Hog plum pickle
Lapsi, the Nepali hog plum, is a small, olive-green fruit with a huge stone, very little flesh and a sourness that makes your jaw ache, and in Kathmandu and the middle hills its arrival in the markets in late autumn means pickle-making season. Boiled, scraped from the stones and cooked down with jaggery, chilli, fenugreek and timur, it becomes a thick, glossy, dark brown achar that is tart, sweet and gently hot, eaten with dal bhat, spread on roti or served with sel roti during Tihar. It is also dried into candy called titaura. Look for fresh or frozen lapsi in Nepali grocers; tart, unripe green plums are the nearest substitute. The trouble usually starts when the jaggery goes in before the pulp has reduced, which leaves a runny pickle that can ferment. Chef's tip: cook the pulp until a spoon drawn through it leaves a clear trail before adding the sweetener.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
An Indo-Chinese favourite from the barbecue tawa: crisp fried potato chips tossed with garlic, ginger, soy sauce, ketchup and plenty of chillies and spring onion, then glazed with a little cornflour sauce. Sticky, salty and hot. Serve straight away as a starter.
Big prawns in a pale, silky coconut gravy are what a Bengali family cooks for guests, for a new son-in-law at Jamai Sasthi, or for a wedding lunch. The dish is gently spiced, a little sweet, and leans on the head fat of the prawns for richness, so it tastes of the sea rather than of chilli. Serve it with steamed gobindobhog or basmati rice. Chef's tip: if you can find shell-on prawns with heads, leave the heads on; squeeze them into the gravy as you eat for the full flavour.
The name means 'jumps into the mouth', which is how fast these little Roman escalopes vanish from the plate. Thin slices of veal are topped with a sage leaf and a sheet of prosciutto, seared for barely a minute a side, then glazed with white wine and butter in the same pan; it is a classic second course in Rome's family trattorie and takes about 20 minutes start to finish. The prosciutto crisps, the sage turns fragrant and the veal stays tender under a short, buttery sauce. Pork loin or turkey escalopes work just as well. Serve with roast potatoes or sautéed spinach to mop up the pan juices. Chef's tip: pound the meat to an even 5 mm between sheets of cling film and pin the ham and sage on with a cocktail stick, so everything cooks in the time it takes the ham to crisp.
Chipa guasu (Guaraní for 'big chipa') is sopa paraguaya's softer cousin, made from fresh corn instead of cornmeal. The kernels are grated or blended into a milky purée and baked with onion, cheese and whipped eggs into a tender, gently sweet bake that rises and wobbles. It's a summer dish at Paraguayan asados and fiestas patronales (saints' days), eaten beside grilled meat or simply with a tomato salad. Chef's tip: fold in the whisked egg whites last; it's what makes chipa guasu light and puffed rather than dense.
Chips mayai ('chips and eggs') is Tanzania's best-loved street food, fried to order in Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar at evening stalls with big flat pans: fresh chips are bound into a thick omelette and served with kachumbari and chilli sauce or ketchup. Children and students live on it. Chef's tip: let the chips go crisp before pouring in the egg; soft chips make a soggy omelette.
Chitranna, 'colourful rice', is the dish Karnataka mothers make when there is leftover rice and a school tiffin box to fill: cooked rice tossed in a yellow turmeric tempering with roasted peanuts, crunchy dals, green chilli, curry leaves and plenty of lemon. It appears at temple festivals as prasada, on train journeys wrapped in banana leaf, and on every Bengaluru darshini breakfast counter. It tastes even better an hour after it's made, when the lemon has soaked in. Tamil Nadu's elumichai sadam is a close cousin. Chef's tip: spread the rice out on a plate to cool before mixing; warm, steamy rice turns sticky and breaks when you toss it.
Daan taat are the pride of Hong Kong bakeries and cha chaan teng, where they come out of the oven several times a day and are eaten warm with a glass of milk tea. Unlike Portuguese tarts, the custard stays smooth, glossy and bright yellow with no scorched top, and this version uses a buttery shortcrust (lard is traditional in some bakeries; we use only butter). Chef's tip: strain the custard twice and skim off every bubble; that's what gives the mirror-smooth surface.
The chivito was created in the 1940s at a restaurant in Punta del Este, Uruguay, and became the national sandwich: a soft roll filled with thin, tender steak, ham, melted mozzarella, a fried egg, bacon, lettuce, tomato, olives and mayonnaise. It is eaten in Montevideo's parrillas and corner bars with chips on the side. This sandwich contains pork. The mistake is a thick, chewy steak: use thinly sliced sirloin and sear it fast. Chef's tip: toast the cut sides of the rolls so they stand up to all the juices.
