Chocolate chip gelato
Stracciatella was invented in 1961 at the Gelateria La Marianna in Bergamo's upper town, inspired by stracciatella soup, where egg is stirred into broth in little rags (stracci). The gelato maker drizzled melted dark chocolate into churning fior di latte, where it froze instantly into thin, crisp shards. It became one of the best-loved flavours in Italy, a favourite with children. Chef's tip: drizzle the chocolate in a thin stream right at the end of churning; it must hit the cold gelato and set at once, or it forms hard lumps.
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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.
When late-summer markets in Novi Sad and Belgrade fill up with pale yellow and light green peppers, Serbian kitchens make big pots of punjene paprike to eat for several days. The peppers are packed with seasoned beef and pork mince and rice, stood upright and simmered slowly in a light tomato sauce until meltingly soft. They are served with a dollop of sour cream and bread to mop up the sauce. This recipe contains pork. The easy mistake is stuffing the peppers too tightly: the rice swells and splits them, so leave the top 2 cm empty. Chef's tip: plug each pepper with a slice of potato or tomato before simmering, so the filling stays inside.
Kladdkaka, literally 'sticky cake', is the chocolate cake Swedish teenagers learn to make first, because it needs one pan, no mixer and no raising agent. The outside bakes to a thin, crackly crust while the centre stays fudgy and almost molten, somewhere between a brownie and a chocolate pudding. In Sweden it turns up at birthday parties, after Friday tacos and at summer cottages, cut into wedges and served with lightly whipped cream and a few raspberries or lingonberries. Cocoa, not bar chocolate, gives it its classic flavour. Chef's tip: take it out when the middle still wobbles like set jelly; it firms up as it cools and a fully set kladdkaka is just a dry chocolate cake.
When the fog settles over Punjab in December, kitchens fill with the smell of wheat flour roasting slowly in ghee: pinni season has started. These dense, crumbly balls of roasted atta, jaggery, almonds and fried edible gum are made in big batches for Lohri, packed into tins for relatives and given to new mothers for strength. One pinni with a glass of hot milk is a classic winter breakfast. Chef's tip: let the roasted flour cool until just warm before adding the jaggery; if it is hot, the jaggery melts and the pinni set hard as stone.
Ask almost any family in Mexico about Sunday lunch or a cold, rainy afternoon and caldo de res comes up: bone-in beef shank simmered for hours, then filled with big pieces of corn on the cob, carrot, potato, courgette and cabbage, so each bowl is a meal. Fondas from Monterrey to Mexico City sell it at midday with Mexican red rice, warm tortillas and a dish of chopped serrano and onion. The marrow from the shank bones enriches the clear broth. Chef's tip: add the vegetables in stages, the hard ones first, so everything is tender at the same time and nothing turns to mush.
Klepon are the jajan pasar, or market cakes, of Java: sold in the morning from baskets lined with banana leaves, bright green from pandan and dusted with grated coconut. Bite one and a pocket of molten palm sugar floods your mouth, so Javanese eat them whole. Malaysians and Singaporeans know the same sweet as onde-onde, made for festive tea tables, so this page covers both. Chef's tip: seal the balls with no cracks and drop them into gently boiling water — the moment they float, give them one more minute, and the sugar inside will be fully molten.
No Filipino birthday is complete without a big tray of pancit, because long noodles stand for a long life; aunts arrive at the party carrying it in foil trays, and it sits on the table next to the cake. Pancit bihon uses thin rice vermicelli tossed with sautéed vegetables and a soy-seasoned stock until the noodles drink up every drop and turn light brown and glossy. This version is vegetarian, with fried tofu standing in for the usual chicken, shrimp and sausage, and vegetable stock in the pan. Squeeze calamansi (or lime) over each plate; the sharp citrus is what lifts it. Chef's tip: never cut the noodles before serving, for luck, and cook them in the stock rather than boiling them first.
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.
Every busy corner in Mumbai, from Churchgate station to the lanes of Dadar, has a sandwich-wallah with a stack of white bread, a tub of butter, a bowl of green chutney and a cast-iron toaster held over a flame. The Bombay sandwich is built in thin layers of boiled potato, beetroot, cucumber, tomato, onion and green pepper, each layer dusted with a peppery sandwich masala, then toasted until crisp and cut into neat squares. Cheese is grated over the top if you ask. It's a commuter's breakfast, a school snack and a late-night bite after the cinema. Serve with ketchup and more chutney. Chef's tip: slice every vegetable as thin as a coin; thick slices slide out when you bite and stop the sandwich toasting evenly.
Bhutte ka kees is a monsoon favourite from Indore in Madhya Pradesh, sold at the city's famous night market, Sarafa. Fresh corn is grated and cooked in ghee with mustard seeds and green chilli, then simmered in milk until it turns thick, creamy and gently sweet. A squeeze of lemon, fresh coriander and grated coconut finish it. Eat it hot with a spoon as an evening snack. Chef's tip: grate the corn off the cob on the coarse side of a box grater rather than blending it; you get juicy, starchy pulp that thickens the milk naturally.
In monsoon Indore, when the fields around the city are full of tender maize, sweet shops turn the same corn into halwa: kernels ground coarsely, roasted in ghee until they smell like buttered popcorn, then cooked with milk and sugar until glossy. It is lighter and less cloying than many halwas, with a gentle bite from the corn. Families make it for guests and for small festivals, and it is just as good warm from the pan or at room temperature the next day. Chef's tip: grind the corn in short pulses to a coarse, porridgy texture; a smooth purée turns gluey and sticks.
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.
In December, Colombian families gather for the novena de aguinaldos, nine evenings of prayers and carols before Christmas, and the reward afterwards is a plate of hot buñuelos with a bowl of natilla. These little golden balls are made from crumbly cheese, cassava starch and cornflour, fried until they puff and roll themselves over in the oil. They are crisp outside, airy and cheesy inside. Chef's tip: start the oil only warm, around 150 °C; buñuelos fried too hot crack open and stay raw in the centre.
