Fried milk balls in syrup
Pantua is the Bengali answer to gulab jamun, but made with fresh chhena and a little semolina instead of only khoya, which gives a lighter, slightly grainy inside under a deep brown skin. It is the sweet of Jamai Sasthi, Bijoya visits and Sunday afternoons in Kolkata, often with a hidden cardamom seed or nugget of sugar at the centre. The common mistake is under-kneading the chhena: if the dough is crumbly the balls crack and drink oil. Knead until it feels smooth and leaves a film of fat on your palm. Chef's tip: let the syrup and the fried pantua both be warm, not boiling, when they meet, so the balls soak up syrup without collapsing.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
Whole bananas roasted on the barbecue until soft and sweet, cut into quarters, put on skewers, half-dipped in melted dark chocolate and rolled in chopped almonds, pistachios and cashews. It's a quick barbecue dessert that children love to help make. Serve them straight away while the chocolate is still soft.
On Jinan's banquet tables a whole carp, its tail curled up as if leaping the Dragon Gate on the Yellow River, is a wish for success, so it turns up at weddings, exam celebrations and New Year. The fish is scored deeply, coated in a thin starch batter and fried until the skin crackles, then a hot glaze of sugar, vinegar and soy is poured over so it sizzles at the table. Inside, the flesh stays white and moist. Serve with steamed rice and a stir-fried green vegetable. Chef's tip: carp has fine bones, so if you are cooking for children use sea bass or tilapia; the method is the same.
Jinan restaurants have served this Shandong classic for more than a century, and its name, 'nine turns', borrows from Taoist alchemy to praise how many times the flavour seems to change on the tongue. Sections of pork intestine are cleaned thoroughly, simmered until tender, fried golden and then braised in a dark glaze that is sweet, sour, salty, peppery and gently spiced all at once, finished with a dusting of cinnamon and white pepper. The texture is soft and rich with a slight chew. It is banquet food in Shandong, eaten with plain rice or steamed buns and a green vegetable. Chef's tip: buy intestines already cleaned by a butcher if you can; you will still give them a wash, but the hard part is done.
In the villages below the Huangshan mountains of Anhui, pigeon slowly stewed with Chinese yam in a clay pot is a classic nourishing dish, given to people recovering from illness and served to guests in cold weather. The broth is clear, light and gingery; the dark, rich squab turns tender enough to pull off the bone, and the yam goes soft and slightly creamy. Bring the pot to the table and eat the meat with rice, sipping the broth between mouthfuls. Squab is sold by good butchers and Asian grocers, often frozen. Chef's tip: wear gloves when peeling the yam; its sticky juice makes many people's hands itch.
From the mountain towns of Huizhou in southern Anhui comes a fish with a famous smell: mandarin fish lightly fermented for days, then braised with pork belly and bamboo shoots until the flesh separates into firm, almost garlic-clove-like flakes with a savoury, cheesy depth. Traditionally the fish ferments in a barrel at room temperature, which is not safe to copy at home. This version gives the same firm texture and a gentle tang by salt-curing the fish in the fridge for 1–2 days, never at room temperature; it is milder than the real thing. Serve it in its sauce with plenty of rice. Chef's tip: dry the cured fish very well before it goes into the pan, or the skin sticks and tears.
Shanghai's cold-dish counters always have a tray of drunken chicken: smooth, pale poached chicken with jelly-like skin, steeped overnight in a fragrant, slightly sweet bath of Shaoxing wine. Please note that the wine here is not cooked, so the classic dish contains alcohol and is not suitable for children, during pregnancy or for anyone avoiding alcohol. For them, make the fragrant alcohol-free version given in the ingredients, which steeps the chicken in stock with goji berries, dried tangerine peel and a little rice vinegar. Serve it chilled as a starter in summer or at Chinese New Year with other cold dishes. Chef's tip: plunge the chicken into iced water straight after poaching; the quick chill is what gives the skin its springy texture.
Every Shanghai family has its own hong shao rou, the dark, sticky pork belly at the heart of benbang (local) home cooking. Unlike the Hunan version linked to Chairman Mao, there is no chilli here; the colour and gloss come from rock sugar, soy sauce and a long, quiet braise, and the flavour is unmistakably sweet and savoury. The cubes should hold their shape but give way under chopsticks, with soft fat and a sauce that clings like syrup. It is weekend and festival food, served with plenty of rice and something green, and it tastes even better the next day. Chef's tip: reduce the sauce uncovered over a high heat in the last 10 minutes and keep tossing; that is when the shine appears.
