My great grandfather was from Positano, Italy, a small town on the Amalfi Coast. I never got to meet him, but if I got the chance to today, I'd want to talk to him about food.
And maybe even the question, "What do you think of pairing Korean gochujang and fish sauce with an Italian deli sandwich?"
Turns out, maybe he wouldn't be surprised.
Cetara, a small fishing town that neighbors Positano, invented an anchovy sauce hundreds of years ago, called colatura di alici. It's made with just anchovy and salt. People, likely even my great grandfather, would use this fish sauce in a special Christmas Eve dish called Spaghetti alla Colatura di Alici. The rich drippings made from fermenting anchovies was prized for its intense savoriness and intoxicating aroma.
A sauce made with just anchovy with salt may sound familiar, i.e. Red Boat, a Vietnamese fish sauce. I don't believe this fish sauce tastes the same as colatura di alici, even with the same two ingredients, but the intent of using fermented anchovy for a flavor boost is clear. Not to mention the Italian precedent for using whole anchovy in classic red sauce recipes.
Anyway, enough of the history lesson.
Let's make a sandwich.
The Cousin Sauce
Same principle as a good hot sauce: you're not supposed to taste the sauce by itself. You're supposed to notice when it's missing.
Roast your red peppers until they have a bit of char on them. Add to a bowl with the honey, gochujang, fish sauce, olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, and black pepper.
Blend until smooth and slightly loose — something that drizzles, not spreads. Use whatever blender you have, immersion or built-in.
Taste and adjust:
More lemon for brightness
More gochujang for depth and heat
More honey if it needs rounding
More fish sauce if your gochujang's on the milder, less funky side
Gochujang does a lot of work here: fermented depth, umami, and gentle heat all at once. Not all gochujang includes anchovy, so a little fish sauce backs up the umami when it doesn't — the same move Italian cooking makes with anchovy, dissolved in until it disappears, never meant to be tasted on its own. The roasted red pepper gives the sauce its body and subtle sweetness, while the honey smooths the edges without pushing things too sweet.
Reserve a bit of extra sauce to drizzle on top of the completed sandwiches, if desired.
Use a 1:1 ratio for the spread. Start with 2 tbsp mayo to 2 tbsp Cousin Sauce — mixed together, this is what we'll call the Cousin Spread from here on.
The mayo acts as a creamy, delicious flavor carrier for the sauce, balancing its strong flavor with its own richness.
Assembly
- Lightly toast the ciabatta.
You can use a little bit of olive oil on a skillet or place on a baking sheet in the oven for a few minutes at 350º. - Pan fry the mortadella.
Fold mortadella into clumps of 3 or 4 pieces and lightly pan fry until the edges are slightly crispy and the middle is still creamy. Folding helps attain that crispy/creamy balance as well as improve texture in the final sandwich. - Spread the Cousin Spread on the inside of both pieces of bread.
- Layer mortadella, pepperoni, and smoked mozzarella.
- Add arugula and pickled red onion.
- Optional: drizzle a little extra Cousin Sauce over the greens.
- Close, press gently, and slice.
What Makes It Work
This recipe is a balancing act. This isn't a sandwich built around excess or heat for heat's sake. It's built around contrast and balance. Rich and bright, smoky and fresh, sweet and savory.
The mortadella brings richness and softness with just a bit of crispy-edge-Maillard-reaction-goodness. The pepperoni adds concentrated spice and salt. Smoked mozzarella adds both warmth and creaminess without overwhelming the sandwich. Arugula keeps everything fresh, while the pickled onion cuts through the fat and resets the palate between bites.
And the sauce is what brings it into focus.
The best sandwiches, the best recipes, the best sauces usually aren't about adding more. They're about knowing what earns its place, and removing everything else.
If I could sit down across from my great grandfather with this sandwich, he wouldn't need it explained. It'd be familiar. That instinct to tie a dish together with salty, fermented umami.
Which would leave the real question: did he actually make Spaghetti alla Colatura di Alici every Christmas Eve?
