It's notoriously difficult to find a public restroom in New York City, at least it was when I was a young lass. Accordingly, the biggest favor you could do for your bladder and your bowels was to strategically map out all the McDonalds locations in the City. Keep in mind that this was before the era of Starbucks, and when I was too young not to raise eyebrows trying to poach a leak at The Waldorf Astoria in my Beastie Boys ringer tee, Puma sneakers, and wallet-on-a-chain. McDonalds was the best--and only--reliable place to relieve yourself (if you didn't mind stepping over a few junkies and some stray used needles, that is).
Consequently, I'm totally disgusted by McDonalds, but not for any of the sanctimonious hippie reasons you'd expect. Like I don't care THAT much that McDonalds is probably the worst corporate citizen on the face of the globe this side of Monsanto and Philip Morris. And I don't REALLY care that their food is basically poison that calcifies in people's arteries and veins like the "edible" plastic that it is.
What I can't deal with about McDonalds is the permanent association I have with it as a public restroom that happens to sell milkshakes and fries. After a bad Chicken McNugget experience in 1985 (story for another time), the only food that didn't scare me at McDonalds was a vanilla milkshake and fries. And the only time I would ever buy a vanilla milkshake and fries is if I happened to need to take a piss or a shit on 86th and Broadway.
So it's not really as difficult as you might think for me to avoid McDonalds. Except when I get a hankering for a six piece McNuggets and an 8-ball of intravenous heroin. Then you can find me at the drive through.