Everyone poops, Taro Gomi noted in his seminal book of the same name. But some people poop in more opulent surroundings than other people. The main restroom at Plaza Frontenac, set beneath the stairs in the Center Court area, is not just a lavatory, it's a Palace of Poop. Immediately upon entry, it's clear that one is not fixing to dump in any Kansas Greyhound station. For starters, the restrooms are fitted with an antechamber (carpeted, no less) outfitted with upright glass display cases holding toiletries by L'Occitane en Provence -- perfect for your post-crap ablutions. The main chamber itself is outfitted with individual stalls constructed of dark wood, complete with louvered doors. Got a rug rat? The diaper-changing room is massive, wide enough to swing your progeny around by the ankles, were it not for the fact that said offspring might crack his or her head on one of the glistening black sinks or shining fixtures. Hands that have never performed manual labor are rinsed under rushes of what certainly must be spring water, laved with the most delicate of soaps and dried on paper towels -- sort of a letdown, that -- of adequate quality. Still, surrounded by flawless mirrors and the gold-flecked walls of the Frontenac pissoir, one feels as though one's buns have visited the Taj Mahal. And as God as your witness, no seatless can in a Git 'N' Go washroom shall ever serve your needs again.
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