There is no sandwich more wonderful than the BLT. And there is no establishment that makes a better BLT than Fran O'Brien's. I know that this is a bold claim to make for the permanent record, blogging neophyte though I am. But I stand by it.
Today's lunch consisted of a BLT so perfect, so luscious, I had to post purely to sing its praises. The bread was thickly sliced, chewy, and dense--with grill lines across it. Both inside faces of the bread were mayoed (if that isn't a verb, it ought to be). The bacon was crisp, but didn't splinter under pressure. And a perfect, very ripe September beefsteak tomato provided moisture and ketchupy umami without soaking the bread.
When I dine at Fran's, it is always in the smoking section. This is where the testosterone-laden ethos of the place is most concentrated. There is a wall of muted TVs, all tuned to news and sports. The other walls sport football memorabilia The booths are enormous and smoothly leathery, as are the patrons. The menu is mostly meat, and it is in a hotel basement.
An unlikely description of culinary heaven, but there you have it.