’d used to wipe the counter next to the sink. I was a bit disappointed by the interior of the bathroom, because the area outide the bathroom was pretty cool, featuring a collage of letters cut out from magazines that were arranged to spell out the Gettysburg Address. Fitting and unique.

Although the bathroom and the lack of gospel tunes were letdowns, Sylvia’s delivers when it comes to the food. The portions are E-NOR-MOUS, and everything’s very tasty, if not particularly healthy or complex. I was one week into a gluten-free dietary experiment, so I had to lay off the basket of fresh biscuits they put on the table (they even put a second basket right in front of me — it’s like they knew how to torture me!). It was nice, though, because I got to try something new, instead of the carb-laden waffles or macaroni and cheese. Scrambled eggs with chicken livers, sauteed with onions and peppers? Yes, please!

I already didn’t like the Studio Square beer garden in Astoria before I went. I mean, when a neighborhood already has the “real” beer garden (Bohemian Hall & Beer Garden), why build a new one that’s simultaneously trying to be a Manhattan club with overpriced drinks, loud music and loads of stiletto-shod girls?

The bathroom, though, was a sight to see. The women’s restroom was actually a hallway of onesies that required a male attendant to manage traffic and let you know which toilets were free. The walls had a band of brick-like glass tiles, very similar to the ones in the restroom at The Shops at Columbus Circle, although in a gray color scheme instead of purple. The hand dryer flashed a spot of bright blue light on your skin – so space age. And one of the guys we were with said that a random guy in the men’s room line offered to sell him coke. Ha.

I returned to S2 a month or so later during the day, and it’s much more beer garden-y and not at all clubby. That made me happy, as did the whiskey-spiked iced tea, which is SO GOOD. And I don’t like iced tea (ask my iced tea-obsessed family). Still, I’ll stick with the original, Bohemian Hall & Beer Garden.  Sometimes it’s best to rely on tradition.

Happy hour or birthday lunches at my current job often take place at South West NY. The menu is quite expensive and deceptive (it’s much less “southwest” cuisine than you’d expect; they serve bread with oil instead of chips and salsa when you sit down), and the bar area smells like stale frat house, yet serves rather pricey mixed drinks. The bathroom, however, is a delight, as are the cobalt blue goblets in which they serve tap water.

The bathroom doors are a nice golden wood — pine, I’d say — that reminds me of the modernized log cabins we’d stay in sometimes back home in Pennsylvania when I was a kid. Inside, there’s more cobalt blue all over the walls, which is a striking contrast to the pine doors and stainless steel sinks. The color combination really works. The industrial-style sinks are lined with a layer of riverstones; this is a design element I’ve seen repeated a couple of other places, and although it’s crazy gimmicky — I mean, c’mon, really?! — I do like it, especially because Manhattan is such a far cry from real, legitimate outdoorsy nature, log cabins and the like. The restroom gets southwest-y with a painting of a cactus, but inside the stalls are carrot-bedecked advertisements for South West gift cards. Like I said, it’s not really “southwest.”

All in all, excellent bathroom with a unique hand-washing experience, but do not go to South West looking for a mind-blowing burrito, because you won’t find one on the menu. You can, however, order a tasty barbecue burger, but it’ll cost you $15.95.