We're in Melbourne for a couple of days recently and the plan was grab a meal. Impromptu style.

Sounds simple because Melbourne is a cosmopolitan culinary mecca and spontaneity is the spice of life. But tricky when you don't know where to go and compounded when you've had a few beers that are shortly going to impact all decision-making capabilities.

To make things interesting, the other half generously allows me to pick because, to quote, she's sick of making all the decisions. Obviously she's made that decision too, but it's not about pointing that out at this stage, it's about finding an awesome eatery to keep the magic flowing.

"There was that joint I don't know the name of on that street I can't remember that might or might not be open on a Sunday," I offered with informed whimsy.

Funnily enough this plan doesn't gain much traction after a period of romantic traipsing. What does gain traction is those couple of beers. They're making it hard to concentrate on the restaurant ball as the eye slides with growing urgency towards any sign of a public toilet, pub, franchise or place that might have a loo. Which is fine when you're in the bustling hub of downtown Melbourne because there are many options.

But not so fine when the word "laneway" is thrown up and we're off down the backstreets searching for one of those legendary funky pop-up bars Melbourne is famous for. If only we'd been looking for a funky skip bin because Melbourne's laneways have lots of those too. Skip bins are not restaurants, but they could be toilets, which was a thought that started to build in league with urination desperation, but I was still trying to keep it classy. So we traipsed on.

As the laneway plan fell away we took intel via text from a friend about a funky restaurant where we could expectan hour's wait, no less, because it's so funky. Set in a low key area of town where nothing appeared open, because it wasn't, except places strictly on the QT, it spelt more bad news on the loo front.

I was now near bursting so I stormed a nearby five star hotel hoping it might offer sanctuary but found only marbled indifference from the doorman studying the man who walks with a distinct hobble.

Back on the street with a Chernobyl moment of the bladder imminent, I abandoned my other half who'd abandoned me anyhow to check the wait time at that funky restaurant, where ever that was.

I headed south in what now might be described as a crazed manner. Searching for blessed relief. I wasn't ruling out several churches. On the verge of liquifying my assetts, I found salvation in an unlikely buzzing basement establishment. So Melbourne. Salvation on more than one front because after coming to my urinal senses, I realised this place passed the "awesome test" as a place to dine, and so we did.

The decision made with a wee bit of luck, no doubt, but in a manner you could never plan.

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