My 1st plate of Jersey disco fries, mouthfuls of fear and glory | Review

My collection of true-blue New Jerseyan badges grows by the day!

Like any good Garden State scout recently relocated from Alabama, my patches of honor now include diner visits, salt water taffy and sampling Taylor ham/pork roll. Coming soon are my dates with tomato pies (not a Southern sweet pie, I’ve learned) and a sloppy joe (apparently not a Manwich!).

But first, it was time for disco fries. Yes, I have arrived at item No. 4 on the my list out of about 382 things I must experience before my official induction into this wacky, lovable state.

While it’s been a labor of love so far, I have not been looking forward to disco fries for one reason: The gravy. Despite living in the south for three decades and watching folks pour it over hamburgers, hotdogs, steaks, fish, chicken, vegetables and every other dish known to man, the thought of it makes me lurch a little; not a big fan of the gooey fat left in the pan. Have I mentioned that I’m mostly vegetarian?

Yet my news friends continue to wink and strongly nudge me, insisting that I will love — not like, but love — the Jersey specialty. Completely unconvinced, I headed to Reo Diner in Woodbridge recently, what I’m told is a Central Jersey staple, serving generations that plate of potatoes, cheese and goop.

Owner and manager Alex Koufomihalis greeted me with vigor and pointed to a table saying, “We sit here, now.” I took my seat quickly.

After about 30 minutes of talk about world affairs, mainly the goings-on of his native Greece, he declared: “Now, I make you disco fries.”

I sat there in cautious anticipation. Was I really doing this? Gravy? Looking around, everyone seemed mostly alive.

Then I spotted Koufomihalis walking toward my table with two plates. He sat the plates in front of me and pointed, saying, “Now, we eat.” Yes, sir.

The fries were covered with melted mozzarella and looked pretty appetizing in a gluttonous sort of way. Then I spied it, hidden under the cheese — the evil gravy. I was about to scrunch my nose but figured I better not, lest I offend Koufomihalis, who clearly meant business. I peeled one from the pile, stretching the mozzarella, and examined it. Not much gravy; a small victory. As Koufomihalis looked on with expectation, I tossed the fry into my mouth.

At first, the fusion of flavor was not an easy one to discern: The musty cheese flavor, then the taste of earth and mushrooms announcing the presence of gravy. Finally, crowning the winning trifecta, was the pleasant savor of the fries, which we all love — comfort food no matter where you’re from.

Despite my skepticism, the triumphant mishmash may only be described as sublime. I was wrong, New Jersey was right (again). Consider me humbled, and full.

I ate bite after bite until most of the plate was gone. I did leave the ones completely covered with gravy for Koufomihalis.

After we both finished the plate, Koufomihalis told me disco fries were invented — as I should’ve suspected — in the 70′s, after disco aficionados humming Donna Summer and the Bee Gees stumbled into diners at 3 a.m., foraging for heavy calories to sop up the booze in their bellies. The internet appears to confirm this origin story.

And for that I am glad. The name alone makes me want to break out and sing “Saturday Night Fever” (my editor has proudly informed me John Travolta is from Englewood; cool)!

I can’t say I’ll eat disco fries on regular basis. I do want to keep a few arteries open. But I will on occasion visit other historic diners and partake in the melty treat, even with the gravy on the bottom.

Okay, what’s next? What else MUST a new New Jerseyan like me try? My email is open!

Karim Shamsi-Basha may be reached at [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter & Instagram. Find NJ.com on Facebook.