Salumé is one of those ultra-boxy, shiny, clean-lined spaces that look suspiciously sleek at first—too sleek to be turning out soulful Italian sandwiches, not to mention sandwiches you’ll want to pay double-digits for. What finally got me inside, a few weeks after the place opened on West Broadway near Grand Street earlier this summer, was the owners’ mission to redefine panini for an audience trained to believe “panini” means “pressed sandwich,” as opposed to “sandwich.” So they don’t press the sandwiches here, because as owner Michele Colombo (his wife Alessandra designed the space) says on the website: “Pressing panini dries out—and sometimes burns—the ingredients, which compromises their uniquely delicate flavor, texture and taste.” True that.
Salume’s menu lists about 25 sandwiches. Racked with indecision, I tried to order the combo of four mini-sandwiches, “for an Italian tasting journey,” which turns out they don’t do anymore. Too bad. Finally settled on the Courmayeur ($11.50) : prosciutto cotto, fontina, arugula, tartar sauce on slightly toasted ciabatta. On first glance: too small a sandwich, too high a price. On first bite: Exceptional ingredients, especially the fresh arugula and tangy tartar sauce and supple prosciutto (bonus is that the “cotto,” i.e. cooked, prosciutto is less stringy and presents fewer stuck-in-teeth issues than the “crudo” kind). There’s even too much prosciutto in the sandwich. Salume aims for a 2:1 topping-to-bread ratio, which is admirable but potentially in need of a tweak. And speaking of ratios, the bread has a deeply satisfying play of moistness-to-crunch —and frankly the whole sandwich, minus maybe a smidge of ham, was highly tasty (“very good,” to use a favorite Sifton-ism). Trouble is the price.
A sandwich, generally speaking, oughtn’t climb over $10, unless it’s the second coming—and I don’t think anyone is coming back as a sandwich. Don’t know if anyone else will remember this, but there was once an exquisite little sandwich shop called Bread & Butter on Elizabeth Street, not far from where yours truly lives, and my friends and I thought the $9 price tag on their BLT was a bit too nosebleed at the time. That price would still seem high for a BLT. But what a BLT that was, made with ciabatta from Sullivan Street (a novelty at the time), and with arugula instead of lettuce, and piled with celestial layers of bacon and butter. But it’s long gone now. And I digress.
I want to go back to Salume and try a few other sandwiches, like the San Daniele, made with the prosciutto of the same name and Parmigiano-Reggiano. The menu also lists “gin” as an ingredient in the San Daniele sandwich. I asked about that. No gin in the sandwich, turns out; damn. “Just a typo,” said the slightly harried counter clerk. Salume was busy at lunch today, but dead in the early eve last night when I walked by (they close at 8pm). Wishing them success, and a future filled with poetic and preposterous typos. And lower prices.
To digress once more: On my walk back from Salume, I stopped in at the Crocs shop on Spring and Wooster. Until recently, I’ve been horrified by those dumb-looking, balloon-like resin shoes, and I’ve wanted to issue citizen’s arrest warrants for people who wear them out in public, Crocs poster-boy chefs like Mario Batali included. I get that they’re comfortable, especially if you’re on your feet in a slippery kitchen all day, but that lumpy cartoonish design? NO. Now they’re making the shoes in a bunch of different styles, and earlier this summer I picked up a strappy open-toed, sandal-like pair—just for the beach and such. And what happened? Now I wear them almost every single day. The blasted things make my feet feel lighter and happier than they’ve ever been, ever, with the exception of the occasional foot massage. I’d say this Crocs change-of-heart is my dirty little secret—except here I am going public with it. Still, I refuse to buy any of those head-scratching new Crocs styles with high heels, because if I’m going to wear serious shoes—sexy, if not exactly comfy, shoes with slinky heels or wedges—they’re not going to be made of resin. I’ll turn to the various shoes in my closet that I’ve paid ungodly, ill-advised amounts of money for. Er, mark my words. But I’m terrified that I’ll start wanting to wear some version of a Croc every day now, forever. This cannot happen. Please stop me. Thank you.