DBGB is the real deal: a place for people who are serious about food and drink and, frankly, little else. The menu is some weird Franco/German/Belgian melange that I’m sure is familiar and even quaint to a certain subset of the population that’s perpetually wrestling with the Euro-USD exchange rate and trying to assemble the perfect hand-rolled cigarette.

For me and my companions, however, it was all new and, to the item, delicious. DBGB is famous for its hand-made sausages and did not disappoint. From andoulli to Korean-style to a perfectly seasoned chorizo number, the bangers were bangin’. But even beyond those mainstays, the meal was superb—and trust me, we tucked into a wide range of dishes looking for flaws. Standouts included cod with artichokes and fennel, mussels in a positively heady pesto-infused broth and a uniquely interpreted peach cobbler.

Almost as impressive as the food was the booze. DBGB has a fairly extraordinary collection of beers, and we sampled several, including a wonderfully light and summery German Kolsch (those are imaginary umlats over the ‘o’). The highlight, however, was the Trappist Rochefort 10, which my companions and I dubbed the the finest beer we’d ever consumed. (Yes, really.)

As for the loo…y’know, you can’t do everything right. The potties are actually a series of one-seaters lined up at the back of the house. Like the rest of the place, they’re focused on function more so than form, with sparse-but-tasteful  decor (the wallpaper is, I presume, custom, and features b/w renderings of the copper cooking vessels that line the main dining room, accompanied by nameplates of famous chefs who, presumably, endorse their use). Given this, it was disappointing that my stall wasn’t sufficiently well maintained to ensure that TP didn’t run out.

Regardless, DBGB gets high praise and, by extension, high marks…

Rating of chew: 4.5 out of 5

Rating of loo: 3 out of 5

And no, you won’t be seeing any pretty bathroom pictures in this post.

That’s because, for the first time since the inception of chewtomyloo, your humble critic was so distraught about all things related to the dining experience that he completely forgot about snapping bathroom images. (Not that there was anything to write home about in that regard: Just a run-of-the-mill, rundown, outdated and poorly maintained single-toilet affair that proves beyond a doubt that the owners couldn’t care less whether you use their facilities or just soil yourself right there at the table. Which I genuinely believe several people have done.)

What establishment, you may wonder, could cause such a shift in the natural order of things? SoNo Seaport in Norwalk, Ct.

I’m placing the emphasis on the ‘No.’

AKA Davey Jones' Locker

I’m no stranger to the place. Back in the day (which, for purposes of this story was about 15 years ago), we’d go to SoNo Seaport for a combination of the steamer clams and the summer social scene.

Although the steamers were nothing special, SoNo Seaport was—and, mysteriously, still is—one of the few places in southern Fairfield County, CT where you can get ‘em. As for the social thing, that wasn’t any great shakes either, but the place was convenient for most folks who worked locally and wanted to get their drink on ASAP after quitting time. The fact that it’s right on the water made it almost picturesque.

Having been away from it for a few years, though, I was able to gain a new perspective. That perspective was of a complete and utter sh&%thole whose very existence is as baffling to me as quantum physics, string theory and the popularity of Ke$ha.

Where are her parents?!

It’s not just that the food at SoNo Seaport is horrible. (It is. The items we ordered—belly clams, calamari & steamers—were difficult to ruin, but somehow, the folks at SS pulled it off, serving dishes that make Long John Silver’s look like Le Bernardin by comparison.)

It’s that the whole operation, top to bottom, is a trainwreck. There’s a generally pissed off waitstaff (ours was a notable exception), dirty picnic tables in varying states of disrepair, overpriced booze served in Lilliputian plastic cups that make my 9 year-old’s hands look like Andre the Giant’s and a bloated manager/owner who does, well, nothing.

Yeah, like that.

The thing about this figurative trainwreck, though, is that, like real ones, people can’t seem to look away. Indeed, when we were there on Saturday afternoon-evening, the wait was 30 minutes for a table outside. (We could’ve been seated inside sooner, but would have missed out on the aforementioned ambiance.) This, I must admit, is baffling to me, since I believe in my bones that SoNo Seaport should have been shuttered eons ago—if not by order of the Health Department, then by people keeping away in droves.

Alas, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste. Or, at least, for the taste of Connecticut WASPs with money to burn on expensive drinks and lousy seafood.

