The whole touching story of Quicky

Jan 01 2021

A small brick building, its interior styled like a meticulously planned American diner, crowned with a logo that makes my mouth taste like milkshake.

I make a quick stop at the bus pocket across the road, just to take in the sight of her — vibrating against the landscape. It always catches me off guard, that strange sense of astonishment. So perfectly right in its own peculiar way. A small brick building, its interior styled like a meticulously planned American diner, crowned with a logo that makes my mouth taste like milkshake. I snap a picture in the golden summer sun, then head over to check if it’s open. It’s not — despite being noon on a regular Thursday. As I step closer, my eyes catch a sign in the window: TIL SALGS. My little gem is for sale. 

Later that summer, I drive past Quicky again. TIL SALGS is gone, and so is the Quicky logo. I photograph the empty building, a quiet memorial, and regret never catching the opening hours. Then again, I suspect that would have taken a fair bit of luck.

“Hello, is this Quicky?”, I try. ”What do you want??”, he barks.

I want to uncover its history. I google my way to the name of the owner, and give him a call. “Hello, is this Quicky?”, I try. ”What do you want??”, he barks. I quickly realize that explaining my admiration without sounding unhinged is going to be a challenge. I manage to stammer out a question about the logo, but he cuts me off, repeating — almost mechanically — that the place has new owners. His obscure Norwegian accent makes it hard to follow, and before I can gather my thoughts, the conversation is done. Maybe he’s done with Quicky too. 

Johan Nederlender is the kind of man who wears shorts year-round, as long as the temperature stays above minus 10°C.

Quicky stays on my mind. I ask a friend, who knows Carl — whose father grew up in Veme, the small village of Quicky. Carl tells me it’s been there for over 40 years, with no fixed opening hours — except during Easter, when caravans of Norwegians passed through on their way to their hytte (cabin). Carl’s been a guest at Quicky several times. I ask him what the food tasted. He thinks for a moment “hm, I think it tasted like regular fast food hamburgers”.

Carl paints a clearer picture of the owner — known locally as Johan Nederlender ("Johan the Dutchman," which explains the accent). Johan Nederlender is the kind of man who wears shorts year-round, as long as the temperature stays above minus 10°C. I picture him standing beside the glowing Quicky building, arms crossed, wearing shorts in December and staring at me: “What do you want??”

I can’t help but picture Johan Nederlender hoarding the sign in his basement, maybe even plotting a Quicky revival somewhere else in Norway.

I’m curious whether the giant Quicky sign still exists—I’d love to hang it in my living room—so I call the new owners mentioned in the local newspaper. They’re turning the place into a sushi and Thai restaurant. They seem nice, and I’m sure their food will be good too, but in my heart, nothing can replace Quicky. I keep that thought to myself and instead ask if they know where the sign ended up.

They’re not sure. It was likely taken down by the former owner.

I can’t help but picture Johan Nederlender hoarding the sign in his basement, maybe even plotting a Quicky revival somewhere else in Norway. I want to call him and ask, but after how our last conversation ended, that feels like an impossible mission.

I ask Carl if he can help me get in touch with Johan Nederlender again, but Carl’s father only have a vague connection. I’m left with nothing but loose ends—and a lingering reluctance to make another awkward phone call. So instead, I choose to honor Quicky in my own way.

The iconic Norwegian fast-food joint — a true hidden gem — is now history. The sushi and Thai restaurant opened in January 2021, and rumor has it they’re keeping the Quicky name (I’m hoping for a bold new sign (*edit 2022: nope, no Quicky Thai, to my disappointment – Sophas mathus)). But the original logo? That’s now a piece of Norwegian fast-food lore. I like the thought of Johan Nederlender having the gigant Quicky sign stashed somewhere safe. And if he ever stumbles upon these words, I hope he takes them as a sincere tribute to the legacy he once started.