Sambal goreng kentang turns up wherever there's a celebration in Java and Sumatra: on Lebaran tables next to ketupat and opor, in wedding buffets, and in boxes of nasi kotak handed out at gatherings. The potatoes are cut small, fried until crisp and golden, then tossed through a red chilli and shallot sambal sweetened with palm sugar and sharpened with tamarind, so each cube is coated and chewy at the edges. It keeps well and is eaten at room temperature with rice. Chef's tip: soak and dry the potato cubes thoroughly before frying; damp potatoes spit, steam and never crisp up.
Paris's grand tearooms have served chocolat chaud since the 1800s, and it is nothing like a powdered cocoa drink: dark chocolate is melted into hot milk and cream until it is thick, glossy and rich enough to coat the cup. Parisians drink it in small cups on cold afternoons, often with a pot of whipped cream on the side and a pastry. It is also a winter treat at home after a walk. Use chocolate you'd enjoy eating. Chef's tip: keep the heat low and whisk; letting it boil is the common mistake and the chocolate can turn grainy and catch on the bottom.
Babka grew from the sweet yeasted breads of Polish and Ukrainian Jewish kitchens, and Tel Aviv and New York bakeries turned it into today's showpiece: a rich, buttery dough rolled around dark chocolate, cut open lengthways and twisted so the layers show, then soaked in syrup as it leaves the oven. Israelis buy it for Shabbat afternoon coffee, and a slice keeps its gooey layers for days. It takes time but little skill: an overnight chill makes the soft dough easy to roll. Chef's tip: chill the dough overnight; cold, firm dough rolls thin and twists cleanly instead of smearing the chocolate.
Matah means raw in Balinese, and this sambal is nothing more than finely sliced shallots, chillies, lemongrass and lime leaf, squeezed with lime and dressed with hot coconut oil. It is the fresh, sharp counterpart to grilled tempeh, tofu, corn fritters and plain rice in warungs across Bali. Village cooks rub in a little toasted shrimp paste; this vegetarian version gets its savoury edge from salt and a touch of sugar. Chef's tip: squeeze the salted shallots with your fingers before adding the oil; they soften and release juice that carries the flavour.
In Chodang village on the edge of Gangneung, tofu houses have curdled soy milk with clean seawater from the East Sea for generations, and the result, chodang sundubu (초당순두부), is served warm in a bowl before it has been pressed: soft, quivering curds in their own pale whey, with a soy dressing to spoon over. It is breakfast and lunch there, eaten with rice, kimchi and a few banchan, and tastes sweet and clean in a way packaged tofu never does. At home, nigari (the mineral salt left from seawater) gives the same effect. Use plain, unsweetened soy milk with at least 7% soy or make your own. Chef's tip: add the nigari off the heat and stir only once or twice; stirring after the curds start to form breaks them into grains.
Cholar dal is the festive dal of Bengal, cooked for Durga Puja and weddings and always paired with luchi. Split bengal gram is simmered until soft but whole, then finished with a fragrant tempering of ghee, bay leaf, cinnamon, cardamom and cloves, little fried coconut pieces and plump raisins. It is thick, mildly sweet and warmly spiced rather than hot. Serve with luchi, puri or steamed rice. Chef's tip: fry the coconut slivers until golden before anything else goes in the pan; they stay crisp-chewy and add a toasty sweetness to every spoonful.
Cholent, called hamin by Sephardic families, is the slow stew that Jewish homes in Jerusalem, Tel Aviv and Bnei Brak put on before Shabbat begins on Friday afternoon, so it can cook gently overnight without anyone touching the stove and be eaten hot at Saturday lunch. Beef, dried beans, pearl barley, potatoes and onions cook for 12 hours or more in a paprika-scented broth, often with whole eggs in their shells that turn brown and creamy. Chef's tip: add enough water to just cover everything; too little and it dries out overnight, too much and it is soup.
Cholera is a Valais pie from the upper Rhône valley, especially the Goms district, filled with layers of potato, leek, apple, pear and mountain cheese under a pastry lid. One story ties the name to the 1830s cholera outbreak, when people stayed home and baked whatever was in the cellar; another to the old Valais word for a coal stove, chola. It is eaten warm or cold, as a Sunday lunch, picnic food or a slice with a green salad, and the sweet fruit against salty cheese and soft leek is the whole point. Some Valais cooks add bacon; this vegetarian version doesn't need it. Use cheese made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: slice the potatoes, apples and pear thinly and evenly (3 mm) so everything cooks through in the time the pastry takes to brown.
