The Panino con Provola Affumicata is the smoked half of a pair, and the smoke is the entire reason it has its own name. The cheese is the same Campanian pasta filata, the curd heated and stretched and formed into a smooth ball, but here it is hung over smoke so a clear wood note settles into the rind and works inward through the milky paste. Done well the smoke is assertive without being acrid, a savoury depth laid over the gentle lactic body rather than a tarry crust. Set beside the plain provola, this sandwich is a controlled experiment with one variable changed: same milk, same stretched curd, smoke added.
The craft is keeping that smoke legible and not letting it turn the sandwich one-note. The cheese is still moist and springy, so it is sliced clean and set on bread with enough structure to stay dry under it, a crisp-shelled roll or a firm country loaf. It is assembled close to eating so the cut faces keep their edge. Almost nothing else belongs: no spread, no second strong flavour, because the smoke is the feature and a competing element would only blur it. A little oil and salt at most. Eaten at room temperature, the smoke sits clearest over the warm milk; cold, it flattens and the body tightens.
The defining counterpart is the unsmoked panino con provola, the same cheese with the smoke taken away, and the two reward being read against each other. Around them are the other southern stretched-curd cheeses, the aged sharp provolone del Monaco from the Monti Lattari, the caciocavallo worked and hung the same way, each its own treatment of the same elastic curd. Those deserve their own articles rather than being crowded in here.