Disco fries have long been considered the American stand-in for poutine—except for the crucial difference that they’re made with mozzarella, not cheese curds—but as someone who grew up in New Jersey, I hardly consider them as a spin-off.

Disco fries have been there for me in their total perfection in a whole range of situations, from preventing a hangover to nursing one, big dates to casual catch-ups with old friends. It’s a classic food that’s shaped the eating culture of New Jersey, and the fries-cheese-gravy combo has picked me up more times than I could count.

This pile of gooey goodness and a chocolate milkshake was my go-to diner 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 traveled back to New Jersey as little as possible. This was my way of getting accustomed to my new lifestyle—and saving the train fare. But a persistent craving for disco fries kept gnawing at my soul (and stomach). In a desperate rage, I went to the South Street Diner, one of Boston’s only late-night options for a greasy spoon, at 10 p.m. on a Friday night to try and assuage myself. 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.

A couple months later, most of my friends were 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 gnawing at me almost as much as my unsatisfied cravings for Disco Fries. That Wednesday, I bought a train ticket for Friday night. I didn’t arrive at Penn Station until 11 p.m., or home until midnight. I waited on the stoop of my building for him to drive up and see his birthday surprise, and by the time he finally got there, there was only one thing left to do: get some disco fries. There we were, sitting at the local dinner at 1 a.m. after a long day of travel—and I was questioning whether I came home for him or the food.

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, though to be honest, 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 was chock-full of all the American 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 semester even happened. I wasn’t sure how to cope with the reverse culture shock of coming home, and a few months later I’m still struggling with it. But the way to my heart is through my stomach, so indulging in old favorites seemed like a necessary part of reintegrating myself into my American life.

Yet again, I found myself sitting in a local diner with friends, though I was barely contributing to the conversation and only half-heartedly listening to my old friends as they caught up. All I kept imagining was the moment the waitress would put a 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 they would ever come—had she forgotten about me? Did she know how desperate I was?—but what felt like forever was really only ten minutes of waiting. And after eating half the plate, I was feeling a little more at home.

Since my sophomore year of high school, I have outgrown my usual dinner-time order of disco fries and a chocolate milkshake. 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.