Chongqing wakes up to these: thin wheat noodles in a small bowl of red, numbing sauce, eaten standing up at street stalls before work. The noodles are plain; everything happens in the bowl, where chilli oil, Sichuan pepper, garlic water, preserved mustard greens and crushed peanuts are stacked up before the noodles go in. The vegetable version on this page is how most locals order it day to day. Chef's tip: some bought chilli oils are made with beef fat, so check the label or use your own vegetable-oil chilli oil.
Chorba frik is the soup that breaks the fast in Algerian homes every evening of Ramadan, from Algiers to Constantine, and it is just as common in Libya as shorba. Frik is young green wheat, roasted and cracked, which gives the tomato broth a smoky, nutty depth. It usually cooks with lamb; here chickpeas, celery and courgette carry it. Serve with lemon wedges and bread. Chef's tip: add the frik only once the broth is boiling and stir for the first minute, or it sinks and sticks.
Choripán is what fans buy outside football stadiums in Buenos Aires, what the asador hands round while the beef is still cooking, and what stalls sell along Costanera Sur on a Sunday afternoon. This is a pork dish: a fat Argentine-style fresh chorizo (pork, sometimes mixed with beef) is grilled slowly, split open (a mariposa) and tucked into a crusty roll with chimichurri or salsa criolla. That's it, and it doesn't need more. The common mistake is grilling the chorizos too hot, so the skins burst and the centre stays raw; low and slow is the rule. Chef's tip: once cooked, split each chorizo lengthways and give the cut sides 1 minute on the grill so they char a little.
Chotpoti is what Dhaka eats at dusk: vendors ladle it from great brass pots at Dhanmondi Lake and outside every university gate, and during Ramadan it is a fixture of the iftar spread. Dried yellow peas (motor) are simmered with potato until soft and slightly soupy, then served warm under a shower of raw onion, green chilli, grated boiled egg, crushed fuchka shells, roasted cumin and plenty of sour tamarind water. Chef's tip: soak the peas overnight and cook them until some burst and thicken the liquid; chotpoti should be spoonable, halfway between a stew and a salad.
Every Indonesian kitchen has an ulekan, the flat stone mortar that gives sambal oelek its name, and this is the most basic thing ground in it: fresh red chillies and salt, pounded to a coarse, wet, fiery mash. It's the foundation many cooks start from, stirred into fried rice and soups, spooned beside every meal at warung tables nationwide, and the base for more complex cooked sambals. Making it fresh tastes brighter and fruitier than any jar. Chef's tip: wear gloves and pound rather than blitz if you can — crushing releases the oils and gives a juicier, more fragrant sambal than chopping blades.
Chtitha djej is the everyday chicken of Algerian homes from Algiers to Constantine: chicken pieces simmered in a red sauce of paprika, cayenne, garlic and caraway with chickpeas, reduced until thick and clinging. It is mopped up with khobz or matlouh flatbread. The mistake is burning the garlic and paprika when they go into the oil, which turns the sauce bitter; keep the heat moderate and add water as soon as they smell toasted. Chef's tip: add a squeeze of lemon right at the end to brighten the spices.
Nanchong, in the hills of north Sichuan, is famous for this snack: a soft, wobbly jelly set from bean starch, cut into thick ribbons and drowned in a red, glossy dressing. Street sellers keep it in big blocks and slice it to order, and people eat it as a mid-afternoon snack or a cold starter on hot days. The jelly itself tastes of almost nothing; the slippery texture and the punchy dressing are the point. Chef's tip: let the jelly set fully in the fridge, ideally overnight, so it is firm enough to cut cleanly but still trembles.
Chuchitos are Guatemala's everyday tamal: small, firm parcels of masa tied in corn husks, sold from steaming pots at markets in Antigua and Guatemala City and eaten on Saturdays with a spoon of tomato sauce and crumbled dry cheese. They're denser than Mexican tamales, with the masa itself tinted by the red recado. Here they're filled with potato, green beans and sweet pepper instead of chicken. Chef's tip: beat the masa until a pinch floats in a glass of water; that air makes them tender rather than stodgy.