Nanjing people are said to eat more duck than anyone in China, and this cold, pale salted duck is the one bought by the half from neighbourhood shops for the dinner table, especially around the Mid-Autumn Festival, when the ducks are plumpest. It is cured in pepper salt, brined, then poached at a bare simmer so the skin stays white and smooth, the fat turns clear and the meat is pink-tinged, moist and savoury. Serve it chilled, chopped into pieces, with rice or as part of a cold platter. Start a day ahead, as the duck needs 12 hours of curing and brining in the fridge on top of the cooking time. Chef's tip: toast the salt and Sichuan pepper together until fragrant; the warm, numbing aroma is what makes it taste of Nanjing.
The showpiece of Suzhou banquets, this fish is deboned, scored into a deep criss-cross and fried so the flesh fans out into spikes; with its tail curled up, someone once decided it looked like a squirrel. The sauce poured over it at the table crackles as it hits the crisp edges, sweet and tangy with tomato and vinegar. Mandarin fish is hard to find outside China, so sea bass is the practical choice. Serve as the centrepiece with rice and a few simple vegetables. Chef's tip: work starch into every cut with your fingers and shake off the excess; any bare patch fries soggy and the spikes collapse.
Order hitsumabushi in a Nagoya eel restaurant and it arrives in a round wooden tub, often with a small card explaining how to eat it. You divide the rice into quarters: eat the first plain, the second with spring onion, wasabi and nori, the third drowned in hot dashi or green tea, and the last whichever way you liked best. Nagoya cooks grill the eel until the skin is crisp, then chop it into strips. At home, ready-grilled eel fillets (unagi kabayaki, sold frozen in Japanese shops) work very well once reheated properly. Chef's tip: spoon a little of the sweet sauce through the rice before the eel goes on, so every mouthful is seasoned, not just the top layer.
Legend has a hungry beggar near Hangzhou wrapping a stolen chicken in mud and burying it in the embers; restaurants in Hangzhou and Changshu still crack open the crust at the table for a bit of theatre. This home version swaps the mud for a salt-and-flour dough, so it bakes in an ordinary oven. Inside two lotus leaves, the bird steams in its own juices with pork, mushrooms and bamboo shoots, so the meat is fall-apart tender and smells of the leaves. Make it for a special dinner and serve with rice and greens. Chef's tip: the crust is only an oven, not something to eat; seal every crack with a scrap of dough so the steam stays in.
Spring in Hangzhou means new-season Longjing tea from the hills west of the city, and restaurants celebrate it by tossing tiny, pearly river shrimp with the tender tea leaves and a splash of their brew. The result is very delicate: sweet, springy shrimp, a faint grassy and chestnut aroma from the tea, and no heavy sauce at all. It is usually one dish among several at a family meal, eaten with rice. Small raw prawns are the easiest home swap for river shrimp. Chef's tip: brew the tea with water at about 80 °C, never straight from the boil, which makes the leaves bitter.
Hangzhou restaurants by West Lake have served this for generations, traditionally with grass carp kept in clean water for a day or two before cooking. The fish is not fried at all: it is butterflied, poached for a few minutes, and coated with a shiny, dark sauce of black vinegar and sugar that tastes sharp first and sweet after. The flesh should be tender enough to fall from the bone at a touch. Carp, sea bass or a thick white fish fillet all work at home. Eat it with rice and a simple stir-fried green vegetable. Chef's tip: thicken the sauce at the last moment and pour it straight over; left to sit, it turns gluey.
Cooks in Yangzhou say the shaggy meatball looks like a lion's head and the cabbage leaves around it like a mane. The Jiangsu way is the clear braise: no frying, just a slow simmer in stock until the meatballs are so tender that you eat them with a spoon, while the cabbage drinks up the pork juices. They appear at family reunions and at Chinese New Year, where the round shape stands for togetherness. Everything cooks in one pot; serve the meatballs in their broth with rice. Chef's tip: chop some of the pork belly by hand if you can, or ask for coarse mince; a fine, lean mince gives a dense, bouncy ball rather than a soft one.
Named after the Song dynasty poet Su Dongpo, who governed Hangzhou, these neat squares of pork belly are a fixture of the city's restaurants around West Lake and of New Year banquet tables across Zhejiang. Cooked for hours in Shaoxing wine with soy and rock sugar, the fat turns soft and wobbly, the lean melts apart, and the skin goes glossy and mahogany. Each guest usually gets one square, eaten with plain rice and a green vegetable to cut the richness. The traditional braise uses only wine and no water; if you avoid alcohol, use the stock-and-vinegar version in the ingredient note, which is just as tender, though less fragrant. Chef's tip: tie each square with kitchen string before braising so it keeps its shape for serving.
