Prosciutto, that most magnificent of ingredients, is not especially versatile. In Italy, it’s sliced thin and served as a snack with wine, or wrapped around melon as an appetizer. And although it may be baked whole occasionally, it’s rarely used as a flavoring in other dishes. Italian-American immigrants, having no guanciale, pancetta, or other cured meat to use, dumped it in pasta sauces and tucked it into calzones. Here in New York, deli owners often abuse it, thickly wadding it into massive hero sandwiches, obliterating its delicacy of texture and flavor. Prosicutto is precious, after all, and best savored in small quantities.
When I lived in the East Village, in the 1980s, there was an Italian deli near my apartment that was run by a pair of Apulian immigrants from Bari, named Joseph and Carmine. Joseph was tall and sallow, while Carmine was short, plump, and red-faced. As far as I can tell, they invented the sandwich I’m about to describe, though it’s based on principles common in southern Italy.
Whenever I asked for it, they grabbed a hero roll—first made by Italian-American bakeries in the 1920s during a baguette craze—split it, and poured on a stream of olive oil. Next, they spread one side with fresh ricotta. On top of the ricotta they planted a few basil leaves, and then sparsely layered the opposite side of the loaf with a few slices of prosciutto. Next, they shook on pepper and salt. The crusty loaf and bland white ricotta served as a perfect foil to the richness of the prosciutto, and the basil added a botanical pungency.
Eventually, the deli was taken over by a Korean guy named Jason, who continued to enthusiastically make the sandwich, but in 1995, the deli closed forever. Soon after, I took to making the sandwich myself. Even though it’s something you’d never find in Italy, I consider it a triumph of Italian-American cuisine. And despite the gentrification of downtown Manhattan neighborhoods, I can still gather all the ingredients within a few blocks of my apartment.
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