Almost every Indonesian kitchen keeps a stone mortar, the cobek, and the sambal pounded in it most often is this one. Toasted shrimp paste gives it a deep, savoury funk, fried chillies and shallots add sweetness and heat, and a squeeze of lime at the end wakes everything up. Spoon it beside fried chicken, grilled fish, fried tempeh or a plate of raw lalapan vegetables, or stir a little into fried rice. Chef's tip: pound rather than blend if you can; a coarse, slightly juicy texture tastes fresher than a smooth purée.
Ask any Malaysian cook what lives in the fridge door and the answer is usually a jar of sambal tumis. 'Tumis' means to sauté, and the paste of soaked dried chillies, shallots, garlic and spices is fried slowly in plenty of oil until it turns dark and jammy. From Johor to Kedah it goes on nasi lemak, gets stirred through fried rice and noodles, and is spooned beside eggs, tofu or roti. Most versions lean on belacan (shrimp paste); here a little toasted nori brings back that savoury, faintly sea-like depth. Chef's tip: make a double batch; covered with a film of its own oil it keeps for two weeks in the fridge and months in the freezer.
Churchkhela are the candle-shaped sweets you see hanging in bunches at every Georgian market, but they are made at home during rtveli, the grape harvest in Kakheti in September and October. Walnuts are threaded on a string and dipped again and again in tatara, fresh grape must thickened with flour, then hung up to dry for a week, until firm and chewy outside and tender within. They are eaten at New Year and kept for months. A common mistake is a tatara that is too thin, which slides off the nuts; it should coat the back of a spoon thickly and fall in ribbons. Chef's tip: let each coat set for 10–15 minutes before the next dip; three or four thin coats look and keep better than one thick one.
In the monsoon, ningro (fiddlehead fern) shoots appear in the hill markets of Gangtok, Namchi and Darjeeling, curled like violin scrolls. Sikkimese homes cook them quickly with onion, tomato and green chilli, then stir in crumbled soft churpi, a fresh, tangy cheese made from yak or cow's milk, which melts into a creamy, slightly sour sauce. It is a side dish for rice and dal, and tastes green and grassy, a little like asparagus. Chef's tip: always boil ferns for a few minutes and drain before cooking; it removes bitterness. Ricotta or crumbled feta is a fair stand-in for churpi.
Chushki byurek are one of the great autumn dishes of Bulgaria: in September, when the long red peppers ripen around Plovdiv and Pazardzhik, they are roasted, peeled, filled with sirene and egg, then dipped in flour, egg and breadcrumbs and fried. The outside crunches, the pepper is silky and sweet, and the salty cheese melts inside. They are served hot as a main course with a tomato salad, or cold the next day. Chef's tip: dry the peeled peppers well before filling; a wet pepper is the usual mistake, and the batter slides off and the oil spits.
Sambuus are the triangles of crisp pastry Somali families fry by the hundred during Ramadan, filling them with minced beef, onion, green chilli, coriander and xawaash; trays of them sit on every iftar table from Hargeisa to Toronto. The filling must be dry, and the pastry thin. The mistake is a wet filling, which steams the pastry from the inside and makes it soggy; cook the mince until all the liquid has gone. Chef's tip: shop-bought spring roll pastry, cut into strips, makes good thin sambuus at home.
Romanians swear by ciorbă de burtă the morning after a wedding or a long night out, and in Bucharest there are restaurants that serve little else from breakfast onwards. Strips of beef tripe sit in a silky broth thickened with egg yolk and sour cream, sharpened with vinegar and served with mujdei, a raw garlic sauce, and a hot pepper on the side. It takes time, because tripe only turns tender after a long, slow simmer. The mistake most people make is boiling the soup after the yolks go in, which scrambles them into flecks. Chef's tip: buy cleaned, blanched (white, 'dressed') tripe from the butcher; it saves an hour of scrubbing and is much milder.
Ciorbă is the sour soup that opens a Romanian lunch, from canteens in Cluj to Sunday tables in Moldavia, and the vegetable version is cooked all through the fasting weeks before Easter and Christmas. Root vegetables, beans and peppers simmer in a light broth that is soured at the end with borș, the fermented wheat-bran liquid sold in bottles at Romanian shops, or with lemon juice. Fresh lovage (leuștean) gives its unmistakable celery-like perfume. It is eaten piping hot with bread and a fresh green chilli on the side. Chef's tip: add the borș only at the end and let it come back just to a simmer; boiling it hard dulls the sour tang.