In Hanoi, bún riêu is a mid-morning bowl bought from street sellers who set up on low plastic stools: a tangy red tomato broth with rice vermicelli and soft, floating curds that are normally made from pounded paddy crab. Vegetarian cooks and Buddhist temple kitchens make bún riêu chay instead, folding crumbled tofu, egg and chopped shiitake into the same loose, spongy curds, and seasoning the broth with fermented tofu rather than shrimp paste. It arrives with fried tofu, lime, chilli, shredded water spinach and perilla, so each spoonful is sour, savoury and fresh at once. Chef's tip: let the tomatoes fry in the annatto oil until they collapse into a jammy paste before any stock goes in; that is where the broth gets its colour and depth.
Bánh chuối nướng is sold by the slab from glass-fronted carts and bakeries in Saigon, a soft, heavy cake made from overripe bananas, day-old bread and coconut milk, baked until the top turns deep amber and the bananas go sticky and jammy. It sits somewhere between a bread pudding and a custard cake, and Saigon people eat it as an afternoon snack, often with a little warm coconut sauce poured over. Home cooks make it to use up blackened bananas and stale baguette. Chef's tip: use the ripest bananas you can find, with brown-spotted skins; they give the cake its colour and sweetness.
Hainan islanders count Wenchang chicken, from the coastal county of the same name, as the first of their four famous dishes, and no wedding, New Year or welcome-home meal there is complete without it. The small free-range birds are gently poached until the skin is pale gold and slightly jellied and the meat is firm, sweet and full of flavour. The real stars on the island are the dips, not rice: a hot-oil ginger and garlic relish, and a sharp calamansi and chilli sauce. This is the original that Hainanese emigrants turned into chicken rice in Singapore and Malaysia, but in Hainan it is eaten chopped on the bone with a bowl of the poaching broth and plain rice or greens on the side. Chef's tip: choose a small free-range chicken; its firmer meat and thin skin are closest to the Wenchang breed.
Legend in Fuzhou says the smell of this soup was so tempting that a monk climbed the monastery wall to taste it, and it is still the grandest dish at Fujian wedding banquets and Lunar New Year. Restaurant versions pack in a dozen expensive dried seafoods; this home version keeps the spirit with chicken, pork ribs, dried scallops, shiitake, taro and quail eggs, and leaves out shark fin and any endangered ingredient entirely. Everything simmers sealed for hours until the broth is golden, rich and lightly sticky, tasting of the sea, mushrooms and rice wine. Serve it in small bowls as the centrepiece of a celebration meal, with plain rice. Chef's tip: seal the pot with foil under the lid and resist peeking; the steam that stays inside is what makes the broth so intense.
Despite the name, no fruit goes into this classic of Fuzhou banquets and family feasts. Lean pork is scored in a fine crosshatch and cut into small pieces that curl into bumpy red balls when fried, looking just like lychees in their shells, while crunchy water chestnuts play the white flesh. The coating is crisp, the sauce glossy, sweet and tangy, and the pork inside stays tender. It is a favourite at Fujian weddings and New Year tables, eaten with steamed rice and a simple green vegetable or clear soup. Chef's tip: score the pork two-thirds of the way through and then cut it into pieces; too shallow and it stays flat, too deep and it falls apart.
Bite carefully: inside every Fuzhou fish ball hides a spoonful of juicy seasoned pork that bursts out with a little hot broth. Sold by street vendors and served in tiny bowls at Fuzhou snack shops, and eaten at New Year because the round balls mean a family together, they are firm and springy outside, never spongy. The paste is beaten by hand with ice-cold water and a little starch until it turns smooth and elastic. Serve the soup as a light lunch or as one bowl in a spread of small dishes, with a dash of vinegar and lots of white pepper. Chef's tip: keep the fish paste really cold from start to finish; warm paste never turns bouncy.
Chilled crab sounds strange until you taste it at a Teochew banquet in Chaozhou, where it comes as a cold starter alongside braised goose and marinated seafood. Steaming the crab whole and then chilling it firms the flesh and brings out its natural sweetness, which a plain dish lets you taste clearly; the roe in a female crab turns rich and almost creamy. All it needs is a sharp ginger vinegar to cut through. Serve it as a starter before hot dishes, with crab crackers, small forks and plenty of napkins. Chef's tip: steam it belly side up, so the juices stay inside the shell instead of running out onto the plate. Allow at least 2 hours' chilling on top of the cooking time.