Before Hanoi's offices open, pavement pho stalls are already busy, with diners on low plastic stools bent over bowls of rice noodles in a clear, spiced beef broth. The northern style is restrained: brisket and thin slices of raw beef that cook in the bowl, spring onion and a little coriander, with lime and chilli on the side rather than a heap of herbs and sauces. The work is in the broth, simmered slowly from bones with blackened onion and ginger and a small bag of toasted spices. Make it on a weekend; it keeps for three days and the bowls then take ten minutes. Chef's tip: char the onion and ginger until they are properly black in patches, because that smoky sweetness is what makes the broth taste of pho rather than plain beef stock.
Up in Bulgaria's Rhodope mountains, around Smolyan and Chepelare, kavarma is cooked in individual glazed clay pots and brought to the table still bubbling, often with an egg baked on top. This one is made with pork shoulder (chicken thighs work too), browned and then stewed slowly with a mountain of onion, peppers, mushrooms, paprika and savory. It traditionally includes a splash of dry white wine; the ingredient list gives an alcohol-free swap. Eat it with crusty bread and a shopska-style tomato and cucumber salad. A common slip is cutting the pork too small, so it dries out before the sauce is ready; keep the pieces bite-size but chunky. Chef's tip: let the onions cook down with the meat until almost jammy before the peppers go in; that is where kavarma gets its sweetness.
On Ngũ Xã, a little island of streets between Trúc Bạch lake and West Lake in Hanoi, whole rows of restaurants sell nothing but pho in different shapes, and phở cuốn is the one people order by the plateful in the evening. Instead of cutting the fresh rice-noodle sheet into ribbons, the cooks leave it whole and roll it round seared beef, lettuce and herbs. The rolls are soft, cool and slightly chewy, and you dip them in a light, sweet fish sauce with pickled carrot. Look for fresh rice-noodle sheets in the chiller of an Asian supermarket, often sold for Chinese ho fun. Chef's tip: if the sheets are stiff from the fridge, steam or microwave them for 30 seconds under a damp cloth before separating, or they tear.
In the highlands around Huancayo and Ayacucho, families mark harvests and saints' days by burying marinated meats, potatoes, sweet potatoes, broad beans and humitas under hot stones and earth for a pachamanca, an 'earth pot'. City cooks get close to it with a heavy pot: the same green marinade of huacatay (black mint), chincho, ají and garlic, layered with meats and roots and steamed in their own juices under banana or corn leaves. Chef's tip: layer the hardest things lowest, potatoes on the bottom and chicken nearest the lid, just as the stones are packed in the field.
Kaya is the coconut and egg jam spread thickly on toast in every kopitiam in Singapore, from heritage chains to the coffee shop under a housing block. This is the green Nyonya-style kaya, gently cooked with pandan leaves until it turns thick, glossy and custardy; the Hainanese version adds caramel for a brown colour. It keeps for a week in the fridge and is the essential part of kaya toast. Chef's tip: cook it slowly over a pan of barely simmering water and keep stirring; rushed kaya scrambles and turns grainy.
The kaya toast set is Singapore's breakfast ritual: thin, crisp toast sandwiched with kaya and a cold slab of butter, served with two runny soft-boiled eggs seasoned at the table with dark soy and white pepper, and a cup of kopi. Office workers eat it at kopitiams in Tiong Bahru and Tanjong Pagar before work; children love dunking the toast in the eggs. Chef's tip: put the eggs in water that's just off the boil for exactly 6–7 minutes; the whites should be barely set and wobbly, the yolks completely runny.
Briam is what Greek home cooks put in the oven on a hot afternoon when the garden is full of courgettes: potatoes, courgettes, aubergine, peppers and onions tumbled with grated tomato, garlic and oregano, then roasted slowly until soft and caramelised at the edges. It is one of the ladera, dishes cooked in olive oil and eaten as a main course, usually at room temperature with feta and bread. It tastes better the next day, when the flavours have settled. Chef's tip: cut the potatoes thinner than everything else so they cook in the same time; same-size chunks are the common mistake that leaves you with hard potatoes and mushy courgettes.
Chhena poda means 'burnt cheese', and it is Odisha's most famous sweet. It was first made in Nayagarh district, where a sweet maker is said to have left chhena and sugar overnight in a cooling wood oven. Fresh chhena is kneaded with sugar, a spoon of rice flour or semolina, and cardamom, then baked slowly until the outside caramelises into a dark, sticky crust and the inside stays moist and fudgy. It is offered to Lord Jagannath and sold in slabs at every Odia sweet shop. Chef's tip: line the tin with ghee-brushed banana leaf if you can; it adds the smoky note of the original.
Potjiekos is the long, sociable cook of South African weekends: a cast-iron three-legged pot (potjie) sits over a small fire for hours while friends talk around it, and the rule is that once the layers are in, nobody stirs. The lamb is browned at the bottom, then potatoes, carrots, butternut, green beans and mushrooms are stacked on top so the hardest vegetables are nearest the heat. A heavy casserole on the hob or in the oven works just as well. Some cooks add a glass of red wine or beer; this version uses stock only, and you may swap 150 ml of it for wine if you like. The mistake is stirring the pot, which turns the neat layers into mush. Chef's tip: add only a little liquid; the vegetables give off their own juice as they steam.
Kazakhs drink more tea per person than almost anyone, and at home it is always sut shai: strong black tea, often brewed from Kenyan or Indian leaves, poured into a wide cup (kese) with hot milk or a spoon of cream. The host keeps the cups barely half full and refills them again and again, and a guest turns the cup upside down when they've had enough. In winter in Astana a pinch of salt or a knob of butter may go in. It accompanies baursak, shelpek and every meal. Chef's tip: heat the milk until it just steams and add it to the cup first; scalded, boiled milk gives the tea a cooked taste.
Pachi pulusu, 'raw stew', is Telangana's summer cooler: a no-cook tamarind water stirred with jaggery, finely sliced raw onion and green chilli, finished with a hot mustard-seed tempering. In the heat of April and May in villages around Warangal and Karimnagar, families pour it over hot rice with a spoonful of dal or a spicy fry, and it wakes up appetites dulled by the sun. Some add a smoky roasted brinjal mashed in, which gives it body. Sweet, sour and sharp at once, it takes ten minutes. Chef's tip: rub the onion with salt and a little chilli powder in your fingers before adding the tamarind water, so it softens slightly and flavours the whole bowl.