Across Romania, from Bucharest canteens to Moldavian grandmothers' kitchens, a pot of ciorbă de perișoare turns up on the Sunday table and again on Monday, when it tastes even better. This version contains pork: soft meatballs of minced pork and rice simmer in a clear vegetable broth that is soured at the end with borș (fermented wheat-bran liquid) or lemon juice, then finished with a handful of lovage. It is eaten very hot with a spoon of sour cream and a fresh green chilli to bite between spoonfuls. A frequent slip is boiling the soup hard once the meatballs are in, which breaks them apart and clouds the broth. Chef's tip: wet your hands in cold water before rolling each meatball; the mixture will not stick and the balls stay smooth and round.
Clafoutis comes from the Limousin in central France, where black cherries ripen in early summer and families make this simple pudding for Sunday lunch. Whole cherries are scattered in a buttered dish and covered with a sweet, eggy batter, like a cross between a pancake and a custard, then baked until puffed and golden. In the Limousin the cherries are left unstoned, which cooks say gives a faint almond flavour; stone them if you are serving children. It's best warm, dusted with icing sugar. Chef's tip: don't overmix the batter once the flour is in; beating it hard is the common mistake and makes the clafoutis tough and rubbery.
A Mombasa street-food bowl: chickpeas and potato simmered in coconut milk with raw mango and chilli, ladled into small bowls and topped with crisp lentil fritters, crunchy chevdo and red, green and tamarind chutneys. Make the fritters and chevdo ahead and assemble at the table. It's sweet, sour, hot and crunchy all at once.
Çoban salatası, the shepherd's salad, is on the table at almost every Turkish meal from Edirne to Van, whether that is a home dinner, a lokanta lunch or a summer barbecue. It is simple by design: small dice of tomato, cucumber, green pepper and onion with parsley, dressed with lemon juice, olive oil and a little sumac. It is eaten alongside pilaf, beans, börek or anything grilled. The common mistake is salting it too early, which draws the water out of the tomatoes and leaves it swimming. Chef's tip: rub the onion slices with salt and sumac and rinse them before adding; the onion stays crunchy but loses its harsh bite.
The Maya of the Yucatán peninsula cooked pork in a pib, a pit lined with hot stones, and in Mérida cochinita pibil is still sold at dawn from market stalls, piled into tacos and tortas for breakfast. Pork shoulder sits overnight in a brick-red paste of achiote and sour orange juice, then roasts slowly wrapped in banana leaves until it pulls apart, soaking in its own tangy juices. It goes into warm tortillas with bright pink pickled onions and, for the brave, a habanero salsa. Chef's tip: if you can't find bitter Seville oranges, mix sweet orange juice with lime juice; the sourness is what tenderises and balances the pork.
Cocido madrileño is the slow pot of the capital's winter, served at lunch in old Madrid taverns and at home on cold weekends. Everything simmers together for hours (chickpeas, beef shin, chicken, pork belly, ham bone, chorizo, carrots and potatoes) and then it comes to the table in three vuelcos, or 'tippings out': first the broth as a soup with thin noodles, then the chickpeas and vegetables, then the platter of meats. Cabbage and chorizo are cooked in a separate pan so they don't cloud or redden the broth. It is a big project, but most of the time the pot looks after itself. Chef's tip: put the soaked chickpeas into a mesh bag or a loose muslin bundle; they're easy to lift out whole at the end and don't break up in the long simmer.
On the three hottest days of the Korean summer, called boknal, queues form outside samgyetang restaurants all over the country. The idea is to fight heat with heat: a small whole chicken is stuffed with glutinous rice, ginseng, jujubes and garlic, then simmered until the meat falls off the bone. Each person gets their own bird in its own bowl, with salt and pepper for dipping. Ginseng is not advised in pregnancy, so leave it out if unsure. Chef's tip: cut a small slit in the skin of one thigh and tuck the other leg through it, so the stuffing stays inside without string.
Samkeh harra, 'hot fish', is the pride of Tripoli and the fishing towns of northern Lebanon, where it is made with a whole sea bream or sea bass on Fridays and for summer lunches by the sea. The fish is baked, then covered with a fiery sauce of tahini, lemon, garlic, chilli and lots of coriander and returned to the oven until bubbling. Walnuts on top are a Tripoli touch. It is eaten warm or at room temperature with bread and a green salad. Chef's tip: loosen the tahini with lemon juice first, then water; it will seize and turn thick before it turns smooth, so keep whisking.
