America has a long history of bastardizing Italian food, from adding cream to our carbonara, to stuffing our crusts with cheese, both good examples of how awesome bastards are. And apparently we've done the panini wrong, and out to prove it's Salumé
Appointing his 40-seat bi-level eatery with an ultra-clean dark-wooden assembly counter and minimalist four tops, Salumé's from a first time Milanese restaurateur attempting to recreate the "Italian experience of a salumeria" by spotlighting the original panini, a never-pressed-but-quickly-toasted sandwich that strictly adheres to a 2-to-1 filling-to-bread ratio, aka the Fibonacci Meatquench. Served on a fresh Italian roll, the menu's broken down by meat (sliced to order on what they call the "Ferrari of slicers"), with 30 rotating options (out of 100) including the Courmayeur (prosciutto cotto, Fontina, arugula, tartar sauce), the hot salami/ brie/ gherkins/ Tobasco Tropea, and the Modena: coppa, Pecorino, fennel, tapenade, and Worchestershire sauce, but not Worcester sauce, cause nobody likes the taste of wicked poor. Paninis come as either a full sandwich or a sampling of four minis, but you can also grab Pullman loaf sammies both open-faced (the lardo & honey Val Ferrett, the butter & culatello Zibello) and closed, from the cooked ham/Fontina/mayo Porto Cervo, to the chocolate & banana Alba, named for the source of Nutella, Ferrero Rocher, and something to do with your Idle Hands
Paperwork's in for booze rights, which'll show up not only in a smattering of quaffs, but also as seasoning for the sandwiches, so Italian food can return the favor and bastardize you.