For an infinitely superior value and experience, I recommend Westfair Fish & Chips instead. It doesn’t offer much in the way of scenery, but the food—from delicate and delicious belly clams, to succulent blackened salmon to tasty soft shell crabs—is stellar.

As for SoNo Seaport…

Rating of chew: 1 out of 5

Rating of loo: 2 out of 5

That’s right—Teaneck!

Ah, Teaneck, NJ, home of the ‘Highwaymen’ (tell me there’s a better high school mascot than that) and widely regarded as the very cradle of civilization as we know it.

After a lunch trip down memory lane that included a passable pastrami sandwich and some German potato salad that I’d spent years wrongly mythologizing, I ended the day having dinner with a lovely group of people  at Amarone.

Company excluded, the meal left much to be desired. Everything—from the Portabello mushroom appetizer to the wild salmon entree—was awash in far more sauce than was necessary/healthy. Don’t get me wrong, it was plenty edible, and thanks to my hosts, there was plenty of it. But the quality? To quote another CTML post, ‘meh.’

The real attraction, then, was the bathroom, which obviously reflected the style of Amarone’s hosts: A father-son-team that looked straight out of Soprano’s central casting—not the suave, well-dressed gangster type, but the working-stiffs-who-know-somebody-who-knows-somebody type.

The men’s room is a small, cramped affair (one-seater, no urinal), with an assortment of hygienic & grooming products. Standing apart from the rest, however, was the small jar of Ultra Sheen hair gel; the same goop that’s obviously the very lifeblood of the operation, judging by the generously slicked coifs of the aforementioned proprietors.

Ye olde accouterments

Rating of chew: 2 out of 5

Rating of loo: 2 out of 5 (and that’s all hair gel, baby!)

Cute? Not really.

So you can only imagine my child-like glee upon learning that our new office is not 5 minutes away from one Wilson’s BBQ, in Fairfield, CT. Don’t scoff. Fairfield’s a big town, populated by a bunch of folks with plenty of money to throw around on McMansions, Range Rovers and food of every denomination. So you’d think that, in order to survive, a restaurant would have to be pretty damn good, right?

Well, Wilson’s pushes the envelope even further: Their hours of operation are—wait for it—Thursday-Sunday, 11:30AM to close. Now, truth be told, I don’t know what ‘close’ time is, but unless it’s 11AM the following day, these people have a pretty sweet gig. I mean, here they are in a pretty competitive suburban restaurant market, and they can afford to be open for lunch and dinner just 4 days a week.

Nice work if you can get it. There’s just one problem: The food ain’t all that good. I mean, it’ll do in a pinch, like when you need some Q so bad you’re ready to hit the Stop & Shop and guzzle a bottle of KC Masterpiece. But other than that, it’s really rather so-so. Not bad, mind you. Just kind of flavorless. (Don’t even get me started on the cornbread.)

And the facilities? Well, I must admit that I was too disheartened by the meal to actually hit the head myself. But Keith popped in for a visit, and here’s what he found…

Like that pail!

Bo-ring

Neat. Clean. He might even say ‘quaint,’ if he were even remotely inclined to use that word.

Basically, the lavatory equivalent of Wilson’s food, i.e. nothing terribly wrong, but nothing terribly right, either.

Rating of chew: 2 out of 5 (Keith’s number)

Rating of loo: 2 out of 5 (consensus)

It is an absolutely idyllic community, with a slightly sordid history (you saw The Ice Storm, right?) and residents who buy and sell people like me for sport.

Despite these charming qualities—or is it because of them?—New Canaan has a rather thriving restaurant scene, with several places that routinely receive excellent reviews from the NYT Connecticut edition. Whatevs. We don’t care about stars; we’re in it for the chow. Which is why we go to Sushi 25…

In a former incarnation, it was a straight-up Chinese place, and an outrageously good one, at that. I’m talking the best orange beef in, like, ever, amazing sauteed shrimp (I’ve had larger and more tender, but they were in Bangkok; so I make do), and an outrageously delish take on a throw-back: shrimp toast.

A few  years ago, it was re-imagined as a sushi place—and the rolls, sashimi, etc. turned out to be amazing. Not only that, but it retained many of its Chinese standouts. So, yeah, it’s now a kind of Asian fusion place (please stop laughing), but without all the nuveau window dressing and compromised quality normally associated with that descriptor.