Walk past a lou mei counter in Chaozhou or Shantou and the glossy brown geese hanging there are the first thing you notice; braised goose is offered at ancestral rites, weddings and New Year, then sliced for everyone at the table. The bird simmers slowly in a master stock of soy, rock sugar, galangal and whole spices until the meat is tender and deeply savoury with a gentle sweetness, while the skin stays smooth and the fat soft. Goose can be hard to find, so goose legs or plump duck legs work well at home. Slice it thinly and serve with plain rice or rice porridge, braised tofu and eggs from the same pot, and the sharp garlic vinegar Teochew people always put alongside. Chef's tip: strain and freeze the stock after use; each time you braise in it again the flavour gets deeper, which is how Chaozhou shops keep a 'master' stock for years.
Hakka families in the Dongjiang river valley of eastern Guangdong are said to have invented this dish by burying chickens in hot salt to cook and keep them while on the move. Wrapped in paper and surrounded by sizzling coarse salt in a wok, the bird cooks in its own juices: the skin turns golden and taut, the meat stays dense and moist, and sand ginger gives it a warm, peppery perfume. It is a celebration dish in Meizhou and Huizhou, served chopped on the bone, at room temperature or warm, with plain rice, blanched greens and a little sand ginger dip. Chef's tip: dry the chicken uncovered in the fridge before wrapping it; wet skin steams instead of roasting and turns flabby.
Small, steamy noodle shops all over Hong Kong sell this bowl from breakfast until late at night, often from a counter facing the street. Plump wontons, mostly prawn with a little pork, sit under a nest of thin, springy egg noodles in a clear, savoury broth fragrant with dried shrimp and ginger. The bowl is small and meant to be eaten fast, before the noodles soften, with a spoonful of chilli oil and a side of blanched greens. Shop wrappers make the wontons manageable on a weeknight. Chef's tip: put the wontons in the bowl first and the noodles on top, as Hong Kong cooks do, so the noodles sit above the broth and keep their bite.
Whole fish arrives near the end of every Cantonese banquet and Lunar New Year dinner across Guangdong, because the word for fish sounds like 'surplus'. At home it is one of the quickest dishes on the table: the fish is steamed plainly over ginger, then showered with shredded spring onion and a hiss of smoking oil, and finished with a light, slightly sweet soy dressing. Done right, the flesh is silky and just slips off the bone. Serve it in the middle of the table with steamed rice and stir-fried greens, letting everyone pick from the fish. Chef's tip: lay two chopsticks under the fish on the plate so steam circulates underneath and it cooks evenly.
No basket at a Guangzhou yum cha is judged more harshly than the har gow: a dim sum chef is said to prove themselves by folding ten or more pleats into each one. The wrapper is made from wheat starch and tapioca, so it steams clear and slightly chewy, showing the pink prawns inside; the filling is snappy, sweet and lightly seasoned with sesame and bamboo shoot. They take patience rather than special skill, and a batch made on a weekend morning feels like a trip to a teahouse. Serve them straight from the steamer with jasmine or pu'er tea and a little chilli oil on the side. Chef's tip: roll each wrapper only when you are ready to fill it, because the thin starch dough dries and cracks within minutes.
In the old town of Jianshui in southern Yunnan, potters still make the purple clay qiguo, a lidded pot with a chimney rising through its centre. Set over boiling water, it lets steam rise into the pot, where it meets the chicken, condenses and drips back as a pure, golden broth, with no water added at all. After three hours the meat falls from the bone and the soup tastes intensely of chicken and ginger, clean and restorative; in Kunming it is the dish for guests, for convalescents and for winter weekends. Serve the broth in small bowls first, then the chicken with rice and a chilli dip. Chef's tip: if you don't own a steam pot, a heatproof bowl covered with a plate in a steamer works well; it just needs a small splash of water to start the broth.
Hong Kong milk tea is the daily fuel of the city's cha chaan teng, poured hot in thick cups at breakfast and over ice in the humid afternoons. Tea masters brew a blend of strong black teas, strain it again and again through a long cotton bag (the stained 'silk stocking'), and mix it with evaporated milk for a smooth, almost velvety drink. Chef's tip: let the tea simmer for a few minutes rather than just steeping it; Hong Kong milk tea is meant to be strong and slightly astringent, or the milk drowns it.
