Located past the fitting room like our previous Banana Republic review, the sibling company “Old Navy” doesn’t care if you sneak in by yourself. Gap, Inc., designed Old Navy like the ratty younger brother who perpetually lives in the mental state of freshman year at college. That way, if Banana’s upscale image turns you off, the company still gets your money in the end. However, Old Navy settles into the neighborhood of SoHo comfortably and embraces the space it occupies by leaving it looking like a warehouse.

Their acceptance of the industrial look would benefit them quite well in their facilities, had they gone all the way with it. But only going halfway with the Bohemian look is the same as when an uptown banker tries to come down to this neighborhood to “pick up artsy chicks”–all the cool kids see right through it. Sorry, but the INC is still the biggest part of Gap, Inc. The bathroom is lit brightly by caged, industrial fixtures. The top third of the wall is left as exposed brick to “legitimize” things, and the floor has a brushed concrete look with half a coat of paint on it. But the stalls, gray as they are, look a little too polished for the image they were going for. Also, there is an odd smell lingering in the air, something that will never be cool no matter how uncool it is. Overall you get the sense that they could have done much more to make it “look the part.”

Rating: 6.5

Banana Republic has always kept a stiff upper lip when sneering at its rivals in the retail clothing industry. No matter where you go, you can always count on BR to sell the “safe” look. Its presence alone can deter the marginally adventurous shopper from experimenting at the next door leather shop. It comes as no surprise that the establishment is very guarded about their image, but the measures to which the SoHo branch’s bathrooms are kept secure is a bit too much to swallow. When we asked for the bathroom we were lead individually by an attendant through the fitting rooms to a locked restroom where only employees had the key. Once inside, we were able to lock it, though that didn’t make us feel any more welcome.

There are two oners here, and neither one passes the mark of impressive. A brushed marble green tile hugs the lower half of the walls, the only sign of color, the lone plant growing through a crack in the city sidewalk. To the establishment’s credit, the room is kept clean and functional with a few amenities such as toilet seat covers. We were starting to see that the “conservative-with-a-hint-of-personality” aesthetic that informs the clothing also applied to the bathroom design. At least they’re consistent. At the washing station a very wide half-length mirror offers more than the idea that you’re just in a public bathroom; it also works well for people who are only trying on tops (or, people whose legs are not their best feature and want to focus of their well-proportioned torso). However, the sink and counter top, and almost everything on it, is made of industrial brushed steel and reminds us that the public bathroom designers care only about one of the “F”s: function*. Thankfully, they care enough to do it right.

*The other three being feng shui, feel-goodedness, and fornication.

Rating: 6.0

Just like the surplus of men named Ray who open pizzerias in New York, there are also many pizzerias that are “famous”…but they can’t all really be this famous. Perhaps pizzerias are to NY as people are to LA. Anyway, the most striking thing about this bathroom is the amount of graffiti–easily enough to fill a novella (that’s a fancy way of saying short novel). At least there was a small degree of entertainment value. One tidbit read, “Whores don’t get a second chance- God.” Correct us if we are wrong, but that’s from “Taming of the Shrew”…or Joey-from-Queens-after-he-found-out-that- Samantha-was-cheating-on-him-with-his-best-friend-can-you-fucking-believe-it-I-mean- I-thought-he-was-gonna-marry-this-chick-ya-know…

The ceiling was only half painted. Oh, those Italians! (we can say that, our last names end in vowels). The clay-colored tiles that run up the bottom of the wall are taken over by a matte green paint that consumes everything in its path. The bathroom at one time clearly sported one of those vintage silvery hand dryers, but even that is covered in the stuff, as if some wall fungus took over half the bathroom. The owner of Famous Famiglia might tell you the bathroom is green for good luck, like the color of money. We think it’s the color of envy: this place actually does not measure up to the bathroom at the previously reviewed Ray Bono pizza uptown on Lex and 82nd St, which was not an ideal rest stop itself. At Famous Famiglia, everything in the bathroom works right for the median rating of “5,” but major points are deducted since it is just so abominable looking. Perhaps this “famous” family should have went into landscaping.

Rating: 3.0

Wendy has a funny way of accommodating her customers. Like a deranged wife trying to off her husband for his money, she seems to have taken a rather extreme and grim method of thanking people for buying her burgers. The last Wendy’s we went to sported a small plate of liquid soap with 1,000 fingerprints (the same one from the Arabian Nights stories).

