Every Time Disco Fries Saved My Life.

Originally published on TasteTalks.com in 2016

Disco fries have been considered the Americanized version of Poutine (made with mozzarella, not cheese curds), but growing up in New Jersey eliminates the idea of it being just another spinoff. Disco fries are perfect for every occasion. Nursing a hangover before and after it’s happened, going out on an anniversary date, and catching up with old friends in a local diner. It’s a staple food that has shaped eating habits and contributed to the culture of New Jersey. And it’s picked me up more times than I could count.

This pile of gooey goodness holds a special place in my heart. Disco fries and a chocolate milkshake became my go to order during my sophomore year of high school. Whether it was after a Friday night football game or a Saturday morning lacrosse practice, I was always sure to get my weekly dose. By the end of my senior year, my love for fries piled high with brown gravy and mozzarella cheese became an addiction. It was all I could think about during my first semester in Boston (a city lacking anything resembling a perfect plate of disco fries). The more time I spent away from home, the more I realized how much I had taken this meal for granted. 

The long awaited hello

My freshman year of college, I made the decision to travel back to New Jersey as little as possible. This was my way of getting accustomed to my new lifestyle and saving the money I would’ve spent on train tickets. But something that kept gnawing at my soul (and stomach) was a craving for disco fries. In a desperate rage, I went to the South Street Diner at 10 PM on a Friday night to try and find what I was looking for. I ordered fries with gravy and cheese, only to receive the most unsatisfying plate of soggy fries and cheese sauce I have ever encountered. My heart was broken, and I needed to do something. 

While everyone was going home for Columbus day weekend, it was my intent to stay back and catch up on some TV shows. But that weekend was also my boyfriend’s birthday, and the guilt of not being there for him was catching up to me. So the Wednesday before, I bought a train ticket for that Friday night. I didn’t arrive in New York Penn until 11 PM, arriving home at 11:45. I waited on the stoop of my building for him to drive up and see his birthday surprise (you’re welcome, Jake). By the time he finally showed up, there was only one thing left to do: get some disco fries. So there I was, in the local dinner at 1 AM after a strenuous day of travelling, questioning whether I cam home for him or the fries. 

The dreadful goodbye

Second semester sophomore year I studied abroad in The Netherlands. This would be my first time leaving the country and the longest time I would spend away from home. I was excited, eager, and nervous for what was yet to come. My nerves stemmed mostly from what my food options would be. While I couldn’t wait to try the local cuisine in each country I visited, my heart felt doubtful that I would find Belgian frites mimicking my hometown classic. So before I left the country for three months, I made sure to properly say goodbye to my comfort food. 

A few days before leaving, I ventured to the Landmark. The menu flooded me with all the American pup-foods I would be missing, but my heart was only drawn to one thing. We got an order of disco fries for the table, but looking back I should have gotten an order just for myself. It was one of the hardest goodbyes, but it had to be done. 

The welcome back

Three months flew by. Looking back, I question if that past semester even happened. So much has changed in my life, from new friends to new countries I aspire to one day call home. I wasn’t sure how to cope with reverse culture shock, and a few months later I’m still struggling with it. But the way to my heart is through my stomach, so indulging on my favorites seemed necessary.

Yet again, I found myself sitting in a local diner. This time, I was barely contributing to conversation and only half heartedly listening to what was going on. All I kept imagining was the moment the waitress would put the steaming hot plate of disco fries right smack in front of me. My mouth was watering at the thought and time felt like it was slowing down. I didn’t think I would ever get them, but I did. What felt like forever was really only ten minutes of waiting. And after eating half the plate I was satisfied, feeling a little more at home.

Since my sophomore year of high school, I have outgrown the habit of disco fries and a chocolate milkshake as a meal. My primarily plant based diet and ever changing location doesn’t leave much room for us to catch up. But every once in awhile, whether it’s moment of heartache, longing, or happiness, I find myself in the booth again. Waiting those measly ten minutes for a little piece of home.