The Power and The Glory: Behold! The B.L.T.

I know what you’re thinking. I can hear it from here. “Is this post really about BLT sandwiches? I know how to make those. This isn’t what I come to a food blog for, you big idiot.” Just, just hang on, though. Hear me out. I know that you know how to make a BLT. Or, at least, you THINK you do. But have you ever considered the BLT? Like, really thought about it?

A BLT is a simple sandwich, right? Just bread, mayonnaise, and the titular trifecta of bacon, lettuce and tomato. What could be easier? Well, not much, really. But to make a great BLT, one that stands apart from the rest, what do you have to do? Should you gussy it up all fancy? Or is taking a good, hard look at each component, stripping it down to its essence and PERFECTING it, is that the way to BLT supremacy?

A few years back, I made a post on Facebook declaring the BLT the greatest sandwich of all time. A surprising number of people responded to this claim, both in support and in argument. The responses were varied: some loved a classic BLT (almost) as much as I do. Some offered their “improved” versions of the classic, and some pledged allegiance to other sandwiches altogether.

Why do we feel so strongly about such simple dishes? What is it about a sandwich like the BLT that makes us so opinionated? I offer this: at its core, a perfectly executed BLT is a perfect dish.

Don’t look at me that way.

Look at the components, the ratios, the balance of flavours. The toasty bread, holding it all together. The mayonnaise, providing richness and creaminess. The bacon, one of the great flavours afforded to cooks gives us crispiness, smokiness and saltiness. The lettuce adds freshness and slight bitterness. The tomato gifts us its perfect balance of sweetness and acidity.

Some people look at that and think “I can do better.”, that they can improve upon perfection. Listen, I’m not here to stifle anyone’s creativity. If you like avocado, or mustard aioli, or old cheddar on your sandwich, do it up. I like those things too, elsewhere. You can do you, tastes are individual, but I draw the line here: that sandwich may be your baby boi, but he’s not a BLT.

Now, if you want to worship at the altar of BLT, if you want to align all the tastes so perfectly, you’ll wonder why you never appreciated this sammich before, follow along. We’re going to go through the exercise of breaking down a dish, looking at each component and making sure it’s the best it can be.

I’ve said one of my missions for this blog is to teach you guys how to cook at home like the pros. This is all part of that. Breaking down a dish and making sure it hits all the right notes is something all the most cheffity chefs do. It’s one of those reasons why restaurant food is so amazing. Not just because of the ingredients, the equipment or the brigade, but because of the consideration and forethought put in before knife even hits board.

The BLT is a perfect dish to use for this exercise because, as previously stated, it hits all the marks and all the ingredients are so commonplace. All we really have to do is break them down with a critical eye. So, let’s begin.

Bread:

The BLT is but a humble sandwich. It wants to please you, to love you, to be held. So, don’t overthink the bread. This is no place for overly crusty and fancy breads. Forget your ciabatta, your focaccia, your sourdough. Just stick to plain Pullman loaf sandwich bread. White or whole wheat, that’s between you and your god. Toast it lightly, it needs to hold up, but don’t burn it, just give it the gentle caress of your toaster’s medium setting. The bread is the wrapping for the gifts inside.

Mayonnaise:

You can make a homemade mayonnaise (or *sigh* an aioli) if you like, but there’s no shame in using a high-quality store brand for a BLT. I won’t rat you out. Just remember you want richness and creaminess, not a whole bunch of other flavours. Remember: K.I.S.S. Keep it simple, sandwich. Don’t jazz it up with adobo, mustard or too much garlic or lemon zest. Use a neutral oil for this one, like canola. Grapeseed is a bit expensive and olive oil tastes like olive oil, so don’t over-complicate.

Bacon:

Here’s where we really need to start paying attention. The bacon, the queen ‘B’. Use a good quality bacon, the best you can find. You don’t want that goddamn, watery and paper-thin grocery store garbage that’s been pumped full of saline solution. Look for words like THICK CUT and DRY CURED. When considering the smoking, single smoked is enough, thank you. No need for double-smoked karate chop action here. Leave your hickory and maple smokes at the door, too. Just gimme dat old fashioned dry cured, single smoked thick cut countreeeee bacon. Render it slowly, lovingly. You’ll need three or four strips. Get it crispy, but not desiccated. Flip it, turn it, top and tail it, just get it there. And remember to blot it on paper towels.

Lettuce:

I won’t say this often, but crisp and cold iceberg is what we want here. Try to find a fresh head that’s actually got some green on it. Separate the leaves nicely. Refresh them in an ice bath. Spin them dry in your dusty old salad spinner you forgot you had. If you’re not making your sandwich right away, you can roll the leaves up in a clean, damp dishtowel and store them in the fridge. It’ll make all the difference. We don’t want Romaine; we’re not making Caesar salad. No arugula or spring mix or baby spinach. We’re after the crisp freshness and slight bitterness that only good iceberg can provide. Chiffonade them leaves, they work better that way, holding everything else in place.

Tomato:

Here’s the toughest one. You need good-quality beefsteak tomatoes. If you’re in the height of summer, tomato season, this is where your sandwich will truly shine. Cut them thick, but not too thick that you can’t bite through them. Don’t use weird heirloom varieties unless you know what they’re all about. Taste your tomatoes first. And for goodness sake, season them. Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper.

All that’s left is to build. First the bottom bread, with a healthy spread of mayonnaise. A comfy bed of shredded lettuce. The sliced and seasoned tomatoes, remember these are the clutch. Then, the crisp bacon, ideally still a bit warm from the pan. Top it off with the other toast, spread with an equally generous slathering of that good-good mayo. Oh yeah.

Use some fancy, frilly toothpicks, if you got ‘em and you want to feel like a goddamn emperor. Slice that bad boy on the diagonal. Look into the cross section and gaze upon the wonders of the universe. Put it onto your fanciest plate, this is culinary royalty, for chrissakes.

Does it need any accompaniments? I mean, maybe some of those nice pickle chips you made a while ago. And if you have any kettle fried potato chips, you’d be a fool not to bust them out now.

The main goal here is not to make a BLT, although a properly made bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich is one of my greatest pleasures. No, the main goal here is to show you how to consider every ingredient in even the simplest dish. Because that’s what makes simple dishes so great and what makes the classics, well, classic. With just a little attention and consideration, your sandwiches and all your other cooking endeavours can rise to culinary greatness. And that’s what I’m here for. To help you get there. And the BLT is but another step to glory.