Concept: Confessional. Across from the bar, a rectangular enclosure is capped by a dome of stained glass.
Privacy: The saloon-style stall doors don’t lock or even close fully, and there’s a pencil-size peephole in the men’s-room stall divider. (Hey, the Ramones did say 53rd and Third was gigolo central.)
Amenities: The six-and-a-half-foot porcelain urinals, of course. Other P.J. Clarke’s locations boast $8,000 reproductions, but these are the originals. Frank Sinatra once said you could stand then-mayor Abe Beame up in one of them. And no one had that idea during Giuliani time?
Drawbacks: Because of flooding, ice is no longer kept at the bottom of the urinals. Sacrilege!
Strategy: Women weren’t allowed in here until the sixties, and it’s still a bit of a testosterzone. Ladies, take a stand by marching into the men’s room and using the urinal. You’ll want one of these.