Guilin, among the karst peaks of Guangxi, starts its day with mifen: round, slippery rice noodles that are not served in soup at all but tossed with a few ladles of lu shui, the dark, spiced braising liquid in which the beef was cooked. On top go thin slices of that beef, crunchy fried peanuts, sour pickled beans and bamboo shoots, chilli and spring onion; you stir it all together and, if you like, add a splash of hot broth at the end. Street shops in the city serve it fast and cheap from breakfast till late. The flavour is savoury, sweet-spiced and sour, with crunch in every mouthful. Chef's tip: make the braised beef the day before and chill it in its liquid; cold beef can be sliced paper-thin, which is how Guilin cooks serve it.
In Taipei, a bowl of lu rou fan costs little more than a bus fare, and night-market stalls ladle it from pots that have simmered since afternoon. The original is chopped pork belly stewed in soy sauce, rice wine and fried shallots; this meat-free version gets the same glossy, sticky richness from diced shiitake, browned firm tofu and plenty of shallot oil. It is a weekday lunch for office workers and a late snack after the markets, served with a heap of yellow pickled radish and a few blanched greens. Chef's tip: brown the tofu cubes hard before they go into the braise; a crust soaks up the sauce and chews almost like the meat it replaces.
For the Miao people around Kaili in south-east Guizhou, a pot of sour soup is the heart of a meal, served in a wide pot over a burner with everyone dipping in. Their famous red sour soup is made by fermenting wild tomatoes with chillies for weeks, and it gives the broth a bright, tangy, lightly spicy taste that is fruity rather than vinegary. Chunks of fresh river fish, tofu and bean sprouts simmer in it until tender, and each piece is dunked in a little dish of chilli and herbs before eating. This home version gets close with very ripe tomatoes, fermented chillies and a splash of rice vinegar. Eat it with rice on a cold evening. Chef's tip: cook the tomatoes until they completely collapse into a thick red paste before you add any water; that is where the colour and the deep sourness come from.
Small seaside stalls at Corbyn's Cove and the fish shacks of Havelock fry the morning's catch this way: red snapper, mackerel or pomfret rubbed with a tangy paste of tamarind, chilli and garlic, dusted with rice flour and fried in a heavy pan until the edges blister. On the islands it is lunch with rice and dal, or a beach snack with onion rings and lime. It takes very little time, so cook it just before you eat. Chef's tip: dry the fish well with kitchen paper before the marinade goes on, so the paste sticks and the crust crisps.
Many families in Port Blair and the South Andaman villages trace their roots to Bengal, and their seafood cooking blends that heritage with the coconut palms growing everywhere on the islands. This prawn curry starts like a Bengali malaikari — mustard oil, bay leaf, whole garam masala and onion paste — but leans more heavily on fresh coconut milk, and the prawns come straight from the Junglighat fish market. It is everyday island food, eaten with plain rice and a squeeze of lime. Chef's tip: heat the mustard oil until it just smokes, then let it cool for a minute; that takes off the raw, sharp edge.
Guntur district grows more red chilli than almost anywhere on earth, and Andhra home cooking wears that proudly. Kodi kura is the Sunday chicken curry of Andhra homes, from Vijayawada to the Rayalaseema villages: thick, red and properly hot, with a little ground poppy seed and coconut to round out the sauce. It is eaten with heaps of plain rice, a spoon of ghee and a bowl of rasam on the side, or with jowar rotis. Chef's tip: fry the masala until oil pools at the sides before adding any water; that is where the colour and flavour come from.
The Nattukottai Chettiar merchants of Karaikudi and the villages around it in southern Tamil Nadu built grand mansions on the spice trade, and their kitchens show it. Their chicken curry is built on a masala roasted and ground at home: dried red chillies, black pepper, fennel, star anise, coconut and the earthy lichen called kalpasi. It is hot, aromatic and deep brown, and in Chettinad it is eaten at Sunday lunch and festivals with rice, idiyappam or flaky parotta. Chef's tip: grind the roasted masala while it is still warm with a splash of water; the oils release and the paste comes out smooth.
Up in the hill villages of Himachal Pradesh, where flocks are walked to summer pastures, lamb is often cooked in chhaachh, the thin buttermilk left after churning butter. Thickened with a spoonful of gram flour, it makes a pale, gently sour gravy that is milder and lighter than the red curries of the plains, and it is a favourite at dhams, the festive meals of the Kangra and Chamba valleys. Serve it with steamed rice or makki ki roti. Chef's tip: whisk the gram flour into the buttermilk until there are no lumps before it goes near the pot; once it hits the heat, any lumps stay lumps.