This time she has really outdone herself. You could smell the bathroom the moment you walk into the store. Waiting in line for a oner, we entered only to find a large, metallic room that looks like a gas chamber. The purple square floor tiles were caked with filth and possibly human remains. The steel brushed walls were covered in graffiti and scratchitti. The toilet and sink were absolutely wretched, making the holes in the ground of bathrooms in “developing countries” (is “third world” un-PC now?) seem preferable. Despite the fact that soap was present, its effectiveness wears off the moment you turn the faucet off; it pretty much had the same viscosity as water. On the side is a solitary velvet rope, a cryptic message we have yet to decipher. Is this supposed to denote a feeling of exclusivity? Only if you have a fetish for hanging out in the worst bathrooms around the city (hey, maybe they’re still better than some of the night clubs). With so many establishments in Manhattan, many of them offering at least sub-par facilities, one wonders why anyone would risk their comfort, and possibly their health, by using this one.

Rating: 2.0

Best Buy was gracious enough to provide us with the definition of a five. Five is the highest score a bathroom can receive for being perfectly clean without any aesthetic design. You feel comfortable using the bathroom but you don’t want to hang around. We were escorted to the facilities by one of the employees, a retail bathroom troll if you will. We didn’t have to answer a riddle, but we did have to convince him that because of our “celebrity” we would “work on” getting him tickets to an Ultimate Fighting match. Our new friend then let us into the restroom by way of typing the right code into a numeric keypad. This way, no one could sneak in with one of the store’s items and stash the ridiculously large package into the back of their trousers. Of course, if you can override the keypad’s security system, Best Buy is probably small potatoes for you.

We found everything to be gray in this bathroom: tiny gray square tiles on the floor and walls, gray wall paint, gray stall, gray pigeon corpse. The only things not gray are, amazingly, the toilet and sinks, which are kept clean and pristine, as well as our moods, upon discovering how well-maintained this bathroom was. A plentiful stock of toilet paper and paper towel is always within reach. However, the faucets had the button you have to press down on and quickly put your hands under within three seconds, else the water shuts off. This is known in bathroom reviewing circles as “Water Temp Russian Roulette” (think about it…good). Between that and the keypad, Best Buy’s operation is starting to look more like a secret agent training camp. This would explain the gray, plain look, as agents will have to get used to hiding in the backs of  trucks.

Rating: 5.0

Chipotle seemed to spring up overnight in the northeast US, providing Manhattan with an above-par taste of cheap Mexican burritos. Far from the traditional roots of adobe ovens and handmade flour tortillas, this chain boasts a very modern and metallic style and puts the “fast” in “fast food.” A typical Chipotle line at lunch hour extends out the door, but it moves faster than a Manhattan psychiatrist’s pen on the prescription pad. This particular branch held a special affinity to non-geometric shapes and boasts oblong counter tops along the entrance. Large relief sculptures, possibly of the various Mexican gods that three percent of Americans actually recognize, bookend the main eating area.

The bathrooms here are sadly not part of the grand scheme, lacking the shapes, gods, and occasional salsa stains that adorn the dining area’s walls. At least the bathroom’s functionality discourages stragglers and keeps things moving, just like on the food line. The wall is brushed steel halfway up and followed by stucco, and the floor tiles are made from a cheap red clay. Two utility lights give the room an industrial look, more frequently a design mistake when it comes to bathrooms. It gives things a closet feel that may confuse the employees when they’re looking for a place to store the mops (or sneak in a break-time quickie, God bless them). Hanging on the wall next to the brushed steel sink is a waste basket. It’s located just below the towel dispenser, putting a stop to douchey guys who try to “score baskets” with their rolled up paper towels, miss, and then rationalize reasons not to pick them up. Overall, the bathroom was in functioning order, and a handicap rail adds a touch of civic consideration, if not aesthetic.

Rating: 5.0

How many times will we see the following joke?: a patron of Bed, Bath, and Beyond is in said store, and sees three sections: “Bed,” “Bath,” and “Beyond.” They enter the door labeled “Beyond” and start floating in a vast purples sky, surrounded by cherubs with Mia Farrow’s face, singing Doors songs in Swahili, etc.

Regardless of the variations on that scenario, back in the solid reality of bedding and bathroom accoutrements, this 6th Ave location is always crowded on the weekends, so be warned. You may end up fighting over the last scented candles (personal favorite: “Meadows of County Cork at 6:45am in August”) with riff-raff from the outer boroughs. On our visit we found a lack of toilet paper in one stall, which is reminiscent of a parachute without a rip cord (RIP Buzz). There were, however, two plungers under the sink, armed and ready for action; good thinking given the aforementioned wealth of foot traffic. The marble swirl pattern on the sink got us a bit hungry for chocolate sundaes, but the water on the toilets and ground quickly curbed that, giving the bathroom a very dingy feeling. Bathrooms are one of those places where dryness is very important. Just like underwear. The large mirror is fought over even in the men’s bathroom (this is Chelsea after all). Besides the wetness, the bathroom does reasonably well on cleanliness, but lacks character. Like faking admiration for an enthusiastic friend’s dour cat, you just have to grin and bear it.

