B.L.T.

They’re here. Those colorful orbs of summer. Big slicing tomatoes, the kind that beg to be used in the sandwich that defines the season—bacon, lettuce, and tomato.

The BLT, as it has come to be known, first appeared in a 1903 of the Good Housekeeping Everyday Cookbook.  They got that right. I can eat this combination at least once a day during the height of tomato season.

Throughout the years assorted companies have capitalized on this combination, Hellmann’s Mayonnaise, Wonder Bread, and Oscar Mayer. Out of curiosity, I pulled up the old advertisement for the mayo company that appeared in Life Magazine in 1958. It called for six strips of bacon, sliced tomato, lettuce, cheese, and one cup of mayonnaise. The directions called for arranging tomato slices on toast, topping with sliced cheese, and then spreading the mayo on top before broiling “until the mayonnaise puffs up golden brown.” According to Hellmann’s, only real mayonnaise puffs.  

That sounded a bit like how I was taught to make grilled cheese at the deli where mayo was slathered on the bread before being flipped on to the griddle which makes for the most golden and crunchy crust while providing steam to help melt the cheese.

After WWII when grocery stores sprang up across the country offering year-round access to fresh lettuce, tomatoes and bacon, BLTs hit the big time. They became standard items on diner menus. I remember sitting at the Woolworth’s Luncheonette counter with my grandma and ordering a BLT with chips and a shake. It came open-faced so you could arrange your own sandwich.  

Over the years the BLT has grown up, become gentrified. Today they’re made with hand-whipped mayo on woodfired oven baked sourdough bread with a yeast pedigree longer than the winner of Westminster. The bacon comes from pastured pigs or in the case of the $35 BLT I once ordered, Jamon Ibérico. The tomatoes are heirlooms, the lettuce a mix of baby greens instead of the {gasp} iceberg lettuce that some BLT purists think is a must. Cheese? Don’t get me started. There are even vegan versions made with facon and porkless versions with turkey bacon.

Fortunately, I’m neither a snob nor purist when it comes to BLTs. I work with whatever I bring home from market. This sandwich is the ultimate market meal. Absolutely everything can be purchased at market, including the ingredients for making your own mayo if you want to spurge on some tasty oil. My southern friends would argue, however, that only Duke’s will do. Out of lack of ingredients, I’ve resorted at times to crème fraiche. Red, yellow, striped tomatoes—it doesn’t matter as long as they are ripe.

One of the best hacks for a BLT I’ve come across is not toasting the bread but frying it in the drippings after cooking the bacon, preferably in a cast iron skillet. The bacon flavor permeates the entire sandwich. It also turns it into a grease bomb so have plenty of napkins.

Another equally messy and delicious version is adding a fried egg with the yolk still runny. Just be careful when smooshing down the sandwich or the yolk can squirt out making a bigger mess. Yes, this is the voice of experience. As with any sandwich, the combinations of customization are endless.

Thanks to modern agriculture, hydroponics, and greenhouse technologies we could eat BLTs year-round if we wanted, but there’s something about field-grown, sun-ripened tomatoes that lend an extra touch to this iconic sandwich.