Everything on this central Thai plate is arranged in little heaps around a mound of rice tossed with garlic and fermented shrimp paste: sticky caramelised pork (moo wan), threads of sour green mango, shallots, chillies, sliced long beans, crisp dried shrimp and ribbons of thin omelette. You mix a bit of each into every spoonful, so salty, sweet, sour and hot arrive together. It's a favourite at Bangkok's curry-and-rice shops and a clever way to use up yesterday's rice at home; lime wedges and cucumber cool it down. Chef's tip: use day-old jasmine rice straight from the fridge, because freshly cooked rice clumps and smears the shrimp paste instead of coating each grain.
On the Malabar coast of northern Kerala, the port town of Thalassery makes its biryani with kaima (jeerakasala), a tiny fragrant rice that stays separate and buttery instead of long and dry. Mappila Muslim families serve it at weddings, at Eid and at Friday lunches, the chicken cooked first in a green-chilli and tomato masala, then buried under ghee rice and sealed for dum. There is no red chilli powder in it; the heat comes from fresh green chillies, and the sweetness from cashews, raisins and deeply fried onions. Serve it with a sharp date-and-onion pickle or a simple raita. Chef's tip: toast the washed, drained rice in ghee until it smells nutty before the water goes in; it keeps every grain whole.
Many Naga kitchens have a rack of pork hanging above the fire, slowly smoking for weeks, and this stew is what it is saved for. The smoky meat is simmered with sour fermented bamboo shoot, crushed ginger and garlic and raja mircha, the famously hot king chilli, with almost no oil and no ground spices. In Kohima it is festival food during the Hornbill Festival in December and Sunday food all year, served with rice and boiled greens. Chef's tip: smoked pork is already salty, so salt only at the very end.
On summer nights the pavements of Changsha and Wuhan fill with folding tables, plastic gloves and mountains of glossy red crayfish, the season's great shared feast from May to August. Each little shell is sucked for its spicy sauce before you twist off the tail for a sweet, firm bite of meat; the sauce is hot from chillies and bean paste, numbing from Sichuan pepper and rounded out with garlic and a bottle of lager. Large shell-on prawns make an easy swap if you can't buy live crayfish. Serve with cold drinks, cucumber, steamed buns or rice to mop up the sauce, and lots of napkins. Chef's tip: once the crayfish turn red, simmer them for no more than 8 minutes; longer and the tail meat goes mushy and comes away in shreds.
Mandi comes from the Hadramaut in Yemen, where meat was slow-cooked in a pit oven above the rice, and today mandi restaurants with long floor cushions are found all over Saudi Arabia and the Gulf, especially busy on Friday afternoons. Spiced chicken roasts until the skin is deep golden, the rice cooks in its stock with whole spices, and a final burst of smoke from a glowing piece of charcoal gives the dish its signature flavour. Serve with a fresh tomato and chilli salsa (sahawiq). Chef's tip: the charcoal step is optional but worth it; do it with the extractor on and a window open, and never leave the burning coal unattended.
Typhoon shelter crab comes from the boat people of Causeway Bay, who cooked for visitors on sampans moored in the harbour's storm shelters, and Hong Kong restaurants still serve it piled under a golden mountain of fried garlic. Crab pieces are dusted in starch and fried, then tossed in a wok with a huge amount of crisp garlic, dried chilli, fermented black beans and spring onion. Chef's tip: fry the garlic slowly over a medium heat; it should turn golden and crunchy, never dark, or it tastes bitter.
Gon chow ngau ho is the test of a Cantonese wok cook, and Hong Kong diners judge a dai pai dong (open-air food stall) or late-night café by it. Wide fresh rice noodles are tossed over a fierce flame with tender, marinated beef, bean sprouts and spring onion in soy sauce until smoky and glossy but never greasy or broken. The beef marinade sometimes includes Shaoxing wine, which contains alcohol; this version uses none. Chef's tip: separate the noodles by hand before cooking and do not stir with a spatula; lift and toss them so they stay whole.
Baked pork chop rice is the signature dish of Hong Kong's cha chaan teng, the busy tea cafés that mix Cantonese and Western cooking, and it arrives at the table bubbling in an oval dish. It is a pork dish: tenderised, marinated pork chops are fried golden and laid on egg fried rice, then covered with a sweet-sour tomato sauce with onions and peppers and topped with melted cheese. The marinade traditionally uses Shaoxing wine, which contains alcohol; use 1 tbsp water instead if you like. Chef's tip: score the edge fat and pound the chops; they stay flat and tender.
