Time

Well, I wish I could give you something epic to kick off this Crapper review blog. I wish my first official review covered a Crapper so trendy, so high-class that it necessitated a velvet rope to keep out the masses.

Such was not the case at Time, a friendly gem of a wine bar located at 1315 Sansom St. in Midtown Village. Time is like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. It’s composed of two distinct components that complement each other so well, you’d rather stay home on a Friday night diving into the bag you hide in the freezer while avoiding all calls.

On one side of Time, you’ll find the dark-wooded, almost English type bar that serves the most awesome cheese plate and fried risotto balls you’ll ever encounter. Across the vestibule, you’ll find the open, tasteful and softly lit side of the bar that offers a variety of musical acts for you soak in, along with some great wine and other assorted boozes.

During my recent evening at Time, I was beyond excited when I realized that it was time to “break the seal” and check out the bathroom situation! The warm awesomeness of the restaurant raised my expectations of the bathroom to a fevered pitch.

To my horror and chagrin, Time’s bathroom only eked out a 2.5 Plunger rating:

Firstly, finding the bathroom was a pain in my skinny-jean covered ass. When prowling for a bathroom the first time, I despise having to go anywhere near any part of an establishment that even slightly resembles the kitchen. I believe this fear stems from those times when I’ve actually trotted into the kitchen of several posh restaurants on my quest to find the john.

When searching for the Time bathroom, I did the preliminary four-corner search, but was unsuccessful. So, I was forced ask for directions, and was instructed to venture through a menacing black curtain that separated the kitchen from the main dining area. My P.S.T. kicked in full force, but I made sure to stealthily inch past the entrance to the kitchen, and turn the sharp corner down a dark, narrow hallway, heading toward a door displaying the universal bathroom beacon: a simplistic drawing of woman in a dress.

I entered the cramped bathroom to encounter the overwhelming smell of paint and an “Out of Order. SORRY!” sign affixed to one of the two stalls. Harumph. Since there was a line for the one functioning stall, I was forced to stand my ground in the only available corner, which sat, unfortunately, right behind the swinging entrance door. I was promptly T-boned by the heavy door as a giddy, drunk patron came galloping in to the bathroom with both bravado and gusto.

After rubbing my bruised arm, I took in the décor of the pace. Well, they tried…they really did. It was richly and boldly decorated and painted….kind of like one of those model bathrooms you’d find at Ikea. Sorta confusing and off-putting, but the more time you spend in it, the more you’re convinced such red walls and stone accents would look adorable in your own studio up in NoLib.

The obviously fresh paint stood its ground in a garish brick red. Only the top half of the walls were painted, while the bottom half was covered in muted, slate-gray stone. The floor was tiled in matching large squares of stone.

The sink held two basins, utilizing shelf-style, so that the plumbing and other unpleasantness down below were all revealed beneath the thin slab of white. All fixtures worked perfunctorily, but to my dismay, in place of an oasis of clean, untouched paper or linen towels, sat one of those jet-engine hand driers that make your skin look like an elephant’s. Or my grandmother’s. Geesh.

Aside from the asphyxiating paint fumes, it was the lighting that sucked most of all. It was dark and industrial, and gave the place a basement-like feel. The main source of light was one of those fluorescent tube fixtures you find in a drop ceiling with a plastic diffuser. But THIS plastic diffuser was camouflaged to look like stained glass. Close-but no cigar, guys!

So there you have it, a 2.5 plunger at its most mediocre.

I definitely am bummed. Time’s Crapper held as much potential as that cheese plate I ordered. (The possibilities are endless!) And I was sure it would be as refined and complex as that Spanish Goat cheese that was served by an attractive, rugged wait staff. On top of that, this toilet should have offered surprising little extras and goodies to add aesthetics and appeal, just like those delicious brandied cherries that accompanied my Goat cheese.

But, alas! Much like the hunk ‘o French Roquefort instilled with dill, this bathroom merely looked moldy and gross and smelled really bad.