Samlor korko is called the national soup of Cambodia, cooked in villages from Battambang to Kampot and eaten at lunch with a bowl of rice. Its name means 'stirring soup', because the cook stands over the pot moving the vegetables as they go in one by one: green papaya, pumpkin, aubergine, long beans and leafy greens, all in a thin, herb-scented broth thickened with a spoonful of ground toasted rice. Prahok usually gives it its funk; fermented soybean paste and a little soy give depth here, and the soup stays light and full of vegetables. Chef's tip: toast the rice slowly until it is the colour of a hazelnut shell; that nutty smell is the backbone of the soup.
Conchas are the most famous pan dulce (sweet bread) in Mexico, piled high in every panadería and eaten for breakfast or merienda with hot chocolate or coffee. The bun is soft, slightly sweet and enriched with egg and butter, and it wears a crunchy, crumbly topping of sugar, fat and flour scored into the seashell pattern that gives it its name. Make some vanilla and some chocolate topping for the classic mix. Chef's tip: shape the dough into very tight balls before adding the topping; the tension makes them rise up instead of spreading out, so the shell cracks into neat stripes.
Congee (zhou in Mandarin, juk in Cantonese) is what much of China eats for breakfast, and what everyone is given when they are under the weather. The base is just rice and water cooked until the grains burst into a smooth, gentle porridge; the fun is in the toppings, from fried shallots to peanuts and salty pickles, so everyone builds their own bowl. Chef's tip: rinse the rice, then rub it with a little oil and salt and freeze it for an hour if you can; the grains crack and break down twice as fast.
Conkies are made all over Barbados in late November for Independence Day on 30 November, when they're sold at roadside stalls and steamed in big pots at home; older Bajans remember them from Guy Fawkes Night, too. A spiced batter of grated pumpkin, sweet potato and coconut, cornmeal, sugar and raisins is folded into squares of banana leaf and steamed until it sets. Unwrapped, they're moist, dense, sweet and fragrant with nutmeg, almond and the faint green tea scent of the leaf. Chef's tip: pass the banana leaves briefly over a gas flame or dip them in hot water first; they turn glossy and supple and fold without splitting.
Bulky green chillies are the cases for this Kelantan festive dish, cooked for weddings and Raya tables in Kota Bharu. Each one is slit, scraped out and packed with a pale filling of fish, freshly grated coconut, shallots, ginger and black pepper, then simmered gently in coconut milk until the chillies slump and the gravy turns rich and faintly smoky. The filling is soft and sweet; the skins bring gentle heat and a green, grassy bite. Serve two or three per person with rice and a sambal, or with nasi kerabu. Chef's tip: choose large, mild chillies (or long sweet peppers for a gentler version) and tie each with a strip of pandan or a toothpick so the filling stays inside.
Up in the coffee estates of Kodagu (Coorg), pandi curry is the dish of the Kodava people, cooked for Puttari, the harvest festival, and for every family gathering in between. Fatty pork simmers in its own juices with a masala of coriander and black pepper roasted almost black, then finishes with kachampuli, a dark, sour vinegar made from the Garcinia fruit. It is eaten with kadambuttu (steamed rice balls) or akki otti. Chef's tip: roast the spices slowly over a low heat until they are the colour of strong coffee; this is the dark colour and smoky flavour of a real pandi curry.
Coquito is Puerto Rico's Christmas in a glass: bottles of it are made in early December, given to neighbours and poured at every parranda, the late-night singing visits from house to house, until the Fiesta de San Sebastián in Old San Juan in January. This version contains alcohol: it blends coconut milk, sweet cream of coconut and condensed and evaporated milk with Puerto Rican white rum, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla. It's thick, cold and sweet, with the warmth of rum behind the spice. For children and anyone avoiding alcohol, make it without the rum as described in the steps. Chef's tip: let it rest in the fridge overnight; the spices bloom and the rum mellows, and it tastes far rounder on the second day.
Chunks of tender corn on the cob tossed in hot oil with cumin, green chillies, fresh coriander, turmeric, black pepper and lemon until every kernel is coated. It's hot, tangy and messy to eat with your fingers. Serve hot from the barbecue.
