For a counter that is ceaselessly pummeled with a steady rotation of drug and/or booze-addled louts, the McCrew at the Queen and Spads McDick’s are surprisingly mild-tempered and serene. Perhaps exposure to the revolving door of skids that traipse through this place has made the staff apathetic and numb. Or maybe they are customers of the shaky guy in the leather pants with a literal pocketful of prescription downers. I wonder if MacDonald’s gets corporate rate?
This 24 hour dealie peaks right around last call, where you will no doubt encounter the wobbliest people in the the city. I was once asked by a probably-not-even-that-drunk Nigerian if I “like to dance…. to music.” Buried in the liminal space between ‘dance’ and ‘to music’ is everything you need to know about this shack of drunken insanity and their ersatz-eats.
I highly recommend nothing on their menu, but what do you care, you’re already wasted. If nothing else you’ll walk out of here with your senses molested and 15,000 calories in a greasy bag. (And what the **** is a McDouble?)
Obligatory Title Pun: McDon’t.
Menu Readability: Sang the menu: “If you don’t know me by know…”
Need to mention: This place sucks, but it’s open late.
What this place teaches me about myself: I actually do prefer music when dancing.