In Hanoi some shops sell nothing but chicken pho, and locals often choose it over beef for a gentler breakfast or a late bowl after an evening out. The broth is lighter than the beef version, made in about an hour from a whole bird with a few charred aromatics and only a hint of spice. The northern signature is a tangle of makrut lime leaf, cut as fine as thread, scattered over the hot chicken just before serving. It's a good first pho to make at home, since the timing is forgiving and the chicken poaches in the same pot. Chef's tip: plunge the cooked chicken into iced water for 5 minutes; the skin turns firm and slightly springy, the way Hanoi cooks like it.
In spring, before the rains, the phutkal tree (a wild fig) puts out tender pink-green shoots, and women across Jharkhand climb or hook them down to cook as saag. The leaves are naturally sour, so the dish needs no tomato or tamarind: they are boiled, squeezed and fried with garlic, dried chilli and mustard oil. Much of the harvest is dried in the sun and sold in Ranchi markets to cook through the year, and dried phutkal is what most people outside the state can find. Chef's tip: boil and squeeze the leaves well; this tames any bitterness and keeps the saag from turning watery.
Chorrillana was made famous by the old picadas (cheap eateries) of Valparaíso's port, where it arrived on huge platters for friends to share late at night: a mound of chips covered with strips of beef, soft fried onions and scrambled or fried eggs. The mistake is cooking the onions too fast; they should be soft, sweet and golden to bring the dish together. Chef's tip: season the beef only at the end so it browns rather than steams. Some bars add a splash of wine to the onions; this version leaves it out.
Armenian coffee, soorj, is boiled in a small long-handled pot called a jazzve and poured unfiltered into tiny cups. It is offered the moment a guest sits down in any Yerevan home and lingers after meals while the grounds settle; when the cup is empty, it is turned upside down on its saucer so someone can read the patterns left in the grounds. The coffee is powder-fine, often scented with a pinch of cardamom, with a velvety foam (kaymak) on top that is a point of pride for the host. Serve with a glass of water and a little gata or dried fruit. Chef's tip: start with cold water and a low flame; the slower the coffee heats, the thicker and longer-lasting the foam.
Kedjenou comes from the Baoulé people of central Côte d'Ivoire, who cooked it in a sealed clay canari set in the embers and shook the pot instead of stirring it; today it is a weekend favourite in Abidjan's maquis, served with attiéké or rice. Chicken, tomato, onion, aubergine, ginger and chilli go into the pot with no water at all, and the vegetables release enough juice to make a light, intense sauce. The mistake is lifting the lid to stir: the steam escapes and the pot can burn, so seal it well and shake it instead. Chef's tip: a heavy casserole with a sheet of foil pressed under the lid works just like the clay pot.
Keerai masiyal is the plain, green, buttery-soft mash Tamil mothers make with whatever keerai the market has that morning: arai keerai, siru keerai, amaranth or plain spinach. The leaves are cooked with shallots, garlic and green chilli and then mashed, traditionally with a wooden mathu, until smooth but still a little textured, then finished with a cumin tempering. It's eaten mixed into hot rice with a spoon of ghee or sesame oil, next to sambar or rasam, and it's a favourite first food for toddlers. Chef's tip: cook the greens uncovered; covering them traps the gases that turn the leaves dull olive instead of bright green.
On rainy afternoons in Gangwon province, roadside stalls and mountain trail restaurants fry gamja jeon (감자전): pancakes of nothing but grated potato, salt and a few slices of chilli, fried in plenty of oil until the edges turn lacy and glassy-crisp while the middle stays soft and chewy. It is a different thing from a Western rösti, made from a wet purée rather than shreds. Eat them hot with a sharp soy dipping sauce and a bowl of makgeolli or barley tea. Chef's tip: press each pancake thin with the back of a spoon as soon as it hits the pan; thick ones stay gluey inside.
In Kuching, kek lapis Sarawak is baked for Hari Raya, Christmas and Gawai, and every family gives boxes of it away. Unlike Indonesia's spiced lapis legit, Sarawak cakes are sweet, dense and buttery, often made with condensed milk, and famous for their bright geometric patterns. Many layers are grilled one by one, then the cake is cut into strips and glued back together with jam to make the design. This is the beginner's chequerboard in plain and pandan green. Chef's tip: spread each layer thin and even with the back of a spoon; uneven layers make the pattern crooked.
Kelewele is what Accra smells like after dark: ripe plantain cubes tossed in a paste of ginger, onion, chilli and spice, then fried at roadside stalls lit by lamps and sold in paper cones. It is eaten as an evening snack, often with a handful of roasted peanuts, or as a side with red red. The outside caramelises while the spices turn toasty, so every piece is sweet, hot and spicy at once. Chef's tip: use plantains that are yellow with lots of black spots; fully black ones collapse in the oil and green ones never turn sweet.
Arroz verde is red rice's fresher sister, popular across central Mexico as a side for mole, enchiladas and beans. The rice is toasted in oil and then simmered in a vivid green purée of poblano pepper, coriander, parsley and a handful of spinach, so it comes out fluffy, herby and gently peppery, the colour of spring grass. It is vegan with vegetable stock and pairs especially well with mole rojo or roasted vegetables. Chef's tip: blend the greens with cold stock and add it straight to the rice; heated slowly or left standing the purée loses its colour, so make it right before you need it.
Before the cola era, kvass was Russia's everyday thirst-quencher, sold every summer from yellow barrel trailers on Moscow street corners and poured into glass mugs. At home it is brewed from dried rye bread, sugar and a pinch of yeast, fermented for a day or two until it tastes malty, a little sour and gently fizzy, and only about 1% alcohol. It is drunk ice cold and is also the broth for okroshka. Chef's tip: toast the bread until really dark, almost burnt at the edges; that is where kvass gets its deep colour and its toasted, malty taste.
Chicha morada is Peru's favourite soft drink, served by the jug in every restaurant in Lima and drunk across the country with lunch. Andean purple corn is simmered with pineapple peel, apple, cinnamon and cloves, then sweetened and sharpened with lime to make a dark ruby drink that tastes of berries, spice and gentle tannin, a little like a spiced cranberry juice. It has no alcohol, unlike the fermented chicha de jora of the Andes. Dried purple corn (maíz morado) comes from Latin shops; purple corn powder works too. Chef's tip: add the sugar and lime only once the drink has cooled; lime added to the hot liquid turns it bitter.
