Our discovery of the BLT at Nik's was, like all great discoveries, fraught with both heartache and triumph. The journey began unremarkably enough: a late-night stop for a glass or two of malbec. We'd already eaten dinner, but our friend had not. Our server opined that the BLT was "pretty tasty." (This, we would later learn, is like calling Orlando Pace "kinda big.") The BLT arrived, and the coveting began. Could we maybe have a bite? Could we maybe have another bite? Could we maybe convince our friend that his apartment was on fire and then just grab the whole glorious sandwich and run? No. But we thought about that BLT for a whole week: The B was thick-sliced and peppery, the L a lovely romaine, the T juicy and as big as the bread -- which, by the way, is nine-grain and augmented by a delicious Parmesan mayo. We returned to Nik's and ordered gleefully -- but then our server uttered these crushing words: "Oh, that BLT was just a special." We tried to pretend he'd said something else, and we agreed: Damn right that BLT is special. But reality was reality. We ordered our drinks, depressed. Then lo! Our server returned with the happy news that the kitchen wouldn't mind making a couple BLTs just for us. And now, dear reader, this superlative sandwich is permanently on the menu.