Curry fish balls are the after-school snack of Hong Kong, sold on bamboo skewers from steaming pots at street stalls in Mong Kok and Sham Shui Po for a few dollars. Springy fish balls simmer in a thick, mildly spicy yellow curry sauce made with curry powder, coconut milk and a little satay sauce, and are eaten straight from the stick while still hot. Chef's tip: simmer the fish balls in the sauce for at least 10 minutes; they need time to soak up the curry.
Every night market in Taiwan, from Shilin in Taipei to Tainan's Garden Night Market, has a yan su ji stall with a queue, selling paper bags of bite-size fried chicken. Thigh pieces are marinated in soy, garlic and five-spice, coated in coarse sweet potato starch for a craggy, extra-crunchy shell, double-fried and tossed with fried Thai basil and a salt-and-white-pepper seasoning. The marinade traditionally includes rice wine, which contains alcohol; leave it out or use 1 tbsp water instead. Chef's tip: let the coated chicken rest for 5 minutes until the starch looks damp; it will then stay on in the oil.
Chakhokhbili was first made with pheasant (khokhobi), but in Georgian homes from Tbilisi to Kutaisi today it is an everyday chicken stew, the kind cooked on a weeknight and served with bread to wipe the plate. Chicken pieces are browned without oil, then simmered with a lot of onion and ripe tomato, garlic, chilli and khmeli suneli spice, and finished with a big handful of fresh coriander, basil and dill. Chef's tip: brown the chicken skin side down in a dry pan; it releases enough fat to cook the onions.
Taiwan treats beef noodle soup as a national dish, and Taipei even holds an annual festival where noodle shops compete for the best bowl. The red-braised style is the classic: beef shank simmers for hours with chilli bean paste, soy, star anise, ginger and tomato until it is meltingly tender, then the rich broth is poured over thick wheat noodles with blanched greens and pickled mustard greens. The braise uses Shaoxing rice wine, which contains alcohol; for an alcohol-free version use extra stock with 1 tsp rice vinegar. Chef's tip: blanch the beef first and rinse it; this gives a clear, clean-tasting broth.
Chicken Kyiv, kotleta po-kyivsky, became the pride of the restaurants of Kyiv in the 20th century, and the city still serves it with a little paper frill on the bone and a fountain of herb butter when it is cut. A flattened chicken breast is rolled around a frozen stick of garlic, dill and parsley butter, double-crumbed to seal it, then fried and finished in the oven. Serve with mash or fried potatoes and a green salad. Chef's tip: freeze the butter until rock hard and seal every edge with two coats of egg and crumbs; that is what stops it from leaking.
Irish smoked salmon, bradán deataithe, comes from smokehouses along the west coast in Connemara and Cork, and a plate of it on buttered brown wheaten bread is a classic starter at weddings and Christmas, and a light lunch in country hotels. The bread is a quick wholemeal soda bread made with buttermilk and no yeast, nutty and slightly sweet. Serve with lemon, capers and red onion. Cold-smoked salmon is not cooked, so pregnant people and anyone with low immunity should avoid it or use hot-smoked salmon instead. Chef's tip: cut the bread only when it has cooled completely; warm soda bread squashes and turns gummy.
Along Ireland's west coast, from Galway Bay to the harbours of Kerry and West Cork, nearly every pub kitchen has its own seafood chowder, served with a thick slice of brown bread and butter. It is chunkier and smokier than the American kind: fresh mussels, a piece of smoked haddock or coley, salmon and white fish poached in a creamy base with leek, celery and potato, finished with dill. Chef's tip: add the fish in order of cooking time and take the pot off the heat as soon as it is just done; it keeps cooking in the hot soup.
In pubs across Ireland, and in plenty of homes on a wet Sunday, beef stewed in dark stout is the dish that arrives with mash or a slab of brown bread. The stout (it contains alcohol, most of which cooks off but not all) gives the gravy a deep, slightly bitter malt flavour that a spoon of brown sugar balances. For an alcohol-free version use alcohol-free stout, or the same volume of extra beef stock with 1 tablespoon of black treacle. Chef's tip: brown the beef properly in batches; the dark crust on the meat is half the flavour of the gravy.
Coddle is Dublin's own dish, a Saturday-night pot from the city's old working-class neighbourhoods that would sit on a low heat until people came home. It is a pork dish: thick pork sausages and back bacon, with layers of onion and potato, gently stewed in stock so everything turns soft and savoury. Many Dublin families still make it on Saturdays. Serve with brown soda bread to mop up the broth. Chef's tip: brown the sausages first; the traditional pale coddle is authentic, but a little colour adds a lot of flavour.