Arroz rojo (also called arroz a la mexicana) is the rice served beside almost everything in Mexico, from enchiladas to beans to a fried egg. Long-grain rice is fried in oil until golden, then simmered in a blended tomato, onion and garlic broth until every grain is separate, tender and tinted orange-red. Diced carrot and peas add colour and sweetness, and a whole chilli in the pot gives a gentle warmth without heat. Made with vegetable stock it is vegan and a favourite with children. Chef's tip: rinse the rice until the water runs clear and let it dry well before frying; wet rice won't toast and turns out sticky.
Along the coast from Valencia up to the Costa Brava, arroz negro (arròs negre in Catalan and Valencian) is a seafront restaurant favourite, ordered for the table at lunchtime and brought out in its pan. Squid and its ink turn the rice glossy black and give it a deep taste of the sea, and every forkful gets a dab of garlicky all-i-oli. This version uses the traditional egg-free all-i-oli, just garlic, oil and salt pounded together; if you'd rather make the easier egg version, use a pasteurised egg, and note that raw egg is not suitable for pregnant women, young children, older people or anyone with a weakened immune system. Chef's tip: buy squid ink in sachets or small jars from a fishmonger or Spanish deli; the ink sac inside a whole squid is far too small to colour a whole pan.
Chicha venezolana is the thick, creamy rice drink sold from pushcarts by chicheros on the streets of Caracas, poured over ice and topped with condensed milk and cinnamon. Unlike Mexican horchata, which is made from soaked raw rice, chicha is made from rice cooked until very soft, then blended with milk, condensed milk and vanilla, so it's thick and velvety, almost a drinkable rice pudding. Children love it as an afternoon treat. Chef's tip: cook the rice until it is really mushy and splitting; any firmness left makes the chicha gritty.
Old Beijing eats these at breakfast with a bowl of soy milk, or tears them up beside a lamb hot pot. The dough is spread with toasted sesame paste and ground Sichuan pepper, rolled up and coiled, so a cut loaf shows a spiral of dozens of thin brown layers. The top is crusted with sesame seeds and baked until it shatters. Chef's tip: spread the paste right to the edges and roll tightly; air pockets make the layers separate and burst.
Lisbon's standing-room snack bars, from the Baixa to the stalls outside football grounds, sell bifanas all day: thin pork steaks simmered in a garlicky, bay-scented sauce and pushed into a soft papo-seco roll with a smear of mustard. It's a pork sandwich, and the pork is traditionally marinated in white wine; for an alcohol-free version use chicken stock with a tablespoon of white wine vinegar. It makes a quick lunch or a late snack. Chef's tip: dip the cut side of the roll into the pan juices before filling it; that's how the bars make them so juicy.
Ker sangri is a true desert dish from the Thar in Rajasthan: ker are small, sour wild caper berries and sangri are the thin, chewy bean pods of the khejri tree, both picked in summer and sun-dried to last the year. Soaked, boiled and fried in plenty of mustard oil with chilli, mango powder and coriander, they become tangy, earthy and almost pickle-like. It keeps for days, which is why it travelled with camel herders. Serve with bajra roti or puri, or as a side to dal baati. Chef's tip: taste a ker berry after boiling; if it is still very bitter, boil it again in fresh water before frying.
Kerak telor is the Betawi snack of Jakarta, cooked over charcoal by vendors at the Jakarta Fair and around Monas: a little soaked sticky rice is cooked in a tiny wok, an egg cracked on top, then the wok is turned upside down over the coals so the bottom forms a crust. It is finished with serundeng, a spiced toasted coconut, and fried shallots. Vendors usually add dried shrimp to the coconut; this version doesn't. Chef's tip: soak the sticky rice overnight; half-soaked grains stay hard in the middle.
Down the southern backwater districts of Travancore, around Kottayam and Alappuzha, the everyday fish curry has no coconut at all: just a brick-red gravy of chilli, shallots and coconut oil, made sour and smoky with kudampuli (Malabar tamarind). It is traditionally made in a clay pot (manchatti) and left to sit, because it tastes better hours later or the next morning, when the fish has soaked up the sourness. Kingfish, sardines and mackerel are the usual choices; eat it with boiled red Kerala rice or tapioca. Chef's tip: once the fish is in, never use a spoon — hold the pot with a cloth and swirl it so the sauce coats the pieces without breaking them.
Panipopo (from 'pani', bun, and 'popo', coconut) are soft, sweet bread rolls baked sitting in a pool of coconut milk and sugar, which bubbles into a sticky, caramel-coloured sauce around them. Samoan families bake them for Sunday lunch, fundraisers and church gatherings, and they've spread to Samoan communities in Auckland and Hawaii. Served warm with the sauce spooned over, they're somewhere between a cinnamon roll and a pudding. Chef's tip: pour the coconut sauce around the rolls just before baking, not hours ahead, or the bottoms go soggy instead of sticky.
Bienenstich, the 'bee sting', is a sheet cake found in every German bakery: a soft, buttery yeast dough baked under a crackling layer of almonds caramelised with butter, honey and sugar, then split and filled with vanilla cream. The story goes that a bee, drawn to the honey topping, stung the baker. It's a Sunday afternoon cake, at its best on the day it's made. This version sets the filling with cornflour custard folded with whipped cream, no gelatine. Chef's tip: cut the topping layer into portions before you put it back on the cream; the hard almond crust otherwise squeezes all the filling out when you slice it.
Cafreal came to Goa through Portuguese soldiers from Mozambique and became a fixture of the taverns and beach shacks around Panjim and Margao, where it is served with chips, a lime wedge and a cold drink. Chicken legs soak overnight in a vivid green paste of coriander, green chilli, garlic and warm spices, then fry slowly until the paste clings in dark, tangy patches. Chef's tip: use the coriander stems as well as the leaves; they carry most of the flavour and make the paste greener.
Along the beach road from Kuala Terengganu to Marang, roadside huts sell keropok lekor in paper bags, still hot from the wok. These are long, grey-white sausages of fish and sago starch, boiled until they float and then sliced and fried, so the outside puffs and crisps while the inside stays dense, bouncy and tasting clearly of the sea. Locals dip them in a sweet, garlicky chilli sauce and eat them with tea in the late afternoon. They freeze well after boiling, ready to fry any time. Chef's tip: knead the fish with ice-cold water; keeping the dough cold is what gives the springy bite.
