In my near 25 years, few foods have stuck out in my mind as favorites. When liquor has overtaken my senses, cheese pizza and Qdoba burritos hang menacingly above my head; when the sweet haze of Mary Jane creeps up my spine, French onion dip and sugary children’s cereals take center stage in my hippocampus. But, if I ever had to pick one single dish that sparked my salivary glands, regardless of mental state or sobriety, it would have to be Biscuits and Gravy.

The love affair between my mouth and the breakfast staple began in recent years. A childhood fan of French toast and scrambled eggs, the hearty and savory flavors of buttermilk biscuits and country gravy did not take shape in my olfactory sense until the former half of my 20s. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to enjoy more adult-like activities, like quiet nights at the bar, red wine, and weekend brunch.

Spurred primarily by my penchant for day-drinking and an overwhelming enthusiasm for group meals, I began to make a habit of brunching on my hangover riddled Saturday and Sunday mornings. I ate my way through countless hashes, omelets, chicken n’ waffles, and French toasts coming up seemingly short of that perfect, soul-healthy dish. I had eaten Biscuits and Gravy only once before, homemade by a friend, and the memory of it sat in a dusty, forgotten corner of my mind, wanting my tastebuds’ attention.

As my final year in college approached, I began to explore new and potential cities, looking for a possibility. My future became highlighted by a new love, the kind of love that never causes question or insecurity; Seattle soon took shape as the backdrop for my future and I began to seek out familiar comforts.

My boyfriend, Derek, shares my love of mid-afternoon Moscow mules and a perfectly paired basket of fries. When he guides me through the Emerald City, which he is lucky enough to call home, our discoveries include hidden eateries and perfect, little pubs. Our journey through the mixed streets of Seattle took us to the crowded front steps of the Skillet Diner, a swanky and trendy brunch joint nestled with two locations nestled in the Capitol Hill and Ballard neighborhoods, cute little streets that I wanted to one day call home.

The Capitol Hill location of the Skillet Diner restaurants sits at the bottom of a recently-built apartment complex, boasting a glass and steel exterior with floor-to-ceiling-windows, its east end built into the concrete base of the building; strolling past the restaurant on a sunny Sunday morning, I could look down upon the myriad of jabbering and contented brunchers, enjoying their pitchers of mimosas and the establishment’s constantly changing specialty hash.

On a drizzly Saturday morning, each of us nursing hangovers and craving water and grease, Derek and I took to the streets of Seattle toward the bustling and busy breakfast joint. As we approached the small, gated eating porch, the number of people patiently waiting outside became obvious with every step down the slight hill that is Union St.

Bright and warm, the Skillet Diner boasted an ambiance highlighted by electronic dance music and flannel-clad employees; it was an open-concept restaurant, its L-shaped bar wrapping around to the west side of the building, a large, full bar sat in the back, pumping out Bloody Marys and French 75s. A pretty, young hostess wearing beaten up Converse and a classic red flannel shirt was standing behind a podium when we walked in, her slightly stressed face breaking into a smile as we approached her.

“Hi there folks,” she said, blowing a chunky strand of hair out of her face, “how are you doing today?”

30 minutes later, we were seated at a small corner table, a bench seat on one side and a schoolhouse chair on the other. As per cliché Seattle expectations, water was served in rubber-stopped bottles and Mason jars, with minimalist menus promoting a wider range of specialty alcoholic beverages than food.

The menu, a 4x11 inch piece of thick paper printed front to back, offers new twists on breakfast classics, such as pancakes with compote and lemon zest butter and grits with braised pork belly. Open all day, Skillet Diner also offers lunch and dinner fare, though less eclectic and extensive than its famed brunch foods.

As I poured over the menu, my hunger spurred on by the two glasses of champagne and sweet orange juice I vehemently downed, I stumbled upon that forgotten food hidden in the back of my memory. Biscuits and gravy, served with pork jowl bacon and mirepoix, danced in my food memory bank, and each re-reading of the dish’s description caused my mouth to water and my stomach to feel noticeably more empty. I couldn’t think of any dish I wanted more, the savory and soulful country gravy teasing my taste buds, the promise of crispy and greasy bacon spreading over the day’s horizon.

I opted for scrambled eggs and the restaurant’s “morning taters with fennel” to accompany what I hoped would be the biscuits and gravy that I remembered.

Derek and I had dated in the past; our story began in our sophomore year of college, a couple of Greek life kids who met on a Thursday night, uninhibited by cheap fraternity alcohol. We dated for a couple months, the kind of relationship heavy with affection and potential love, but ultimately ending as a consequence of timing and circumstance.

Remaining friends, our romance rekindled in the Fall of 2014, each of us a little older and little more in love, but not quite ready to commit. Over months of back and forth, skirting issues, and late night confessions, our once remembered relationship took shape again, and in September, I made the 250 mile journey north to spend a weekend with him. Moving through the city and still discovering all the things he loved about it, Skillet Diner became our place – our weekend morning tradition to kick start the day’s awaiting adventures.

As I sat in that busy dining room, taking in the drizzly Seattle sky and the smell of bacon permeating my nostrils, I looked across the table at Derek. His brown hair tousled and his lights eyes heavy with sleep, he smiled and kissed my hand. I felt my palms grow clammy and the love in my chest start to swell; I caught the dopey smile creeping onto my face as our waitress approached with plates full of food.

The first thing I noticed when my meal was in front of me were the little bits of carrots and onions and celery that called the gravy home. Mirepoix was a term I had never heard before but, like “julienne,” I could only have assumed was a fancy French word for chopped vegetables – I was right. The gravy, savory from the caramelized jowl bacon, smelled of sage and a delicate intermixing of sausage and buttermilk. I took the first bite, my lips closing around my fork full of biscuit, and the immediate taste of bacon and sausage overtook my senses. The gravy, creamy and smooth in consistency, balanced the heavy salt and grease flavors of the meat with the lighter, less obvious ones of the mirepoix. The biscuits, near perfection in their flakiness, wore the gravy well. Their subtle flavor, blending seamlessly with the peppery cream and meat, reminded me why good biscuits are so hard to find.

Combining my scrambled eggs and delicious and slight fennel potatoes with the bed of gravy, biscuit, and meat, I settled into the dish that was better than I remembered.

Since that watershed breakfast at the Skillet Diner, I have continued to actively seek biscuits and gravy at every breakfast haunt that Derek and I discover. While some, boasting enviable ingredients like sugar stout sausage, come close, I have yet to find a biscuits and gravy that rivals the one I discovered in Seattle.

I have continued to explore other eclectic breakfast staples (chicken n’ waffles comes in as a close second, but my aversion to waffles keeps me from falling head over heels), but my cravings always come back to that savory and succulent dish.

As I finish up my final months in college, and my days of irresponsibility slowly grow numbered, I have continued to make the trek up the I-5 to the city on the water – my future home – I have continued my discovery of the city, Derek and I seeking out new places to call our favorites and new foods to feed our souls.

But, as all dedicated foodies know, you can’t beat that one meal that defines all of its copy cats. When I think about that breakfast and that restaurant and that city, I think not only of creamy country gravy and delectable bacon and bubbly mimosas, but of possibility and of hope and of the future.