Miso soup (味噌汁) is drunk every day in homes all over Japan, at breakfast as well as dinner, beside a bowl of rice. The base is dashi; this vegan version uses kombu and dried shiitake instead of bonito, which gives it a deep, rounded flavour. Silken tofu and wakame seaweed are the classic fillings. It takes ten minutes; just remember not to boil the miso. Chef's tip: add the miso at the very end and never let it boil. Boiling kills the miso's fresh, fermented aroma; Japanese cooks say the soup should only 'smile', with the surface barely trembling.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
A Mombasa street-food bowl: chickpeas and potato simmered in coconut milk with raw mango and chilli, ladled into small bowls and topped with crisp lentil fritters, crunchy chevdo and red, green and tamarind chutneys. Make the fritters and chevdo ahead and assemble at the table. It's sweet, sour, hot and crunchy all at once.
Çoban salatası, the shepherd's salad, is on the table at almost every Turkish meal from Edirne to Van, whether that is a home dinner, a lokanta lunch or a summer barbecue. It is simple by design: small dice of tomato, cucumber, green pepper and onion with parsley, dressed with lemon juice, olive oil and a little sumac. It is eaten alongside pilaf, beans, börek or anything grilled. The common mistake is salting it too early, which draws the water out of the tomatoes and leaves it swimming. Chef's tip: rub the onion slices with salt and sumac and rinse them before adding; the onion stays crunchy but loses its harsh bite.
Sancocho is the big Sunday soup Colombian families cook outdoors on riverbanks and fincas (country houses), with every region from Antioquia to the Valle having its own version. This vegetarian sancocho keeps the essentials: green plantain broken by hand, cassava, potatoes and corn on the cob simmered in a broth seasoned with spring onion, garlic, cumin and plenty of coriander, until the starches thicken it. Serve each bowl with white rice, avocado and lime on the side. Chef's tip: break the plantain into pieces with your hands rather than cutting it; the rough edges release starch and thicken the broth.
The Maya of the Yucatán peninsula cooked pork in a pib, a pit lined with hot stones, and in Mérida cochinita pibil is still sold at dawn from market stalls, piled into tacos and tortas for breakfast. Pork shoulder sits overnight in a brick-red paste of achiote and sour orange juice, then roasts slowly wrapped in banana leaves until it pulls apart, soaking in its own tangy juices. It goes into warm tortillas with bright pink pickled onions and, for the brave, a habanero salsa. Chef's tip: if you can't find bitter Seville oranges, mix sweet orange juice with lime juice; the sourness is what tenderises and balances the pork.
Cocido madrileño is the slow pot of the capital's winter, served at lunch in old Madrid taverns and at home on cold weekends. Everything simmers together for hours (chickpeas, beef shin, chicken, pork belly, ham bone, chorizo, carrots and potatoes) and then it comes to the table in three vuelcos, or 'tippings out': first the broth as a soup with thin noodles, then the chickpeas and vegetables, then the platter of meats. Cabbage and chorizo are cooked in a separate pan so they don't cloud or redden the broth. It is a big project, but most of the time the pot looks after itself. Chef's tip: put the soaked chickpeas into a mesh bag or a loose muslin bundle; they're easy to lift out whole at the end and don't break up in the long simmer.
Conchas are the most famous pan dulce (sweet bread) in Mexico, piled high in every panadería and eaten for breakfast or merienda with hot chocolate or coffee. The bun is soft, slightly sweet and enriched with egg and butter, and it wears a crunchy, crumbly topping of sugar, fat and flour scored into the seashell pattern that gives it its name. Make some vanilla and some chocolate topping for the classic mix. Chef's tip: shape the dough into very tight balls before adding the topping; the tension makes them rise up instead of spreading out, so the shell cracks into neat stripes.
Congee (zhou in Mandarin, juk in Cantonese) is what much of China eats for breakfast, and what everyone is given when they are under the weather. The base is just rice and water cooked until the grains burst into a smooth, gentle porridge; the fun is in the toppings, from fried shallots to peanuts and salty pickles, so everyone builds their own bowl. Chef's tip: rinse the rice, then rub it with a little oil and salt and freeze it for an hour if you can; the grains crack and break down twice as fast.
Conkies are made all over Barbados in late November for Independence Day on 30 November, when they're sold at roadside stalls and steamed in big pots at home; older Bajans remember them from Guy Fawkes Night, too. A spiced batter of grated pumpkin, sweet potato and coconut, cornmeal, sugar and raisins is folded into squares of banana leaf and steamed until it sets. Unwrapped, they're moist, dense, sweet and fragrant with nutmeg, almond and the faint green tea scent of the leaf. Chef's tip: pass the banana leaves briefly over a gas flame or dip them in hot water first; they turn glossy and supple and fold without splitting.
Up in the coffee estates of Kodagu (Coorg), pandi curry is the dish of the Kodava people, cooked for Puttari, the harvest festival, and for every family gathering in between. Fatty pork simmers in its own juices with a masala of coriander and black pepper roasted almost black, then finishes with kachampuli, a dark, sour vinegar made from the Garcinia fruit. It is eaten with kadambuttu (steamed rice balls) or akki otti. Chef's tip: roast the spices slowly over a low heat until they are the colour of strong coffee; this is the dark colour and smoky flavour of a real pandi curry.
