The panino con ragù napoletano takes a Sunday pot and asks bread to carry it. The Neapolitan ragù is not a quick meat sauce: it is a long braise of large cuts and rolled braciole simmered in tomato for the better part of a day until the meat falls and the sauce turns dark, dense, and sweet. Spooned into a roll, the meat pulled from a braciola with a slick of that sauce, it becomes a sandwich. The defining problem is the one every wet-dish panino faces: a sauce cooked to be eaten with a fork on a plate has to be made to behave between two pieces of bread without dissolving them on the first bite.
The craft is all moisture control. The ragù is reduced past plate consistency, or the meat is lifted out and dressed with only as much sauce as it can hold, so the filling is rich but not running. The roll is chosen sturdy, often a dense pane casereccio, and is sometimes toasted so its crumb resists the sauce rather than collapsing into it. The portion is deliberately controlled, because an overfilled roll fails at the seam and the whole idea is a braise made portable, not a bowl with bread dropped in it. The braciola itself is sliced or torn so it layers flat and does not roll out of the bread. The point is to keep the long-cooked depth of the pot while losing the parts of it that would defeat a sandwich.
The variations are the Neapolitan pot in its forms, each its own preparation rather than a footnote here: the braciola build with the rolled, stuffed meat as the filling; the pulled-meat version dressed in reduced sauce; and the festival-stall roll spooned thick from a vat. Each is the same long-ragù-in-bread logic, and each deserves its own article rather than being crowded in here.