I first caught wind of the Quick and Delicious last spring from fellow co-opers. They had forgone a Sunday special meal to trek the mile south of town, enchanted by the prospect of corned beef hash. 

“It’s just like its name,” they said afterwards with content smiles. 

I didn’t understand. Wouldn’t the travel time cancel out the speedy service? How gratifying could corned beef hash really be? I vowed to investigate.

Last Saturday, I finally made it there. I was summoned by a perky sign posted next to the main entrance (“Come on in!  We’re open!”). As I was seated, an employee announced that it was one customer’s 96th birthday, which earned her a personal serenade. The general manager introduced the woman in detail and I surmised that she was a regular. Still, I had no lofty expectations for the birthday song. Too many dinners at the Olive Garden had conditioned me to expect one such ballad to be either rushed or strained, no matter how talented the singer may be.

This one blew me away. The servers harmonized with sincerity. Each “yoooou” seemed to refer to an implied memory: a block party, a babysitting gig, a lemonade stand. I wanted more than anything to be this woman, to be celebrating my 96th birthday at this moment. Then it stopped and business was back to normal. The woman was hugged and the coffee was refilled. Still, the room danced in a post-singing afterglow.

Recently remodeled, the Quick and Delicious prides itself as much on its family atmosphere as it does on serving delectable dishes.

Shirley Owens, an Oberlin native, is the diner’s general manager. Her family owned Campus Restaurant, which is now occupied by Weia Teia, for 18 years before selling it, then spent 17 years out of the business. In 2004, they took over the Quick and Delicious just south of CVS pharmacy on Main Street. 

Since that time, the Owens family has been accumulating customers both old — professors who frequented Campus Restaurant — and new — families of current Oberlin football players. 

“We’re just bringing everybody back on home,” Owens said. 

The employees greet most of their customers by name. Many of them won’t leave without a complementary hug.

It’s almost like a more personal Old Country Buffet, without the buffet-inspired absurdity. The local Episcopal congregation hoards half the floor tables for its Sunday social hour but you don’t find an old woman stuffing fried chicken wings into her plastic bag-lined purse. Owens guarantees not only quality but also consistency in dish options. 

“People get their mouth watering for something really special,” she said. “We’re not going to take [the item] off the menu.”

I sampled the recommended Reuben sandwich with chips and a side of clam chowder. The portion size was big enough that I was full halfway through. It was tasty enough to spark late-night thievery in the second floor kitchen of Talcott — when I went hungrily to the community fridge the next lunchtime, my labeled takeaway box was empty. 

After I left the restaurant, I wandered back to campus thinking about the relations between the Quick and Delicious employees and their regular customers.

In what alternate universe would a hundred banana-chocolate-chip pancakes reward me with a hug from Black River Joe? Would the Feve staffers ever break to sing happy birthday during a weekend brunch?

But really, how many walks south would it take for the Quick and Delicious staff to learn my name, face and hometown? Would a month and a half be enough time to earn a detailed introduction? My birthday is in late March; I’d like to hear those heavenly voices.