Coquito is Puerto Rico's Christmas in a glass: bottles of it are made in early December, given to neighbours and poured at every parranda, the late-night singing visits from house to house, until the Fiesta de San Sebastián in Old San Juan in January. This version contains alcohol: it blends coconut milk, sweet cream of coconut and condensed and evaporated milk with Puerto Rican white rum, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla. It's thick, cold and sweet, with the warmth of rum behind the spice. For children and anyone avoiding alcohol, make it without the rum as described in the steps. Chef's tip: let it rest in the fridge overnight; the spices bloom and the rum mellows, and it tastes far rounder on the second day.
Chunks of tender corn on the cob tossed in hot oil with cumin, green chillies, fresh coriander, turmeric, black pepper and lemon until every kernel is coated. It's hot, tangy and messy to eat with your fingers. Serve hot from the barbecue.
Cornulețe are the little crescent cookies that fill tins in Romanian kitchens before Christmas and New Year, and that grandmothers in Sibiu and Timișoara bake by the hundred for weddings and name days. This version uses a tender yeasted dough made with butter and yogurt, wrapped around a spoonful of thick plum jam (magiun) or rose rahat and rolled into horns. They bake pale and soft, not flaky, and are rolled in vanilla sugar while warm (the recipe makes 32, two per serving), which sets them apart from the cream-cheese rugelach of Jewish baking. Chef's tip: use thick jam and pinch the ends shut; runny jam is the usual mistake and bubbles out and burns on the tray.
Lisbon's Bairro Alto taverns claim this dish, said to be named after a tasca owner called Brás, and it is still a weeknight favourite in homes all over the city. Flaked salt cod is softened with slowly cooked onion, tossed with a heap of fine straw-cut fried potatoes, then bound at the last second with beaten egg so everything stays creamy and loose. Black olives and parsley go on top. A green salad is all it needs. Chef's tip: take the pan off the heat the moment you add the eggs; they should finish cooking from the warmth of the potatoes, like a soft scramble.
Bacalao al pil pil belongs to Bilbao and the rest of Bizkaia, where it fills restaurant menus in Lent and Holy Week and reappears on Christmas Eve tables. It is made from just four things: desalted salt cod, olive oil, garlic and a dried chilli. The trick is the sauce. The cod gives off gelatine as it cooks gently in warm oil, and swirling the clay dish round and round turns that oil into a thick, pale, mayonnaise-like emulsion; the name comes from the 'pil pil' sound of it bubbling. Plan ahead, because thick salt cod needs 24–48 hours of soaking in the fridge. Chef's tip: buy thick, skin-on loins (lomos); the gelatine that makes the sauce comes from the skin.
Before the sun is fully up over Makassar's harbour, coto warungs are already serving dockers and office workers alike from huge clay-coloured pots. This South Sulawesi soup is thick, brown and opaque, its body coming from roasted peanuts ground almost to flour and simmered into a broth made with the cloudy water from rinsing rice. Diced beef (and traditionally offal) sits in a nutty, cumin-and-pepper broth that's eaten with diamond-shaped ketupat rice cakes broken into the bowl, plus lime and a spoon of chilli. Chef's tip: grind the cooled peanuts in short bursts and stop while they're still sandy; a few seconds too long and you get peanut butter that turns the soup claggy.
Cou-cou is Friday lunch in Barbados, and paired with flying fish it makes the island's national dish, served in homes and the fish fry stalls of Oistins. Fine cornmeal is stirred into okra and its cooking water with a flat wooden cou-cou stick until it is smooth, thick and pulls away from the pot, then shaped in a buttered bowl. It's soft, mild and comforting, made for soaking up the rich tomato gravy around it. Here the gravy is a stew of peppers, tomatoes, aubergine and butter beans cooked with Bajan seasoning; flying fish steamed in the same sauce is the classic for fish eaters. Chef's tip: whisk the cornmeal into cold water before it goes into the pot; adding it dry to boiling liquid is the fastest way to lumps.
Rotkohl, called Blaukraut in Bavaria and Austria, is the purple braised cabbage that sits next to dumplings and potatoes on German plates from autumn to Christmas. Red cabbage is cooked slowly with apple, onion, vinegar, bay and clove until meltingly soft, sweet-sour and glossy, a deep wine-red because the acid keeps the colour bright. Traditionally it's started in goose fat or lard; oil works perfectly and keeps it vegan. It's one of those dishes that is better the next day, so families make a big pot before Christmas. Chef's tip: add the vinegar at the start, not the end; without acid the cabbage turns an unappetising blue-grey as it cooks.
Couscous royal is the big-occasion couscous that Algerian and Moroccan families brought to France and that is now served for weddings and Sunday gatherings from Oran to Marseille: a pot of lamb and chicken simmered with vegetables and chickpeas in a mildly spiced broth, grilled merguez on the side, and a mountain of steamed couscous. The mistake is putting all the vegetables in at once; the courgettes go mushy while the turnips are still hard, so add them in stages. Chef's tip: brown the lamb and chicken well before the water goes in; that colour flavours the whole broth.
