Bresaola con limone is a sandwich whose seasoning is the entire recipe. Bresaola is Valtellina beef, salted, spiced, and air-dried in the cold valley air until it is dense, lean, and a deep wine red, sliced as thin as the knife will allow. The defining move here is the dressing applied at the last second: lemon juice and good olive oil, nothing more, worked over the slices so the acid wakes up the cured meat and the oil carries it back from austere to round. The bread is a plain crusted roll chosen to stay out of the way, because a lean, intense cure does not need a second strong voice arguing with it.
The craft is in the slice and the order of assembly. Bresaola cut thick reads as a slab and tastes only of salt; cut to translucence it goes supple and the spice in the cure comes forward. The lemon and oil are added just before the sandwich is closed and eaten, never in advance, because the acid will cook and dull the meat if it sits, turning the bright edge into something grey and tired. The oil is laid on after the lemon so it coats rather than gets cut by the acid, and a turn of black pepper is the only other thing that earns a place. The bread is left plain, sometimes with the barest film of oil on the crumb so it does not blot the dressing dry before the first bite. The whole thing depends on restraint: this is a cured meat at its peak given exactly two things and the discipline to add no third.
The variations are small and mostly about what else is allowed near the lemon. There is the plate version dressed the same way and eaten with a fork rather than in bread, and the habit in some places of adding a few shavings of hard cheese or a handful of rocket, at which point it has become its near relative Bresaola con Rucola e Grana and is no longer this spare lemon-and-oil sandwich. That cousin, and the wider catalogue of bresaola and air-dried beef preparations, deserve their own articles rather than being crowded in here.