Beskuit grew out of the Voortrekker need for bread that kept on long ox-wagon journeys; today a tin of rusks sits next to the kettle in homes from the Karoo to Pretoria, and they are dunked in early-morning coffee or rooibos. A soft buttermilk dough is baked as a loaf, cut into fingers and then dried in a low oven for hours until rock hard and crunchy. Chef's tip: dry the rusks slowly at a very low heat with the oven door slightly open; they should dry out completely, not brown further.
Piadina is Romagna's everyday bread, cooked on a hot griddle (traditionally a terracotta testo) in chalet-style kiosks from Rimini to Ravenna and eaten folded around soft squacquerone cheese and rocket, or with grilled vegetables. It needs no yeast and is ready in half an hour, which is why families make it at home for quick suppers. The old recipe uses lard; olive oil gives a lighter, vegetarian result. Chef's tip: let the griddle get properly hot and cook the piadina dry, without oil; you want brown freckles and a few blisters, not a fried bread.
Ask a Hangzhou local what they eat at a noodle shop and the answer is often pian'er chuan, a quick bowl named for its sliced (pian) pork and bamboo that are flash-cooked (chuan) in the broth. Salty, crunchy pickled mustard greens give it its savoury depth, the bamboo adds a clean sweetness, and the thin noodles soak up a cloudy, peppery soup. It is everyday lunch food, eaten at speed. A common mistake is skipping the rinse on the pickled greens; unrinsed, they make the whole bowl too salty. Chef's tip: slice the pork as thinly as you can while it is half-frozen, so it cooks in seconds and stays tender.
Buuz are the dumplings every Mongolian family makes in their hundreds before Tsagaan Sar, the Lunar New Year, in Ulaanbaatar flats and countryside gers alike, freezing them outside in the cold to steam for the stream of visitors. A simple dough wraps a juicy filling of chopped mutton, onion, garlic and caraway, pinched into a pleated shape with a small hole at the top, and the dumplings are eaten hot, with salty milk tea. The mistake is lean meat: buuz need some fat, or the filling is dry. Chef's tip: add a few spoons of cold water to the filling so it stays juicy when steamed.
Pączki are the rich, yeasted doughnuts Poland eats by the dozen on Tłusty Czwartek, Fat Thursday, the last Thursday before Lent, when Warsaw bakeries such as the old ones on Nowy Świat have queues round the block from dawn. A good pączek is round and heavy for its size, with a pale ring around its middle, a fine, yolk-rich crumb and a filling of rose-petal jam (konfitura z róży) or plum butter, finished with icing and candied orange peel. A spoon of vodka or spirytus in the dough is an old trick: it evaporates in the hot oil and stops the dough soaking up fat. Chef's tip: keep the oil between 165 and 175°C with a thermometer; hotter and they burn outside while raw in the middle, cooler and they turn greasy.
Kespe is the plainest and most comforting of Kazakh soups: home-made egg noodles, cut thin with a knife, simmered in broth with potato, carrot and onion. The name comes from 'kesu', to cut. Grandmothers in villages around Karaganda and Pavlodar make it on winter evenings and for anyone feeling unwell, and in Kyrgyzstan the same soup goes by the same name. It is usually cooked in mutton broth; this version uses a well-browned vegetable broth. Chef's tip: dry the cut noodles for 20 minutes before cooking; they hold their shape and don't cloud the broth.
Choila belongs to the Newar community of the Kathmandu Valley, where it is served at festivals like Dashain and at feasts in Bhaktapur and Patan, alongside beaten rice (chiura) and a glass of something strong. Traditionally it is water buffalo, grilled over straw so the meat tastes smoky, then tossed while warm with raw mustard oil, garlic, ginger, chilli and a sizzling fenugreek tempering. This version uses chicken thighs, with buffalo or beef as an option, and it is always fully cooked before tossing. Serve it as a starter or snack with chiura and pickled radish. Chef's tip: let the mustard-oil tempering smoke for a few seconds before pouring it over; the hot oil loses its raw bite and coats the meat with a nutty, pungent flavour.
Bicol, the peninsula at the southern tip of Luzon, cooks almost everything in coconut milk with plenty of chilli, and Bicol express is the pork dish that carries the region's name all over the country (locals often call it sinilihan, 'with chillies'). Pork shoulder is cooked down in coconut milk until the liquid turns to oil and the meat is tender, then finished with coconut cream, long green chillies and a spoon of shrimp paste. It is rich, salty and properly hot. Serve it with lots of plain rice. Chef's tip: let the coconut milk reduce until it 'breaks' and you see the oil; that is when the sauce gets its toasty, deep flavour.
Ketoprak is a Jakarta cart dish, made to order: the seller grinds peanuts, garlic and chilli in a wide stone mortar, loosens them with water and sweet soy, then tips fried tofu, rice cake, rice vermicelli and bean sprouts on top. It is a cousin of gado-gado but simpler, with no egg-and-greens platter, and the raw-garlic sauce is the whole point. Eat it at lunch with plenty of crackers. Chef's tip: grind the garlic with the hot fried peanuts so the garlic mellows slightly; a raw paste made with cold nuts is harsh.
Arroz doce is set out on every Portuguese table at Christmas, at weddings and at the summer romarias (village saints' festivals) of the Minho, poured into wide, shallow platters and dusted with cinnamon in lattices, initials or little hearts. Short-grain carolino rice is first boiled in water with lemon peel and cinnamon, then simmered slowly in milk and sugar, and finally thickened off the heat with egg yolks, which turns it pale gold and custardy; that last step is what sets it apart from Spanish or Mexican rice puddings. It is eaten cold or at room temperature, by the spoonful straight from the platter. Chef's tip: cook the rice in water first until it has swollen, and only then add the milk; starting in milk scorches easily and leaves the grains firm in the middle.