Tfaya is the sweet onion topping that turns a plain couscous into a celebration dish; in Fez and Rabat it is made for weddings, naming ceremonies and Eid, and families in Tétouan add it to Friday couscous too. Onions are cooked slowly with raisins, cinnamon, honey and a little saffron until they collapse into a sticky, mahogany jam, then piled over the couscous with chickpeas and fried almonds. Traditionally it crowns couscous with meat; here the chickpeas and almonds carry the dish, making it a sweet-savoury vegetarian main for a feast. Chef's tip: soak the raisins first, or they draw liquid from the onions and the tfaya catches before it caramelises.
Basundi is the reduced-milk dessert of Maharashtra and Gujarat: whole milk simmered patiently in a wide pan, with the skin that forms on top scraped back in, until it is thick, cream-coloured and a little grainy, then sweetened and scented with cardamom and saffron. In Maharashtra it's served with hot puris for Gudi Padwa and Bhau Beej; in Gujarat it turns up at weddings and on Sharad Purnima, and it's also the base of the famous custard-apple (sitafal) basundi. Make it a day ahead; it thickens and tastes richer after a night in the fridge. Chef's tip: use a wide, heavy pan rather than a deep one; more surface means faster evaporation and less time standing at the stove.
Caldo verde comes from the Minho, the green, rainy corner of northern Portugal above Porto, where couve galega (a tall, flat-leaved cabbage) grows in every back garden. It is a plain purée of potato and onion with ribbons of dark green cabbage cut as fine as string, finished with a thread of raw olive oil, and it is drunk from earthenware bowls at the Santos Populares street festivals in June, at weddings at midnight and on any cold evening with a slice of broa (maize bread). In the north a coin of chouriço is usually floated on top; this version keeps the soup vegetarian and lets a little smoked paprika in the oil stand in for it. Chef's tip: shred the greens as thinly as you can, rolled up tight like a cigar, because they only cook for a few minutes and thick strips stay chewy.
Cassoulet is the great winter feast of the Languedoc, and the towns of Castelnaudary, Carcassonne and Toulouse still argue over who makes it best. Contains pork: white beans cook with pork rind and belly, then bake for hours with duck confit and garlicky Toulouse sausages in a deep earthenware dish until a dark crust forms on top. It takes two days at a relaxed pace and feeds a crowd. Serve with nothing more than a green salad. Chef's tip: break the crust and push it under several times while it bakes; each new crust adds flavour and body.
Cataplana is the Algarve's showpiece, named after the hinged, clam-shaped copper pan it is cooked in, and it is served at the table in harbour towns like Olhão and Portimão, lid opened in a puff of steam. This version contains pork: smoky chouriço sausage goes in with the onion, peppers and tomato, then clams, prawns and firm white fish steam on top in their own juices. Bring bread for the broth. No cataplana? A wide casserole with a tight lid works. Chef's tip: purge the clams in salty water in the fridge for an hour so they spit out their sand before cooking.
Aamat comes from the forested Bastar region of southern Chhattisgarh, where Gond and Halba families cook whatever the garden and forest give: pumpkin, brinjal, beans, drumsticks and, in the monsoon, sour fermented bamboo shoot. There is almost no oil and no heavy masala. Instead a paste of soaked rice turns the broth silky, and garlic, ginger and green chilli carry the flavour. It is served in bowls with plain rice, especially at village feasts and the Bastar Dussehra gatherings. Tinned bamboo shoot works well; leave it out and add lime at the end if you cannot find it. Chef's tip: keep stirring as you pour in the rice paste, because it sinks and sets into lumps on the bottom of the pot if left alone.
Tinga comes from Puebla, where shredded meat is simmered in a sauce of sweet sliced onion, tomato and smoky chipotle chillies and piled onto tostadas or tacos. Here roasted cauliflower takes the place of the chicken: browned in a hot oven so it turns nutty and holds its shape, then folded through the brick-red sauce so every floret is glossy and smoky. The result, tinga de coliflor, is sweet, tangy and properly spicy; serve it in warm corn tortillas or on crisp tostadas with avocado, shredded lettuce and lime. Chef's tip: cook the onions slowly until soft and sweet before the tomatoes go in; the sweetness is what balances the heat of the chipotle.
Causa limeña is Lima's cold potato terrine: yellow potatoes mashed with lime, oil and ají amarillo, pressed into layers and filled. In Lima it is a lunchtime starter sold in every menú and at every family party, often with tuna or chicken; this vegetarian causa is filled with ripe avocado and a creamy salad of corn, peas and carrot. The potato should be smooth, sunny yellow, tangy and gently hot, and the whole thing is served cold in neat slices. Make it in the morning for dinner, or the day before for a party. Chef's tip: mash the potatoes while warm but add the lime only once they have cooled; lime on hot potato turns the mash grey and gluey.
Cazuela is the soup Chilean grandmothers make all through winter, from Santiago's Central Valley to the farms of the south: each bowl gets a whole piece of beef on the bone, a whole potato, a wedge of pumpkin and a piece of corn in a clear broth, with a little rice or green beans and plenty of fresh coriander. It is eaten as a full meal, with pebre and bread. The mistake is cutting the vegetables small: they should stay in big pieces, one of each per person. Chef's tip: simmer the beef very gently and skim it well so the broth stays clear.
