Taramasalata: the dish that put the "die" in diarrhea. At least it nearly killed me once during a sojourn on an otherwise paradisiacal Greek island.
I won't name the island as I single-handedly destroyed its plumbing and sewage system; and in the current economic climate I wouldn't want the islanders to come seeking compensation.
(Actually, considering the appalling damage, my obligation can probably be more accurately defined as reparations than compensation.)
At any rate, the Greeks were nice people, as I recall, and would only encounter profound disappointment with my own parlous financial situation and inability to pay the required sum, so let's just keep that story between you and I.
Anyway, the following year, sightseeing in Aachen, I entered a bank to ask if I might use their toilet, public restrooms being hard to find in Germany because the Germans preach strict bladder control discipline.
Toilets are for customers only, I was told: unless you are making deposits of one hundred Euro, please leave immediately.
A uniformed security guard then escorted me from the building. Outside, he pointed to a down-at-heel tapas bar across the street. They have urinal screwed to wall, the guard said, ask them.
So the moral of this story is, I suppose: it's a rich man's world when you need to relieve yourself.
For those readers expecting a proper parable with revelatory meaning, I apologize: you've been shortchanged.