Lancashire hotpot was the slow supper of the cotton-mill towns of north-west England, left in a low oven while families worked long shifts, and it is still served in pubs and homes around Bolton and Preston with pickled red cabbage on the side. Chunks of lamb neck and lots of onion cook slowly in stock beneath overlapping slices of potato that turn golden and crisp on top and soft underneath. Chef's tip: brush the top layer with melted butter and take the lid off for the last 40 minutes; that is how the potatoes crisp.
The Cornish pasty fed tin miners and fishermen in Cornwall for centuries, its thick crimped edge a handle for dirty hands, and today bakeries from Penzance to St Ives sell them warm all day. The filling goes into the pastry raw: thinly sliced beef skirt, potato, swede and onion, seasoned only with salt and plenty of pepper, so everything steams in its own juices inside the crust. Chef's tip: slice the vegetables thinly and evenly, not in cubes; thin pieces cook through in the same time as the beef.
Sunday lunch across England and Wales means a roast, and a golden chicken is the most common one on family tables, with crisp roast potatoes, vegetables and gravy made in the roasting tin. A lemon and herbs perfume the bird from inside, and a sage-and-onion stuffing is baked alongside so the chicken cooks evenly. The stuffing can include sausage meat (pork) if you like; leave it out for a pork-free roast. Chef's tip: dry the skin with kitchen paper and leave the bird uncovered in the fridge overnight; dry skin is crisp skin.
Shepherd's pie comes from the sheep-farming hill country of northern England and Scotland, where Monday's pie once used up Sunday's roast lamb; with minced beef the same dish is called cottage pie. Minced lamb simmers with onion, carrot, a little tomato and Worcestershire sauce into a deep gravy, then hides under a thick layer of buttery mash that browns in the oven. A family supper all over Britain, it is served with peas or buttered cabbage. Chef's tip: rough up the top of the mash with a fork; the ridges catch the heat and turn crunchy.
From seaside towns like Whitby and Brighton to every high street chippy in the land, fish and chips wrapped in paper is Britain's Friday-night supper. Thick white fish is dipped in a light, bubbly batter and fried until it shatters, next to chunky chips cooked twice so they are fluffy inside and crisp outside. Serve with mushy peas, malt vinegar, salt and a lemon wedge. The classic batter uses cold beer; for an alcohol-free version use the same amount of ice-cold sparkling water. Chef's tip: mix the batter at the last moment and keep it ice cold; the bigger the temperature difference with the oil, the crisper the crust.
Toad in the hole has been a thrifty family supper across northern England for two centuries, and children still love it for the name as much as the taste. Plump pork sausages are browned in a hot tin, then a simple egg-and-milk batter is poured around them and puffs up into a golden, crisp Yorkshire pudding. It is always served with onion gravy and green vegetables. Chef's tip: the fat must be smoking hot when the batter goes in, and the oven door must stay shut for the first 25 minutes, or the batter will not rise.
Eggs Benedict belongs to New York, where two Manhattan restaurants still argue over who served it first, and it remains the star of weekend brunch from diners to grand hotels. Toasted English muffins carry warm ham (pork), softly poached eggs and a blanket of buttery, lemony hollandaise. Chef's tip: use the freshest eggs you can get for poaching; their whites hold together instead of spreading into wisps.
The Cobb salad was born at the Brown Derby restaurant in Hollywood in the 1930s, and it is still a lunch classic in Los Angeles delis and hotel coffee shops. Rows of chopped chicken, crisp bacon (pork), hard-boiled egg, avocado, tomato and blue cheese sit on crisp lettuce, and everyone mixes them with a sharp red wine vinegar dressing at the table. Chef's tip: chop everything to roughly the same small size so each forkful gets a bit of everything.
Diners and drive-ins across the American Midwest have smashed burgers on hot griddles for a century, and the style is now everywhere from food trucks to backyard cookouts. A ball of beef is pressed hard onto a very hot pan so it spreads thin and develops a deep brown, lacy crust, then gets a slice of cheese and goes into a soft toasted bun with pickles and a tangy sauce. Two thin patties per burger is the classic. Chef's tip: smash within the first 30 seconds only; pressing later squeezes out the juice.
Showing 63 of 10,569 recipes
Show more recipesPage 1,069 of 1,175
Indian
Italian
French
Chinese
Japanese
Mexican
Korean
Spanish
Persian
Vietnamese
Hong Kong
Taiwanese
Thai
Georgian
Ukrainian
Irish
British
American