Ask for key wat at a restaurant in Addis Ababa and you get a bowl of tender beef drowned in a sauce so red it gives the dish its name: key means red in Amharic. It is everyday celebration food, cooked for Sunday lunch, weddings and the end of a fast, and it shares the slow-cooked onion base of doro wat but with chunks of beef and a sharper, more peppery heat. The sauce should be thick and glossy, with a layer of red oil on top. Spoon it over injera with a cooling plate of greens or lentils beside it. Chef's tip: cut the beef into small, even 2 cm cubes so it soaks up the sauce and becomes tender in under an hour and a half.
Piaya is the sweet everyone brings home from Bacolod and the sugar-growing island of Negros: a thin, flaky round of unleavened dough with a layer of dark muscovado inside, cooked on a dry griddle until blistered, and dotted with sesame seeds. The sugar melts and turns chewy as it cools. It is eaten with coffee in the afternoon, and newer shops fill it with ube. Lard is traditional in the dough; vegetable shortening gives the same flakiness. Chef's tip: roll the filled dough gently from the centre outward and keep it thin, or the sugar bursts through.
Chicken nanban comes from Miyazaki prefecture in Kyushu, where it was created in the city of Nobeoka in the mid 20th century as staff food at a Western-style restaurant. Today it is the region's best-known lunch set, served in diners all over Miyazaki with shredded cabbage, rice and miso soup. Chicken thighs are dipped in flour and beaten egg, fried golden, then briefly bathed in sweet soy vinegar and covered with a chunky egg tartar. The sharp vinegar and the rich tartar balance each other. Chef's tip: dip the hot chicken in the vinegar only for a few seconds per side; you want it seasoned, not soaked.
Thoran is the everyday dry vegetable of Kerala, on the lunch plate in nearly every home and in the steel tiffin boxes carried to offices from Thiruvananthapuram to Kannur. Cabbage is the classic choice: shredded fine, steamed in its own juices with mustard and curry leaves, then tossed with coconut that has been crushed (never ground smooth) with green chilli, garlic and cumin. It comes out sweet, fluffy and lightly crunchy. Serve it with rice, sambar or moru curry, or eat it with chapati. Chef's tip: shred the cabbage as finely as you can; thin shreds cook in their own steam in a few minutes and stay bright.
Sajji comes from Balochistan, where shepherds once roasted whole lambs on sticks around an open fire with nothing but salt. In Quetta and Karachi's Balochi restaurants it is now usually a whole chicken, lightly spiced, roasted slowly until the skin is crisp and the meat drips with juice, then served on a heap of rice or with flat kaak bread. It is a festive dish for gatherings and family Sundays. This oven version stays true to the simple style: salt, a little lemon and green papaya, and slow heat. Chef's tip: roast it low first and finish hot; slow cooking keeps the meat juicy while the final blast crisps the skin.
Picadillo a la habanera is Havana's everyday savoury hash, sweet with raisins, salty with olives and capers and sharp with tomato and sofrito. This vegetarian version swaps the meat for brown lentils and finely chopped mushrooms, which give the same crumbly, juicy texture and a deep savoury flavour. Spoon it over white rice with fried ripe plantain, or use it to fill empanadas and stuffed peppers. Chef's tip: let the mushrooms fry until all their liquid has gone and they turn brown; that browning is what makes it taste rich.
Across Spanish-speaking America arroz con pollo means yellow rice, but in Lima it comes out deep green, thanks to a big bunch of coriander blended into the cooking liquid. Mothers make it for Sunday lunch and for birthday parties, and street stalls ladle it out with salsa criolla, the sharp onion-and-lime relish that cuts through the rice. Chicken pieces are browned first, then the rice cooks in the same pot so it takes on all their flavour. Chef's tip: blend the coriander with cold stock right before it goes in, so it stays bright green rather than turning khaki.
Khambir is the everyday bread of Ladakh: a thick, round wholewheat loaf with a dent pressed into the middle, browned on a griddle and finished in the heat of the kitchen stove. In homes in Leh and Kargil it appears at breakfast, torn into chunks and dipped into salty butter tea, or spread with apricot jam made from the region's dried apricots. The crust is chewy and toasty, the inside dense and slightly sour. Bakers in Leh's old town still sell it warm in the mornings. Chef's tip: let the dough rise until truly doubled; under-risen khambir is heavy and gummy in the middle.
Chapli kebab comes from Peshawar, where Namak Mandi and the Qissa Khwani Bazaar are lined with cooks frying giant flat kebabs in shallow iron pans; the name comes from chaprikh, flat in Pashto. This chickpea version keeps everything that makes a chapli kebab taste right: coarsely crushed coriander seeds, dried pomegranate seeds (anardana) for sourness, chilli flakes, green chilli, onion, tomato and a little maize flour to bind it, with a slice of tomato pressed into each one so it chars in the pan. Serve them with naan, sliced onion and a sharp green chutney. The usual mistake is blitzing the chickpeas to a smooth paste in a processor; the kebab needs texture, so mash by hand and leave some pieces. Chef's tip: press them really thin, about 1 cm, and with ragged edges; the thin edges go crunchy, which is the whole point of a chapli.
Khandvi are delicate, melt-in-the-mouth rolls from Gujarat, made by cooking gram flour with sour buttermilk until thick, spreading it paper-thin while hot and rolling it up. They're finished with a sizzling tempering of mustard seeds, sesame and curry leaves, plus fresh coconut and coriander. They're soft, tangy and gently spiced, and a favourite at Gujarati weddings and tea-time. They look tricky, but once you know when the batter is cooked, they're quick. Chef's tip: keep a plate by the stove and test the batter often; when a spoonful spread thin on the plate sets in 30 seconds and peels off in one piece, it's ready, and not a minute before.
Khanfaroosh are an old Emirati sweet, made by grandmothers in Ras Al Khaimah and Fujairah and served with Arabic coffee when guests arrive, at weddings and during Eid. A rice-flour batter rich with eggs, saffron, cardamom and rose water is shallow-fried in small rounds that puff up, golden-brown with a lacy edge and a soft, spongy middle. They are less sweet than they look and best eaten warm from the pan. Chef's tip: let the batter rest for 30 minutes so the rice flour softens; unrested batter fries up gritty.