On a sweltering afternoon in Melaka, the queue snakes out of the cendol shops on Jonker Street: a bowl of shaved ice drenched in salted coconut milk and smoky, dark gula Melaka syrup, hiding soft green jelly 'worms' made from rice flour and pandan, with red beans at the bottom. It's sweet, salty, creamy and cold all at once, and it's the city's signature dessert. Melaka's own gula Melaka is the key; it should smell of caramel and woodsmoke. Chef's tip: a pinch of salt in the coconut milk makes the palm sugar taste deeper; without it the bowl tastes flat.
In the misty tea country around Nuwara Eliya, Hatton and Ella, and in every roadside tea kade across Sri Lanka, tea is made strong, sweetened generously and often whitened with milk, then poured from a height between two jugs so it cools a little and wears a frothy cap. Families drink it first thing, again at 'tea time' around four, and with every short eats snack in between. Unlike Indian masala chai there are no spices: the flavour comes from bright, brisk high-grown Ceylon black tea, often a BOP or BOPF grade. If you'd rather have it plain, kahata thé is the same tea with no milk and a bite of jaggery. The common mistake is stewing the leaves too long, which turns it bitter and tannic; three to four minutes is plenty. Chef's tip: pour from jug to jug four or five times; the 'pulled' tea is smoother and creamier.
Basel's Fasnacht starts at 4 a.m. on the Monday after Ash Wednesday with Morgestraich, when the city's lights go out and the cliques march with lanterns, piccolos and drums. Afterwards everyone crowds into the old-town restaurants for a bowl of Mehlsuppe: flour toasted in butter until it is the colour of hazelnuts, simmered into a smooth, savoury, deep-brown soup and finished with grated cheese. It warms you on a freezing February morning and is usually eaten with Zwiebelwähe (onion tart). The traditional soup is made with beef stock; this vegetarian version uses a strong vegetable stock with a little red wine and onion to give the same depth. Chef's tip: toast the flour slowly and stir all the time; the colour should be even chestnut brown, and the smell like toasted nuts.
Česnečka is the soup Czechs swear by after a long night in a Prague pivnice: a thin, savoury broth fragrant with raw garlic, caraway and marjoram, with soft potato cubes, crunchy fried bread and a fistful of grated cheese melting into each bowl. It costs almost nothing, comes together in half an hour and is served in workers' canteens and village pubs all winter. This version uses vegetable stock instead of the old meat bouillon. Chef's tip: crush the garlic into the bowls or add it right at the end off the heat; boiled garlic goes sweet and mild, and česnečka should bite.
Every Korean home has a version of kimchi jjigae, and it turns up on the table from Seoul to Busan at breakfast, lunch and late at night. It is the classic way to use up kimchi that has fermented for weeks and turned properly sour. Pork belly gives the broth richness, tofu soaks up the heat, and the pot comes to the table still boiling, next to a bowl of plain rice. Chef's tip: fry the kimchi in the pork fat for a full 5 minutes before any water goes in; that is where the deep, savoury flavour comes from.
In Sarajevo's old Baščaršija bazaar, ćevabdžinicas grill ćevapi from morning till late night, serving them ten at a time stuffed into a puffy, griddle-warmed somun flatbread with raw onion and a spoon of kajmak. The little skinless fingers are made from beef (often mixed with lamb), seasoned with nothing more than salt, pepper, garlic and a little bicarbonate of soda, which gives them their bouncy bite. Belgrade and Banja Luka have their own versions, but the idea is the same: smoky meat, soft bread, sharp onion. People often over-season them with herbs and paprika; the Bosnian way is plain, letting the meat and charcoal speak. Chef's tip: chill the shaped ćevapi well before grilling and turn them only once or twice, so they keep a juicy centre and a crusty outside.
A family restaurant in Hanoi's Old Quarter served this one dish for so long that the street itself was renamed Chả Cá, Grilled Fish Street. Chunks of white fish are marinated in turmeric and galangal, cooked until golden, then brought to the table in a pan of hot oil where everyone throws in handfuls of dill and spring onion to wilt. You eat it over rice vermicelli with peanuts, fresh herbs and a pungent shrimp-paste dip. Dill is rare elsewhere in Vietnamese cooking, which is why this dish tastes so distinct. Chef's tip: use a lot more dill than seems sensible; it is treated as a vegetable here, not a garnish.
Persian love cake is not an old Iranian recipe but a modern one from the Iranian diaspora, popular in cafés in London and Melbourne, built on the flavours of Persian sweets: almond, cardamom, nutmeg, rosewater and pistachio. The name comes from a story about a woman who baked a spell-binding cake for a prince. It has a crunchy almond base and a soft, moist, yogurt-rich top, finished with rose-scented cream, green pistachios and pink petals, and it is lovely for birthdays and Nowruz tea. Made with ground almonds and no wheat flour, it is naturally gluten free. Chef's tip: press the base layer firmly into the tin; that crunchy bottom is the signature of this cake.
Läckerli have been Basel's own biscuit for more than 600 years, once baked by the city's spice merchants and gifted at Christmas and New Year; Basel shops still pack them in tins all year round. They are small, chewy rectangles of honey, almonds, candied orange and lemon peel and warm spices, with a thin, crackly sugar glaze. Unlike soft German gingerbread they are firm and dense when they are fresh and soften with time in a tin. Eat them with coffee or tea, or keep a box for visitors. Chef's tip: cut the slab into rectangles while it is still hot and glaze it at once; once cool it sets too hard to cut cleanly.