The bathroom takes a hit because there’s only one. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no priss. It’s just that I absolutely abhor waiting in line for anything, and a toilet is at the top of the list. Still, it’s clean and roomy. I’m talking Manhattan-apartment roomy. So why they couldn’t come up with someplace other than the top of the toilet tank to store extra rolls of TP confounds me. As does the choice to leave the plunger out ‘en plein aire,’ as it were. I’d prefer a more design-y soap option (I think they use the same as the body wash in my gym), but the old-school paper towel dispenser is a nice touch. Just as long as they keep it stocked.

Author’s note: I was NOT the one who left an empty toilet paper roll (see images). Granted, I didn’t change it, but still…

Rating of chew: 4 out of 5

Rating of loo: 2.5 out of 5

Odd, I know.

Turns out, though, she’s got plenty to be proud of. The eats are consistently high in quality, made with fresh, flavorful ingredients and prepared expertly by a whole team of people with questionable citizenship credentials in what looks to be a well-appointed kitchen.

My family’s favorites here are the Drunken noodle with shrimp, Massaman curry and, perhaps predictably, the Pad kra pow. Really, though, we’ve never had a sub-par dish, and the service is very good if not particularly warm. (It’s all about table-turn don’tcha know?)

But enough about all that; let’s get down to business, by which I mean the state of affairs in the restrooms. And the verdict is: Quite good, actually.

The business end of things

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The whole place has a clean, well-ordered, functional aesthetic to it, and the loo is no exception. There’s nice tile work, bright-but-not-offensive colors, simplistic artwork/crafts and plenty of room to, um, spread out. All in all, a nice showing for a little place that could just as easily have cheaped-out and done the whole thing in builder’s-grade schlock from The Depot.

So kudos to you, Kitt.

That faux-marble countertop ain't fooling anybody

Floor border detail; me like-y

Rating of chew: 3.5 out of 5

Rating of loo: 3 out of 5

(Full disclosure: The wife and I were on a bit of a Mackie-C tear several years ago and, as I recall, mortgaged one or more of the kids to score a few drawer pulls and piece together shards of fabric into what we lovingly regard as drapes.)

The diner—improbably situated in Hackensack, of all places—is, truth be told, tastefully done. And everything (no, really, everything) is tarted up in M-C’s trademark circus stripes, black-and-white checks and purple-gold combos. I know, it sounds odd, but somehow it works. Mostly. Problem is, it’s woefully redundant and lacking any of the mix-and-match whimsy that defines Mackenzie-Childs’ decorating style.

Nowhere is that more apparent than in the bathroom, where the decorator either decided s/he’d had enough, or the owner’s wife ran out of money. Either way, the result is an uninspired ode to bland, combining checkerboard tiles (and green glass ones) with stainless steel and faux wood finishes. I’ll say this for it: It was clean.

And that’s all I’ll say.

As for the food, it seems infected with the same blandiosity as the decor. Save your money and, while in NJ, hit a real diner or, better yet, one of the hundreds of fine hot dog vending establishments that define my fair home state.

Rating of chew: 1.5 out of 5

Rating of loo: 3 out of 5

Ho hum

I found the restrooms at CPK actually mimic the restaurant interiors—not in their decor, necessarily, but in their complete absence of creativity or imagination.

Don’t get me wrong: the mixed media (subway-style tile, marble counters and stainless fixtures) was nice and all. It’s just that, there was nothing to really distinguish it from, say, a corporate WC.

Regardless, I gotta give props for the immaculate state of affairs in there. And that’s saying something, considering that most CPKs are like a little melting pot of humanity by dint of their positioning in those larger couldrons of humanity we call malls.

Rating of chew: 2.5 out of 5

Rating of loo: 4 out of 5

Guess where I'm standing?

In a cramped, suburban strip mall, Tawa stands out like…well, like an excellent Indian restaurant that has the misfortune of being nestled between a particularly sketchy-looking tanning salon and a Korean nail place (I know: shocker!).

As for the facilities, I recommend arriving with an empty tank and leaving before the urge strikes.

The men’s restroom is bigger than a bread box—but not by much—relatively clean and stocked with little more than the bare necessities.

Rating of chew: 3.5 out of 5

That's about the size of it!

Rating of loo: 1.5 out of 5