Panera Bread in Lincoln Heights

As much as we all love Panera Bread, eating there for breakfast is lose-lose: you either eat yourself into an insulin-spiked stupor, or go for the bran muffin, egg white omelet, and large coffee, and wonder why it feels like the Greasers and the Socs are going at each other in your lower intestine.

"Johnson!  You're late!  You smell of baked goods and toasted bread!  What's that I see in your teeth?  Cream cheese?  It's that that honey-walnut cream cheese that's so delectable on their cinnamon crunch bagels, isn't it?  Did you bring enough for the rest of the office?"

This Panera Bread in Lincoln Heights seems to always be at least three-quarters full, and they have a pretty sizable dining room.  The staff is as friendly as you'd expect first-shifters to be on a Sunday Morning, and they do a pretty good job moving you through the line.  They have great pastries and bagels, but their baguettes seem a day old every time we get one, so unless you like making your own croutons, bread crumbs, or bread pudding, feel free to pass on these.

But what about their Men's Room?

Giants and handicapped men only, please.

Nice solid wood push door.  Unlike those other doors with knobs you've got to turn that claim to be wheelchair accessible, the Men's Room at this Panera is as advertised.

Whoa!  Hey!  Howyadoin', Stall?

Whew!  Cramped.  You can almost touch the changing station with your back up against the entrance door.  Convenient for when you have to hurl the soiled child at it, I guess.  (And, really: when that stuff's leaking through the diaper and out the onesie, and you're wearing a shirt and tie, the "just-get-it-off-of-me" response is pretty intense.  Don't judge me.)

World's most relieving U-turn.

When you first walk in, you've got to make a half U-turn to get to the urinal on the left.  You know those murder mystery shows, where the killer hides against the wall, behind the door, and you don't see him until the victim enters the room and that door slowly shuts to reveal him?  That's this urinal: a Men's Room equivalent to a 'Murder She Wrote' cliche.

And take a look at that trash can.  It wasn't overflowing; in fact, it was quite the contrary.  Its lid had those double-flaps on it, the kind that you just push your dirty paper towels through.  What you see here is a paper towel resting on those flaps.  Resting.  The guy before me COULDN'T PUSH HIS PAPER TOWEL THROUGH THOSE FLAPS.  I'm not going to call this area of the Men's Room dirty so much as I'm gonna call the guy in here before me frail.

Also note: the abundance of paper towels on a Sunday Morning.  Good on you, Panera in Lincoln Heights.  Good on you.

Blurry.  I know.  Even Picnik couldn't save it!

Meh.  It's a toilet.  Surprisingly, though, much more spacious in this stall than the initial impression of the Men's Room would suggest.  However, I do appreciate me a good changing station, so right there, this stall's better than most.

Well stocked... mysteriously...

Packed with toilet paper, so that was good.  I was, however, bothered by the fact that the canister holding the TP was not transparent / translucent.  How are you supposed to know when you're out of toilet paper?  How do you plan to keep stock of this?  You mean to tell me you've got staff  (which was all female during this visit, by the way) bending over and looking up under to check the supply of toilet paper?  Not likely.  Someone complained... and I'm thinking they whined just before I got there.  

Thirty-four bubbles.  Those hands must be REALLY clean.

Now THAT'S a handwashing sign!  Look at that thing - they could hang it outside for you to see as you drive by!  Sure the guy needs to cut his thumbnail; the point is, the bubbles let you know you've got to clean!  And why?  FOR DISEASE CONTROL.  Apparently, the Spanish-speaking among us don't need to know why they have to wash their hands, only that they must.  And that's fine with me.  It's FOR DISEASE CONTROL.  It's almost like they're giving you a guilt trip: employee or not, if you don't wash your hands, you're spreading DISEASES.

So when the zombieacolypse comes, or you get that cold sore that won't go away, you can thank your dirty hands, you Ape!

All in all, a pretty solid San Antonio Men's Room.  Kudos on its relative cleanliness amidst a breakfast rush, but still not sold on the fact that their TP is that well stocked.

Three pucks out of five.