Breakfast stalls from Chiang Rai to Mae Sai ladle this tangy red broth over soft rice noodles from dawn until it sells out, usually before noon. The soup is light but full-flavoured: pork ribs give body, cherry tomatoes give a fresh sourness, and dried cotton-tree flowers (dok ngiao) add a faint floral, earthy chew. Each diner finishes their bowl at the table with bean sprouts, shredded cabbage, crispy garlic and lime. Cubes of cooked pig's blood are traditional; they are optional here and left out by default. Chef's tip: blanch the ribs and throw that first water away, so the finished broth stays clear and clean-tasting.
Cuban arroz con pollo is the one-pot Sunday lunch of the island, and every abuela in Santiago or Havana has her own way with it. Chicken pieces are browned, then the rice cooks right in the pot with sofrito, a pinch of saffron (or bijol, the annatto colouring most Cuban kitchens use) and stock until each grain is golden and moist, almost creamy. Peas and roasted red peppers go on top at the end. It is eaten with fried ripe plantain and a green salad. Many versions add a splash of beer to the pot; this one uses chicken stock only, so it is alcohol-free. The usual mistake is stirring the rice once it is covered, which breaks the grains and makes it gluey. Chef's tip: let the pot rest off the heat with the lid on for 10 minutes before serving, so the rice finishes softening in its own steam.
Khao jee pâté is the breakfast sandwich of Vientiane, sold from glass-fronted carts on street corners since the French era left Laos its love of baguettes. It is a pork sandwich: a crisp, light baguette is warmed over charcoal, spread with pork liver pâté and filled with Lao-style cold cuts (pork sausage or ham), pickled papaya or carrot, cucumber, herbs, chilli sauce and a splash of Maggi-style seasoning. Pregnant people should avoid pâté because of listeria risk. Chef's tip: warm the bread until the crust crackles; a soft baguette makes a soggy sandwich.
Across Saudi Arabia, from Riyadh flats to Jeddah family compounds, a Friday lunch usually means one huge tray of kabsa set on a cloth on the floor, everyone eating from their own side. The rice cooks in a tomato broth scented with dried lime, cinnamon and cardamom, so every grain turns orange-red and fragrant; this version swaps the usual chicken for chickpeas and carrot, which soak up the spices just as well. It is topped with raisins and toasted almonds and comes with daqqus, a sharp tomato-chilli sauce spooned over at the table. Chef's tip: pierce the dried limes before they go in; whole ones float and give little flavour, pierced ones fill the broth with a sour, smoky depth.
Around Pratunam market in Bangkok, the khao man gai stalls are easy to spot: a queue, pale poached chickens hanging in a glass cabinet, and a cook slicing with a cleaver at speed. Like its Hainanese ancestor, the dish pairs silky chicken with rice cooked in the bird's fat and broth, but the Thai plate stands apart for its sauce, a punchy mix of fermented soybeans (tao jiao), ginger, garlic, chilli and vinegar, and for the little bowl of clear broth with winter melon served on the side. Bangkok eats it for breakfast, lunch or a late supper, always with cucumber slices and coriander. Chef's tip: plunge the cooked chicken into iced water for 10 minutes; the skin firms to a jelly-like snap and the meat stays juicy.
Khao piak sen is the soup Laotians crave on a cool morning or when they feel unwell, and roadside shops in Vientiane and Luang Prabang sell it from dawn. The noodles are cut by hand from a soft rice and tapioca dough and cooked straight in the broth, so their starch turns the soup thick, slippery and comforting. Instead of the usual chicken stock, this version builds a deep broth from dried shiitake, charred onion and ginger, and finishes it with crisp fried garlic, spring onion and coriander. Chef's tip: dust the cut noodles well with tapioca starch and keep them apart; they stick together into a clump in seconds if left in a pile.
Khao poon is celebration food in Laos, ladled out at weddings, baci ceremonies and big family gatherings, and sold at morning markets in Vientiane by women with huge steaming pots. Fine round rice noodles sit under a spicy, red-tinged broth of coconut milk, lemongrass and galangal, and everyone adds their own shredded cabbage, banana blossom, beansprouts, mint and lime. The usual chicken or fish is swapped for golden fried tofu and bamboo shoots. Chef's tip: fry the red chilli paste in the coconut cream until oil seeps out in red drops on the surface; that's when the colour and heat are fully released.
Every traditional Assamese lunch begins with khar, a mouthful of it mixed into the first ball of rice to settle the stomach. The defining ingredient is khar itself, an alkaline liquid filtered from the ash of dried bhim kol (seeded banana) peels; it gives the dish its soft, slightly soapy, earthy taste. Raw papaya and a handful of lentils are cooked in it with mustard oil, garlic and green chilli until silky. At home in Guwahati or Jorhat it is made several times a week. Chef's tip: outside Assam, use a small pinch of bicarbonate of soda in place of khar; too much tastes metallic, so start with ⅛ tsp.
Picanha, the rump cap with its thick white fat layer, is the cut Brazilians prize most at a churrasco. The tradition comes from the gaúchos, the cattle herders of Rio Grande do Sul, and lives on in Sunday family barbecues in the south and in churrascarias across the country, where waiters carry the meat from table to table on long skewers. It is seasoned with nothing but coarse rock salt (sal grosso) and cooked over charcoal with the fat left on, so it bastes the meat. You can fold thick steaks into a C shape on skewers, as in the churrascarias, or grill them flat. Chef's tip: before slicing, knock the excess salt off with the back of a knife; the crust keeps just enough.
Arroz con leche is Mexico's comfort pudding, sold in little cups at markets and made in every grandmother's kitchen: rice cooked first in water with a cinnamon stick (canela) and lime peel, then slowly in milk until it turns thick and creamy. Mexicans often add sweetened condensed milk for a richer, caramel-tinged finish, and raisins for those who like them. It is eaten warm in winter and cold from the fridge in summer, dusted with ground cinnamon. Chef's tip: use soft Ceylon cinnamon (canela) if you can find it; its gentle, floral flavour is what makes it taste Mexican rather than like a spiced pudding.
Cachapas are the roadside breakfast of Venezuela; along the highways of Aragua and Carabobo, stands called cachaperas grill them on big iron plates from early morning. They are thick, slightly lumpy pancakes made from fresh blended sweetcorn, sweet and savoury at once, folded over a slab of soft, stretchy white cheese (queso de mano) that melts with the heat. Mozzarella works well outside Venezuela. Chef's tip: keep a few whole kernels in the batter; the little bursts of corn are part of a real cachapa.