Cornulețe are the little crescent cookies that fill tins in Romanian kitchens before Christmas and New Year, and that grandmothers in Sibiu and Timișoara bake by the hundred for weddings and name days. This version uses a tender yeasted dough made with butter and yogurt, wrapped around a spoonful of thick plum jam (magiun) or rose rahat and rolled into horns. They bake pale and soft, not flaky, and are rolled in vanilla sugar while warm (the recipe makes 32, two per serving), which sets them apart from the cream-cheese rugelach of Jewish baking. Chef's tip: use thick jam and pinch the ends shut; runny jam is the usual mistake and bubbles out and burns on the tray.
Solterito, the 'little bachelor', is a cold salad from Arequipa in southern Peru, so called because it was simple enough for a single man to make. Broad beans, sweet corn, fresh cheese, tomato and red onion are tossed with black olives, parsley and a little rocoto chilli in an oil and vinegar dressing. It is eaten with the spicy dishes of Arequipa's picanterías, or on its own as a light lunch. Rocoto is a fat, fiery red chilli; a red pepper with a little habanero gives a similar crunch and heat. Use queso fresco made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: peel the broad beans after blanching; the pale skins are tough and the bright green beans inside make the salad sweet and tender.
Samosa thoke is pure Yangon street food, born from the city's Indian-Burmese communities: vendors on Mahabandoola Road chop crisp samosas into a bowl with cabbage, onion and mint, ladle over a thin, spiced lentil broth (pe hin ye), and finish it with tamarind, chilli and a squeeze of lime. The samosas soften at the edges while the middle stays crunchy, and the whole bowl is hot, sour and savoury. Use vegan samosas made without ghee. Chef's tip: ladle the broth over at the very last moment and eat straight away; samosa thoke left to sit turns soggy fast.
Before the sun is fully up over Makassar's harbour, coto warungs are already serving dockers and office workers alike from huge clay-coloured pots. This South Sulawesi soup is thick, brown and opaque, its body coming from roasted peanuts ground almost to flour and simmered into a broth made with the cloudy water from rinsing rice. Diced beef (and traditionally offal) sits in a nutty, cumin-and-pepper broth that's eaten with diamond-shaped ketupat rice cakes broken into the bowl, plus lime and a spoon of chilli. Chef's tip: grind the cooled peanuts in short bursts and stop while they're still sandy; a few seconds too long and you get peanut butter that turns the soup claggy.
Cou-cou is Friday lunch in Barbados, and paired with flying fish it makes the island's national dish, served in homes and the fish fry stalls of Oistins. Fine cornmeal is stirred into okra and its cooking water with a flat wooden cou-cou stick until it is smooth, thick and pulls away from the pot, then shaped in a buttered bowl. It's soft, mild and comforting, made for soaking up the rich tomato gravy around it. Here the gravy is a stew of peppers, tomatoes, aubergine and butter beans cooked with Bajan seasoning; flying fish steamed in the same sauce is the classic for fish eaters. Chef's tip: whisk the cornmeal into cold water before it goes into the pot; adding it dry to boiling liquid is the fastest way to lumps.
Sbornaya myasnaya solyanka is the soup Russian cooks make on 2 January, when the fridge is full of leftover ham and sausage from the New Year table; Moscow restaurants also keep it on the menu all winter as the cure for a heavy night. A beef broth is sharpened with pickled cucumbers and their brine, then loaded with strips of smoked sausage, ham and tender beef, salty olives and capers, and finished in the bowl with a slice of lemon and a spoon of sour cream. It contains pork (ham and smoked sausage). Serve it with rye bread. The usual mistake is salting the broth early: pickles, brine, capers, olives and sausage all bring salt, so season only at the very end. Chef's tip: fry the tomato paste with the pickles until it darkens before it meets the broth; it takes away the raw tinny taste and gives solyanka its deep orange colour.
Couscous royal is the big-occasion couscous that Algerian and Moroccan families brought to France and that is now served for weddings and Sunday gatherings from Oran to Marseille: a pot of lamb and chicken simmered with vegetables and chickpeas in a mildly spiced broth, grilled merguez on the side, and a mountain of steamed couscous. The mistake is putting all the vegetables in at once; the courgettes go mushy while the turnips are still hard, so add them in stages. Chef's tip: brown the lamb and chicken well before the water goes in; that colour flavours the whole broth.
Tfaya is the sweet onion topping that turns a plain couscous into a celebration dish; in Fez and Rabat it is made for weddings, naming ceremonies and Eid, and families in Tétouan add it to Friday couscous too. Onions are cooked slowly with raisins, cinnamon, honey and a little saffron until they collapse into a sticky, mahogany jam, then piled over the couscous with chickpeas and fried almonds. Traditionally it crowns couscous with meat; here the chickpeas and almonds carry the dish, making it a sweet-savoury vegetarian main for a feast. Chef's tip: soak the raisins first, or they draw liquid from the onions and the tfaya catches before it caramelises.