Basbaas means chilli in Somali, and basbaas cagaar, the green sauce, is on every Somali table, spooned over rice, pasta, sambuusa and grilled food. It is sharp, hot and fresh, and every family has its own balance of chilli, coriander and lime; some add a tomato to soften it. Make a jar and keep it in the fridge all week. Chef's tip: add the lime juice to the blender before the chillies; the acid keeps the sauce bright green.
Basanti pulao, the 'spring-coloured' pulao, is cooked in Bengali homes for Poila Baisakh (the Bengali new year), weddings, Jamai Shashthi and pujas. It is made with gobindobhog, a short-grain, buttery-smelling rice from Bengal, cooked in ghee with whole spices, turmeric, sugar, cashews and raisins until each grain is glossy and separate. It is distinctly sweet, and is served with aloo dum, chhanar dalna or, in non-vegetarian homes, kosha mangsho. Chef's tip: wash the rice and spread it on a cloth for 30 minutes; dry grains fry in the ghee without breaking.
At every German and Austrian Christmas market, from Nuremberg to Vienna's Rathausplatz, the stalls selling Glühwein also sell Kinderpunsch: a steaming, alcohol-free mix of fruit tea and juices with cinnamon, cloves and orange, served in the market's own decorated mugs. Children love it, but so do drivers and anyone who just wants something warm to hold on a cold evening. It takes 20 minutes at home and makes the whole house smell of Advent. Chef's tip: keep it just below a simmer; boiling makes the spices bitter and dulls the fruit flavour.
Chainsoo comes from the Garhwal hills, where whole black urad is roasted in a dry pan until it smells like toasted bread, ground coarsely on a hand mill and cooked into a thick, smoky dal. It is a winter dish: heavy, warming and full of protein, eaten with plain rice or jhangora and a drizzle of ghee for anyone who isn't keeping it vegan. Village cooks make it in a lohe ki kadhai, the iron pan that turns it almost black. The texture should be grainy and spoonable, somewhere between a dal and a porridge. Chef's tip: roast the urad slowly over a medium-low heat; the moment it turns from golden to dark brown it tastes bitter, so keep stirring and pull it off early.
Chajá was created in 1927 at a bakery in Paysandú, a city on the Uruguay River, and named after a local bird whose feathers look as fluffy as its crumbly meringue coat. Today it's Uruguay's birthday and celebration cake: layers of light sponge soaked in peach syrup, filled with whipped cream, peaches and dulce de leche, then covered in crushed meringue. It's sweet, soft and crunchy at once, best on the day it's assembled. Chef's tip: soak the sponge but not too much; it should feel moist, not wet, or the layers slide.
Chak-chak arrived in Uzbekistan with Tatar families and is now a fixture of wedding tables and Navruz spreads in Tashkent and Samarkand: tiny nuggets of egg dough fried crisp, then tossed in hot honey syrup and pressed into a mound or ring that's broken apart with the fingers. Guests nibble it all evening with green tea. It keeps for a week, so it's often made a day or two ahead. Chef's tip: cook the honey syrup only to the soft-ball stage (about 115°C); boil it longer and the chak-chak sets as hard as brittle.
Chak-hao is Manipur's aromatic black rice, grown in the valley around Imphal; when cooked slowly in milk it turns a deep violet and makes chak-hao kheer, the pudding served at Meitei feasts, weddings and Ningol Chakouba, the festival when married daughters come home for a meal. The grains stay slightly chewy and nutty, and the milk takes on a lavender colour. Chef's tip: soak the rice for at least 3 hours, or overnight; black rice has a hard bran layer and won't soften in the milk otherwise.
Chakalaka is said to have started in the townships and mines around Johannesburg, where workers cooked tinned beans and vegetables with chilli and curry powder over open fires. Today no South African braai (barbecue) is complete without a pot of it, and it goes on the table at Sunday lunch, at funerals and weddings, served warm or cold alongside pap. It is spicy, a little sweet from the carrots and peppers, and tangy from the tomato and beans. Chef's tip: grate the carrots rather than chopping them; they melt into the relish and give it its characteristic soft, spoonable texture.
In Rome supplì are bought from pizza-by-the-slice shops and friggitorie and eaten standing up, wrapped in paper, before the pizza arrives. Unlike Sicilian arancini they are oval and the rice is cooked in tomato sauce, so the inside is orange-red; when you bite one in half, the mozzarella stretches into a long 'telephone cord', which is where the nickname al telefono comes from. Roman bars usually add meat ragù; this version keeps it vegetarian with a basil-scented tomato rice. Chef's tip: cook the rice a day ahead and chill it in a thin layer; cold, firm rice shapes neatly and does not split in the oil.
Suqaar is the quick beef dish found everywhere from Mogadishu tea shops to Somali cafés in Minneapolis and London: small cubes of beef or lamb browned with onion, peppers and garlic, seasoned with xawaash, the house spice mix of cumin, coriander, cardamom, cinnamon and turmeric. Somalis eat it for breakfast with canjeero (spongy flatbread) or for lunch with rice or pasta. The mistake is cutting the beef in big chunks, which go chewy; cut it into small 1–2 cm cubes so it cooks fast and stays tender. Chef's tip: add a squeeze of lime and a handful of coriander just before serving.
Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte comes from the Black Forest in south-west Germany, a region famous for its sour cherries and the clear cherry brandy, Kirschwasser, distilled from them. Layers of light chocolate sponge are soaked with cherry syrup (and traditionally kirsch), filled with thickened sour cherries and lots of whipped cream, then covered in cream and chocolate shavings and topped with cherries. It's the cake of birthdays, Sunday Kaffee und Kuchen and Konditorei windows. This version leaves out gelatine: the cherries are set with cornflour and the cream with a little mascarpone. Chef's tip: chill the assembled cake for at least 4 hours; cut too early and the layers slide apart.
Almeirim, a market town in the Ribatejo, is the capital of this soup; its restaurants serve it every day, and each bowl arrives with a clean stone at the bottom, after the folk tale of a friar who 'made soup from a stone' by talking villagers into giving him everything else. This is a pork soup: red kidney beans simmer with chouriço, morcela blood sausage and a piece of pork belly, then potatoes, carrots and coriander finish it into a thick, hearty bowl. Chef's tip: cook the sausages whole and slice them at the end, so they stay juicy and don't turn the broth greasy.
So'o yosopy, "pounded meat" in Guaraní, is a soup Paraguayans make for anyone who is tired or recovering, and on cold days in Asunción's winter: beef is ground very finely and stirred into cold water so it breaks into soft, delicate threads, then simmered with onion, tomato, pepper and a little rice and oregano. The texture is smooth and the broth light. The mistake is adding the beef to boiling water, which makes it clump into meatballs; mix it into cold water first and stir as it heats. Chef's tip: ask the butcher to mince lean beef twice, or pulse it very fine in a food processor.
Somlói galuska was first served at the Gundel restaurant in Budapest in the 1950s and named after the Somló wine hill in western Hungary. Today it is the dessert everyone orders at the end of a Sunday lunch: spoonfuls of three sponges (plain, walnut and cocoa) soaked in rum syrup and layered with vanilla custard, then topped with chocolate sauce and whipped cream. It is assembled the day before and spooned out into rough dumplings, which is where 'galuska' comes from. This version thickens the custard with flour and egg yolk rather than gelatine. Chef's tip: soak the sponge only lightly; it should be moist but still hold a spoon-shaped scoop.
Sbornaya myasnaya solyanka is the soup Russian cooks make on 2 January, when the fridge is full of leftover ham and sausage from the New Year table; Moscow restaurants also keep it on the menu all winter as the cure for a heavy night. A beef broth is sharpened with pickled cucumbers and their brine, then loaded with strips of smoked sausage, ham and tender beef, salty olives and capers, and finished in the bowl with a slice of lemon and a spoon of sour cream. It contains pork (ham and smoked sausage). Serve it with rye bread. The usual mistake is salting the broth early: pickles, brine, capers, olives and sausage all bring salt, so season only at the very end. Chef's tip: fry the tomato paste with the pickles until it darkens before it meets the broth; it takes away the raw tinny taste and gives solyanka its deep orange colour.
Solterito, the 'little bachelor', is a cold salad from Arequipa in southern Peru, so called because it was simple enough for a single man to make. Broad beans, sweet corn, fresh cheese, tomato and red onion are tossed with black olives, parsley and a little rocoto chilli in an oil and vinegar dressing. It is eaten with the spicy dishes of Arequipa's picanterías, or on its own as a light lunch. Rocoto is a fat, fiery red chilli; a red pepper with a little habanero gives a similar crunch and heat. Use queso fresco made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: peel the broad beans after blanching; the pale skins are tough and the bright green beans inside make the salad sweet and tender.
Bulky green chillies are the cases for this Kelantan festive dish, cooked for weddings and Raya tables in Kota Bharu. Each one is slit, scraped out and packed with a pale filling of fish, freshly grated coconut, shallots, ginger and black pepper, then simmered gently in coconut milk until the chillies slump and the gravy turns rich and faintly smoky. The filling is soft and sweet; the skins bring gentle heat and a green, grassy bite. Serve two or three per person with rice and a sambal, or with nasi kerabu. Chef's tip: choose large, mild chillies (or long sweet peppers for a gentler version) and tie each with a strip of pandan or a toothpick so the filling stays inside.
Sol kadhi is the pale pink drink served at the end of every meal along the Konkan coast, from Malvan to Ratnagiri. Fresh coconut milk is mixed with the deep purple soaking water of kokum, a sour fruit that grows in the coastal hills, and seasoned with a little garlic, green chilli and salt. It's cool, tangy and gently creamy, and it soothes the stomach after a spicy Malvani thali. Drink it from a small glass or pour it over rice as the last course. Chef's tip: make it with fresh coconut if you can; the milk you squeeze yourself is lighter and sweeter than tinned and gives the classic blush-pink colour.
