Pecorino e miele is built on a single deliberate collision: salt against sweet, with the honey doing the leading. A wedge of sheep's-milk cheese, salty and savoury, is met with a drizzle of honey, and the sandwich is engineered around that contrast rather than around either component alone. The defining decision is the honey, not the pecorino. A sharp aged cheese wants a bitter, dark honey such as chestnut or strawberry-tree to push back against it; a mild young one wants a softer wildflower or acacia honey that lifts rather than overpowers. Choosing the honey to the cheese is the whole craft of the thing, and getting it wrong turns a tense, balanced bite into a cloying one.
The craft is controlling the sweet so it stays a counterweight and never a flood. The cheese is cut into firm slices or pieces that hold their shape, because the honey has to sit on the surface and bleed slowly rather than dissolve the structure; too much, applied too freely, and the panino slumps into dessert. The bread is plain and crusted, present to carry a wet, sweet element without going sodden and to give the salt-sweet axis a neutral ground. The honey is drizzled in a restrained thread, often warmed slightly so it spreads thin, and nothing else is added: a third flavour would only blur a contrast that works precisely because it is just two. It is eaten as a sharp, close-of-meal bite, the sweetness arriving a beat after the salt.
The variations are about which sweet, and what is allowed to join it. There is the version with a few toasted walnuts worked in for a third texture, the one where the honey is swapped for a fruit mostarda, and the pairing that adds a slice of pear to make the sweetness fresher. Each is the same salt-sweet idea with the sweet element changed, and each deserves its own article rather than being crowded in here.