Rating: 4.0

Presenting “Uniqlo,” from the country that brought us “Unico.” Yes… Decidedly not in our element, we walked around Uniqlo initially trying to figure out what is was, and what “Uniqlo” could actually mean. It almost sounds like “Uniglow,” who almost sounds like a super hero in a lost ’70s comic book series… who wears a chalk blue unitard, white pleather boots, sports a rainbow-colored unibrow (which provides magical powers) and has a glowing shield that he hurls at villains as they try to escape but also serves as a diaphragm when he makes love the to the enormous Nubian princess, Aunt Va-jay-jay.

Okay, so, exactly what is Uniqlo? Our best guess is that this clothing store was started by a group of Japanese school girls who won some kind of lawsuit and decided to open a store in SoHo upon graduating from whatever type of school Japanese school girls go to. Walking through the women’s underwear section made us feel both emasculated and aroused, like the time a gang of middle-aged female gym teachers force-fed us Viagra as a joke at a party. To confirm our aforementioned suspicions, there was a sale commemorating Golden Week in Japan, the week that a golden marshmallow descended from heaven and blessed all the people of Mt. Fuji. We must admit that the marble sinks in the bathroom were nicer than we had expected, but the motion sensors were tough to coax water out of; it was like trying to find a secret G-spot in the air under the faucets. The bathrooms were all white, like the clientele of the store (guess the Japanese school girls are exporting their sensibilities to the unsuspecting Americans–isn’t it usually the other way around?).

The paper towel dispenser worked about as well as a canoe made of saran wrap. Modernized gender signs replaced the better-known men’s and women’s icons on their respective bathroom doors. The updates were a stick figure pushing a stroller through Park Slope (the man) and a stick figure agonizing over an appointment calendar (the woman). We were not sure where we had just been as soon as we left, but were glad we were gone.

Rating: 6.0

The Container Store is an organizer’s nocturnal emission, offering a very insightful angle in the commercial world our economy relies on. Where other stores try to sell devices, gadgets and all sorts of “things,” The Container Store sells you a way to store those many things you have undoubtedly been duped into buying (it’s okay to admit it; we’ve all been down that road). And as we accumulate more things, we come closer to resembling the ancient Egyptian Pharaohs in their quest to accumulate. The Container Store will be rolling out a new line of slim yet spacious tombs later this year.

It’s almost too easy to expect the bathroom to reflect this store’s obsession with space, so we must first ask ourselves: what would a bathroom have to store? Aside from general toiletries, there’s really only two things people put here — three if you count morning sickness, four if you’re doing lines. Unless they have replaced urinals with funnels that don’t need to be flushed, creativity can only go so far here. Space is the key, and the Container Store shocks us by containing only two stalls and (two urinals in the men’s room). The decor is a cold, steely gray, lightly adorned with shiny white brick tiles along the wall. It’s a strange contrast to the colorful plastic bins you trip over on your way to the bathroom. The playground-pattern gray marble sink sports yellow rings around the faucet handles, causing us to question where the Container Store gets its water supply from. The mirrors above the sink have stress marks around the spots where they were welded to the wall. The aforementioned stalls are made of brushed steel paneling, and in the larger of the stalls is a foot-pedal trash can with a sweater inside. We suspect Mister Rogers dumps his outfit here and becomes a superhero?

In a day where studios can be arranged to look as big as mansions, The Container Store should have considered their bathroom as another strategy to sell their brilliance in saving space. Sadly, not even Super Rogers can help here.

Rating: 5.5

From the coast-to-coast chain store that brought you celebrity endorsements from John Mayer, Melissa Etheridge, and the guitarist whose name you can’t remember from that band whose name you also can’t remember, Guitar Center was built on 14th Street perhaps in an attempt to appeal to the hipsters and street artists that have made Union Square their home. Its thoroughly corporate flavoring, however, likely sets it up for failure in that regard. Perhaps, like us, the Union Square loafers are hip to the fact that Guitar Center is in a very convenient location to serve as a public toilet

The bathroom is basic as can be, and soap was sparse when we visited. The walls and floor are gray, with those small square floor tiles we complain about all too much. It’s the equivalent of that guy who keeps writing songs with the first four guitar chords (all major) that he ever learned. The only color here is the solid blue stall door. Our inside sources revealed that the Guitar Center salesmen are also responsible for cleaning the bathroom after the store closes–even though they only take home commission when all is said and done–which basically amounts to slavery. Maybe Prince was right for complaining how hard it is to be a musician, or salesman, or whatever. One cannot be blamed if selling a five thousand dollar guitar doesn’t quite compete with the thrill of mopping the bathroom floor, but the upkeep of the facilities was certainly lacking on our visit. So, though we side with the salesmen here, we must say that someone is not doing their job. We also found pages from the Village Voice scattered across the floor. Most of them were job ads, probably left by the employees. Among the circled jobs were Assistant Janitor and Human Footstool. Reach for the stars, boys.

Rating: 4.5