Smažený sýr, a thick slab of breaded Edam fried until molten, is the dish every Czech student orders at a Prague hospoda and the one vegetarian main that turns up on nearly every menu from Brno to the Šumava mountain huts. It comes with tatarská omáčka (tartare sauce) and either boiled potatoes or chips, and a cold pivo on the side. The joy is the crunch giving way to stretchy, salty cheese. Chef's tip: chill the breaded slices for 20 minutes and double-coat them, otherwise the cheese bursts out into the oil before the crumb is golden.
Smashed avo became the signature breakfast of Sydney and Melbourne cafés in the 1990s and 2000s, and today it's on the menu of almost every café in Australia, from Bondi to Fitzroy, eaten on weekend mornings with a flat white. Ripe avocado is crushed roughly with lemon, salt and chilli and piled thickly onto toasted sourdough, then topped with salty crumbled feta and, often, a soft poached egg. It's creamy, sharp, crunchy and salty all at once. Chef's tip: smash the avocado with a fork, not a blender, and leave it chunky; the contrast between the rough avo and the crisp toast is the whole point.
Slata mechouia means 'grilled salad', and in Tunisia it opens almost every family meal and Ramadan iftar: peppers, tomatoes, onion and garlic charred over coals until blackened, then peeled and chopped into a smoky relish with olive oil, caraway and coriander seed. It is scooped up with bread or served next to grilled food and couscous. A tuna and egg topping is common in restaurants; this version keeps it to vegetables and olives. Chef's tip: let the vegetables steam in a covered bowl after charring; the skins then slip off in seconds.
Locho is a breakfast street snack from Surat in Gujarat. The story goes that a batch of khaman went wrong and came out soft and mushy, and people liked it so much it became a dish of its own; 'locho' means a muddle. A fermented batter of chana dal is steamed until just set and scooped out in soft, spoonable heaps, then drizzled with oil and showered with a spicy locho masala, raw onion, coriander and sev. It's eaten hot with green chutney and a sweet-sour tamarind sauce. Chef's tip: steam it in a shallow layer and take it off as soon as a knife comes out sticky but not wet; locho should be just set and wobbly, and over-steamed it turns into a dull khaman.
Every December and January, farms around Surat roast bundles of young green jowar heads over embers and thresh out ponk, soft, sweet, pale-green grains that last only a few weeks. Surtis turn the trip into a picnic, eating ponk by the handful with lemon-pepper sev and garlic chutney, then frying the leftovers into these crunchy vada. The grains are crushed coarsely with chilli and ginger, bound with a little gram and rice flour, and fried until the outside is lacy and crisp while the inside stays tender and grassy-sweet. Look for frozen ponk in Gujarati grocers outside the season. Chef's tip: crush the ponk only roughly; whole grains popping through the crust is what makes these vada special.
Suspiro a la limeña, 'the sigh of a Lima woman', is the city's grand dessert from colonial times, said to have been named by the poet José Gálvez for its sweetness. A thick manjar blanco, milk slowly cooked down to a silky caramel cream and enriched with egg yolks, is topped with a cloud of glossy Italian meringue flavoured with port and dusted with cinnamon. It is very sweet and very rich, so serve it in small glasses. Make it in the morning for the evening. Chef's tip: the manjar is ready when a spoon dragged across the bottom of the pan leaves a clear path for a moment; undercooked, it stays runny and the meringue sinks into it.
Skudahkharis is the pride of Djibouti and is also cooked in Somali homes: lamb on the bone simmered with tomato, onion, garlic and a warm mix of cumin, cardamom, cinnamon and cloves, then rice cooked in the pot until it absorbs every drop. It is served for Eid and family gatherings, with banana and a hot green chilli sauce on the side, as is the custom. The mistake is stirring the rice once it is in, which breaks the grains and makes it sticky; stir once, then leave it covered. Chef's tip: soak basmati for 20 minutes before cooking so it cooks evenly in the rich broth.
Singodi is Almora's other famous sweet, sold in the same shops as bal mithai but looking nothing like it: a soft, pale mix of khoya and coconut packed into a cone of maalu leaf and pinned shut with a twig. The leaf leaves a faint green, woody scent in the sweet, which is the whole point, and people in Kumaon unwrap them at weddings and on trips home. Maalu leaves are almost impossible to buy elsewhere, so this version uses banana leaf or fresh betel (paan) leaves; both give a gentle leafy aroma. Chef's tip: wrap the singodi while the filling is still warm and leave them in the fridge overnight, so the scent of the leaf soaks in.
Suwon, south of Seoul in Gyeonggi province, once had one of the largest cattle markets in Korea, and its galbi houses grew up around that trade. The city's style is unusual: the long, butterflied short ribs are seasoned mainly with salt, garlic and sesame oil rather than the soy marinade most people know. Families and office groups grill them at the table over charcoal, snip them into pieces with scissors and wrap each bite in lettuce with ssamjang and raw garlic. At home a ridged griddle pan or a barbecue does the job well. Chef's tip: score the opened-out meat lightly in a criss-cross pattern on both sides, so the salt seasoning soaks in and the ribbon of meat stays flat on the grill.
