After I placed my order with the piadinaro, he got to work: he pulled a fistful of raw bread dough from a huge vat on the counter and ran it through a machine where two metal spools flattened it into a perfect round. It went onto a hot iron griddle, where it began to bubble and rise, taking on the bread's characteristic brown speckles and filling the room with a sweet, yeasty smell. While the bread cooked, the piadinaro hauled an enormous leg of prosciutto to the slicer, and shaved off gossamer-thin pieces. He cut the piadina in half. A slathering of cheese on one half of the fresh-grilled bread, a delicate layer of prosciutto, and a handful of crisp arugula to crown it, another piadina half on top and my sandwich was done.