And on its first bite, it did. “Fair f***s,” I said, “this is some sandwich”. I had the giglio — cooked ham, smoked provola, potato cream and truffle cream — and in the first instance, it was a revelation. And true, I remain convinced schiacciata is the only bread for a sandwich: it shatters beautifully, it tastes gorgeous. But after a little while, the truffle just began to be taxing, and my tongue felt something like sore. It blinded all the other flavours. Was the provola smoked? Only barely. I’ve had clothes that smelt stronger the day after a barbecue.
All’Antico Vinaio: is London’s latest sandwich shop worth the hour-long queue?
