I have something heretical to get off my chest. Heretical to the locavore, food-obsessed, Italophile crowd, that is.
I don’t like Caprese sandwiches.
Do you know them? They’re the between-bread-slices version of a Caprese salad, sold by too many sandwich shops as their lone — and often pathetic — vegetarian offering.
The salad, of course, is one of summer’s great pleasures, born on the island of Capri and made up of layers of perfectly ripe tomatoes, fragrant basil and fresh buffalo-milk mozzarella, drizzled with fabulous extra-virgin olive oil and a little sea salt. In some circles, a drizzle of aged balsamic vinegar is considered essential; in others, it’s proibito.
The salad sets a high bar: If everything in it is of the highest quality, it’s a revelation. If one element falls short, the whole thing disappoints. If the tomatoes are pallid and/or mealy, the mozzarella too firm, the olive oil bland, the basil less than pungent — well, you might as well have a Caesar.