Careful what you say about sandwiches in front of Michele Colombo. The erstwhile Ogilvy adman is waging a one-man campaign against a popular misconception: that a panino (as most New Yorkers define it) is a split ciabatta roll filled with meat and cheese and smooshed to a crisp in a so-called panini press. Enter Colombo, eager to set the record straight. Three months ago, rather than accept a company transfer, he quit his job and opened Salumè, a Soho shop so single-mindedly dedicated to what the Milanese native considers his birthright—Real Italian Panini—that he emblazoned the phrase across Salumè’s front door.
To say that Colombo, tall and lanky and stylishly dressed like an Italian professor, is the sandwich equivalent of the Soup Nazi is overstating it, but he does have his moments. “Panini is one of the most abused words in the world!” he says. By his definition, a panino is never pressed, but rather served on lightly toasted rolls so as not to corrupt the integrity of the ingredients and muddle the flavors of the fillings. It must follow a recipe prescribed by Italian—specifically Milanese—tradition. And so does he, with a formula that’s simple and uncompromising, relying on mostly Italian cured meats, shaved to order on hand-cranked Berkel slicers; bread custom-baked for him by Eli’s and lightly, vigilantly toasted; good Italian cheeses; flavorful local tomatoes; and a host of unexpected condiments favored by Milanese panini aficionados, such as Tabasco, Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce, and salsa tartara. You can take your panino to go or eat it off rectangular china in a spare, elegant room designed by Colombo’s architect wife, its prep counter bookended by those Berkels, the salumi artfully arranged on shelves, jazz playing softly in the background.
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