Khash is a winter ritual in Armenia: friends gather in the early morning between November and March, often at the weekend, to share bowls of plain broth made from beef feet that have cooked all night. Everyone seasons their own bowl at the table with crushed garlic and salt, crumbles dried lavash into it and eats with radishes, pickles and fresh herbs. The broth is rich, sticky with gelatine and deliberately unseasoned in the pot. Skimping on the cleaning and soaking is the classic error; it leaves the broth grey and smelling of the farmyard instead of clean and milky-white. Chef's tip: ask the butcher to clean the feet and saw them into pieces for you.
Chicons au gratin, or witloof in de oven in Flemish, is the winter Sunday dish of Belgian grandmothers: whole heads of Belgian endive braised until silky, then baked in a nutmeg-scented cheese sauce until bubbling and brown. Endive was first forced in the dark cellars around Brussels in the 1800s, and it is still grown in the fields of Flemish Brabant. Traditionally each chicon is rolled in a slice of cooked ham; this vegetarian version leaves the ham out and lets the gentle bitterness of the endive meet the sweetness of the cheese. Serve it with mashed potato or crusty bread. Chef's tip: squeeze the braised endives firmly in a clean towel before they go in the dish; they hold a lot of water, and skipping this turns the sauce thin and watery in the oven.
Bourekas are what Israelis grab from the bakery on a Friday morning or bring to a family gathering: puff pastry shapes with savoury fillings, shiny with egg and dotted with sesame. The tradition came from Sephardi Jews of Turkey and the Balkans, but in Israel it settled into puff pastry, with the shape telling you the filling at a glance (triangles for cheese, rectangles for potato in many bakeries). This version fills triangles with feta and ricotta and rectangles with herby mashed potato, and goes with a hard-boiled egg, pickles and grated tomato. Chef's tip: keep the pastry cold right up to the oven; warm puff pastry won't rise into flaky layers.
In the lanes of Old Delhi, breakfast often means a leaf plate of khasta kachori broken into a hot, thin potato curry, with a dollop of pickle and a cup of chai. The kachoris are large and flat with a peppery filling of coarsely ground urad dal, fried slowly until they blister and puff, and the aloo sabzi is fiery with chilli and sharp with tomato and dried mango. It's a weekend dish, filling enough to last until lunch. Chef's tip: break the boiled potatoes by hand rather than chopping them; the rough edges melt into the gravy and thicken it naturally.
Khatkhatem is the vegetable stew Goan Hindu families cook for Ganesh Chaturthi and wedding feasts, when onion and garlic are kept out of the kitchen. It takes whatever the monsoon garden gives: pumpkin, sweet potato, raw banana, corn on the cob, drumsticks, yam and the long Goan cucumber, simmered with a little toor dal in a ground paste of coconut, red chillies and coriander seeds. The flavour comes from tirphal, a dried berry from the Western Ghats with a woody, citrusy, slightly numbing bite. Serve it with rice and a crisp papad as part of the festive spread. Chef's tip: add the vegetables in stages, hardest first; khatkhatem should have every vegetable tender but whole, not a mush.
No Nochebuena table from San Juan to Mayagüez is complete without a big caldero of arroz con gandules, and in December every grandmother's pot is judged on it. Medium-grain rice is cooked with pigeon peas (gandules), fresh sofrito, achiote oil, tomato sauce and a scoop of alcaparrado (olives and capers), until each grain is tender and golden-orange. Island cooks usually add pork; this version gets its depth from a generous spoon of sofrito and good stock, and loses nothing. The best part is the pegao, the crisp golden crust left on the bottom of the pot. Chef's tip: once the lid goes on, leave the rice alone; stirring breaks the grains and releases starch, and you will lose both the fluffy texture and the pegao.
Ongsimi (옹심이) means 'little bird egg' in the Gangwon dialect, and it describes the small, chewy dumplings that Gangneung cooks make from grated potato and its own starch. Gangwon's mountains grow more potatoes than rice, and ongsimi restaurants around Gangneung still serve the dumplings in plain anchovy or kelp broth with courgette, sometimes with knife-cut noodles added. This version uses kelp and shiitake, so it is vegan and gluten free if you season with tamari. The dumplings are translucent, slippery and springy, nothing like gnocchi. Chef's tip: let the potato water stand until the white starch settles at the bottom, then add every bit of that starch back to the grated potato; it is what makes the dumplings chewy.
Picarones are Lima's favourite street sweet, fried to order at stalls in the parks and outside churches, especially in October during the Señor de los Milagros processions. The light, chewy rings are made from a yeasted dough of sweet potato and squash, scented with anise, fried until crisp and drenched in miel de chancaca, a dark syrup of unrefined cane sugar with orange peel, cinnamon and cloves. They are eaten hot, straight from the oil, with plenty of syrup. Chancaca is sold in Latin shops; dark muscovado or piloncillo makes a very good syrup too. Chef's tip: the dough should be very soft and sticky, like a thick batter; resist adding more flour, or the picarones turn heavy and bready.
Khobz is the round, flat loaf that sits on every Moroccan table, used instead of cutlery to scoop up tagine and salads. In the older quarters of Fez and Marrakech families still shape their dough at home and carry it on wooden boards to the neighbourhood wood-fired oven, the ferran; at home it bakes perfectly on a hot tray. The semolina and wholemeal give it a slightly nutty taste and a soft, chewy crumb with a thin crust. It keeps for a day wrapped in a cloth and is wonderful toasted. Chef's tip: prick the top all over before baking so it rises evenly and stays flat instead of puffing like a pitta.
During the nine dawn masses of Simbang Gabi, from 16 to 24 December, vendors set up outside churches across the Philippines baking bibingka in clay pots with hot coals both underneath and on top. Churchgoers buy them on the way out at 5 am, still steaming in their banana-leaf liners, with a hot drink. The cake is made from rice flour and coconut milk, springy and slightly chewy, with a browned, buttery top covered in salty white cheese, slices of salted duck egg, sugar and grated coconut. This version bakes it in an ordinary oven and finishes it under the grill for that charred top. Chef's tip: warm the banana leaves over a flame for a few seconds until they turn glossy and supple; cold leaves crack and the batter leaks under them.
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