Cozonac is the festive loaf every Romanian family bakes for Easter and Christmas, filling kitchens from Craiova to Suceava with the smell of butter, rum, lemon and orange zest. The rich yeast dough is rolled around a walnut and cocoa filling studded with pieces of rahat (Turkish delight), then braided and baked in a tall loaf tin so each slice shows a dark swirl. Unlike Slovenian potica, which is rolled into a thin spiral ring, cozonac is a braided loaf. It is eaten in thick slices with coffee on the feast mornings. Chef's tip: knead until the dough is silky and comes away from the bowl, then be patient with the rises; under-proving is the classic mistake and gives a dense, heavy loaf.
Crème brûlée, 'burnt cream', is the dessert on almost every Paris bistro menu: a shallow dish of rich vanilla custard, cold and silky, under a thin sheet of caramelised sugar you crack with the back of a spoon. Unlike the stovetop Spanish crema catalana, it's made with cream and baked gently in a water bath. The custards are made a day ahead, which makes it ideal for dinner parties; only the sugar is burnt at the last minute. Chef's tip: take them out of the oven while the middle still wobbles like jelly; overbaking is the common mistake and the custard turns grainy and splits.
Along the Dalmatian coast, from Korčula to Dubrovnik, konobas serve crni rižot as the first thing fishermen order when they come ashore, its jet-black colour startling against a white plate. Cuttlefish is cooked slowly with onion and garlic until tender, then rice goes in with fish stock and the ink sac, making a creamy, sea-sweet rice that tastes of the shore. It traditionally includes a splash of dry white wine; for an alcohol-free version, use more stock with a squeeze of lemon. The usual mistake is adding the cuttlefish late and cooking it fast, which leaves it rubbery; it needs to stew first. Chef's tip: serve with a drizzle of good olive oil and grated hard sheep's cheese if you like, and warn your guests about black teeth.
Guo qiao mi xian comes from Mengzi in southern Yunnan. The story goes that a scholar's wife carried soup across a bridge to his island study each day, and found that a layer of oil kept it piping hot. Today in Kunming it arrives as a big bowl of scalding broth plus small plates of raw thinly sliced vegetables, tofu skin, herbs and rice noodles, which you slide in yourself so they cook at the table. This vegetarian broth is built on mushroom, corn and soybean sprouts. Chef's tip: the broth must be at a rolling boil when it goes into a warmed bowl; that heat is what cooks the toppings.
Csirkepaprikás is the Sunday chicken of Hungarian homes, cooked by grandmothers in villages and in Budapest flats alike and always served with nokedli, the little egg dumplings. Chicken thighs braise gently with onion, plenty of sweet paprika, tomato and pepper, then soured cream is stirred in to make a velvety, brick-orange sauce. Chef's tip: mix the soured cream with a spoonful of flour and some hot sauce before adding it; this stops it from splitting.
Cuberdons are the purple, cone-shaped sweets sold from handcarts on the Groentenmarkt in Ghent, where locals call them neuzekes, 'little noses'. A thin, firm sugar crust encloses a syrupy raspberry centre, and they only stay that way for about three weeks before the inside crystallises, which is why they have never become an export. They are made with gum arabic, not gelatine, so they suit vegetarians and vegans. Making them at home is a fun weekend project: the syrup is poured into cone-shaped hollows pressed into a tray of dry cornflour, which slowly draws moisture out and forms the crust. Chef's tip: use a sugar thermometer and be exact; just a few degrees too low and the cones never form a crust, a few too high and they set solid all the way through.
On the island of Chiloé in southern Chile, curanto is cooked in a pit lined with hot stones and covered with huge nalca leaves; in town kitchens and in Puerto Montt's market it is made in a big pot instead, curanto en olla. Mussels and clams, smoked pork, chicken and sausage steam together over potatoes and milcao (potato dumplings) until the juices make a rich broth, served in cups on the side. This dish contains pork and shellfish. Some cooks add white wine; this version uses water. The mistake is adding the shellfish too early; they go in at the end and must open, and any that stay closed are thrown away. Chef's tip: make the milcao a little ahead and keep it in the fridge so it holds its shape.
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