Suya comes from the Hausa north, from Kano and Kaduna, but now every Nigerian city has a mai suya grilling beef over charcoal by the roadside once the sun goes down. Thin slices of beef are threaded onto skewers, rubbed with yaji, a fiery mix of roasted peanut powder, chilli, ginger and stock spices, and grilled until charred at the edges. It comes wrapped in newspaper with sliced raw onion, tomato and extra yaji for dipping. The common mistake is cutting the beef thick; it needs to be thin enough to see light through, so it cooks fast and stays tender. Chef's tip: put the beef in the freezer for 30 minutes first, and it will slice wafer thin with ease.
Singju is Imphal's favourite evening snack, sold from stalls at Khwairamband market and Thangal Bazar: a pile of finely shredded cabbage, lotus stem, banana flower, onion and fresh herbs, tossed with roasted chilli and toasted gram flour. Most stalls add a little ngari (fermented fish); vegetarian Meitei homes skip it and use extra roasted perilla or sesame and toasted gram flour, which give a nutty, savoury depth. It is crunchy, hot and herby. Chef's tip: shred everything as thinly as you can, almost like hair; the dressing clings better.
Singapore's carrot cake has no carrot in it: "carrot" is the local word for white radish (daikon). A steamed cake of rice flour and grated radish is cut into cubes and fried with egg and garlic until crisp and golden, either "white" (plain and eggy) or "black" (with sweet dark soy). It's a breakfast and supper favourite at hawker centres like Chinatown Complex. Most stalls add chai poh (preserved radish); this version leaves it out because many brands are made with fish sauce, and spring onions bring the savoury lift instead. Chef's tip: steam the cake a day ahead and chill it overnight; cold, firm cake cuts cleanly and crisps instead of falling apart.
Sindhi kadhi is the Sunday lunch of families from Sindh, served in Karachi and Hyderabad homes over plain rice with crisp fried potatoes on the side. Unlike the yogurt kadhis of Gujarat and Punjab it uses no dairy at all: gram flour is roasted in oil until it smells like toasted nuts, whisked into water with tamarind and tomato, and simmered with a crowd of vegetables, typically drumsticks, okra, cluster beans, potato and carrot. The result is thin, sour and gently hot, with a deep golden colour. The common mistake is rushing the roasting of the gram flour; pale flour leaves the whole pot tasting raw and pasty. Chef's tip: cook the drumsticks and potatoes first and add the okra only in the last 10 minutes so it stays whole and does not turn slimy.
Sinangag is what a Filipino kitchen does with last night's rice: fried in garlicky oil first thing in the morning and heaped on the breakfast plate. It is the 'si' in silog, the breakfast plates served at every silugan (all-day breakfast stall) in Manila, where garlic rice comes with a fried egg and a choice of cured meat. At home it goes with anything, from tortang talong to a fried egg and tomatoes, and a small dish of spiced vinegar for dipping. Each grain should be separate and lightly toasted, with plenty of crunchy, golden garlic on top. Chef's tip: fry the garlic slowly from cold oil; it browns evenly and the oil takes on a deep, sweet garlic flavour.
Shchi is the oldest soup in Russian cooking, the one the proverb pairs with porridge: 'shchi da kasha, pishcha nasha' (shchi and kasha, that's our food). In villages from Vologda to Ryazan it was left to mellow in the warmth of the big masonry stove, and in summer and early autumn it is made with fresh young cabbage rather than the sour winter version. Unlike Ukrainian kapusniak there is no sauerkraut or millet here: just sweet cabbage, root vegetables, tomato, bay and dill, with a cold spoon of smetana stirred into each bowl. Chef's tip: shchi tastes better the next day, so make it a day ahead and reheat gently.
Svíčková is the dish Czech families make for weddings, name days and big Sunday lunches, and in Prague pubs it appears on the menu as the proud centre of the week. Beef is marinated for a day or two with root vegetables and spices, slow-roasted, and the vegetables are then blended into a smooth, sweet-sour cream sauce. It is always served the same way: sliced beef, a pool of sauce, bread dumplings, a spoonful of cranberry sauce, a twist of whipped cream and a slice of lemon. Many cooks under-season the sauce; it should taste clearly of vinegar, sugar and allspice, not just cream. The optional smoked bacon that flavours the vegetables is pork; leave it out and the sauce is still rich. Chef's tip: blend the sauce until completely velvety, then push it through a sieve; that silky finish is what makes svíčková special.
Stacked high on wooden trays and pushed through Istanbul on red carts, simit is the city's breakfast on the move: commuters tear one apart on the ferry across the Bosphorus, throwing the odd piece to the gulls. The ring is twisted, dipped in diluted grape molasses (pekmez) and pressed into sesame, so it bakes up with a crackly, nutty, deep brown crust and a chewy, close crumb. Unlike a bagel it is never boiled. At home, serve warm with tea, white cheese, olives and tomatoes. Chef's tip: toast the sesame seeds in a dry pan before coating; raw seeds stay pale and taste of very little.
Silpancho is the pride of Cochabamba in Bolivia and is sold in huge portions at the city's lunchtime silpancherías: a layer of rice, then sliced fried potatoes, then a beef steak pounded so thin it covers the plate, breaded and fried, topped with a fried egg and a fresh salsa of tomato, onion and locoto chilli. The mistake is not pounding the meat thin enough; it should be about 3 mm, so it fries in a minute and stays tender. Chef's tip: press the breadcrumbs into the meat with the palm of your hand, then pound lightly once more so they stick.
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