The michetta con cotoletta leads on the cutlet. The constant under every michetta sandwich is the bread: the hollow, crisp-shelled Milanese roll, a star-pleated dome that bakes up almost empty inside so its thin shell shatters and it is filled light rather than packed. The variable here is what goes into that hollow, and it is the most Milanese thing possible, a cotoletta alla milanese, the breaded and fried veal cutlet, slipped whole into the roll. The sandwich is the city's signature cutlet given a handle: a crisp shell of bread around a crisp shell of breadcrumb, two fried surfaces meeting with the bread doing almost none of the flavour work.
The craft is matching two crisp things so neither goes soft. The michetta's shell only stays brittle if the roll is fresh and the filling is not wet, which suits a cotoletta that has been drained of its frying oil and is still warm rather than steaming. The cutlet is sized to sit inside the hollow without forcing the shell apart, so the bread holds its shape and shatters cleanly on the first bite instead of compressing. Nothing creamy is added, because moisture is the enemy of both crusts; at most a squeeze of lemon worked into the cutlet, which is the cutlet's own seasoning rather than a sauce on the bread.
The named turns are the rest of the michetta cluster led from their own fillings: the roll around mortadella, around prosciutto cotto, around fine salame Milano, each light and cured where this one is hot and fried. Each of those is the same hollow shattering roll built around a different filling, and each deserves its own article rather than being crowded in here.