Sayur lodeh is everyday cooking in Central Java, made in big pots in Solo and Semarang kitchens and ladled over rice, with lontong rice cakes at Lebaran, or alongside opor and sambal goreng on festive tables. It's soupy rather than thick: a fragrant broth of coconut milk, galangal, lemongrass and lime leaf that carries chunks of aubergine, long beans, chayote and sweetcorn, plus tempeh and tofu to make it a meal. The flavour is mellow and slightly sweet, so the heat comes from sambal on the side. Chef's tip: keep the pot at a gentle simmer once the coconut milk goes in and stir now and then — a rolling boil splits the coconut milk into oily curds.
Spin the randomizer, search with what's already in your fridge, or browse recipes from our chefs.
Saltah is the national dish of Yemen, eaten at lunch in Sana'a and the highlands, brought to the table still boiling in a heavy stone pot called a madara. A rich lamb broth (maraq) is cooked down with tomato, potato and hawaij spices, then crowned with hulba, fenugreek whipped to a pale green froth, and scooped up with flatbread. Chef's tip: soak the ground fenugreek for at least 4 hours and pour off its bitter water before whipping; that is what makes it foam.
Mandua, or finger millet, is the grain that hill farmers in Uttarakhand have relied on for generations, and its roti is the staple of a pahadi winter kitchen. The rotis come out dark brown, slightly sweet and earthy, and they are eaten hot from the tawa with a spoon of ghee, kafuli or a bowl of chainsoo, sometimes with jaggery on the side. With no gluten to hold it together the dough is fragile, so cooks pat it out between wet palms rather than rolling it. Chef's tip: knead the dough in two small batches with hot water; millet dough dries and cracks quickly, so the second batch stays fresh while you cook the first.
Kachumbari is the raw salad that goes with nearly everything in Kenya and Tanzania: nyama choma grills in Nairobi, pilau on the Swahili coast, chips mayai at roadside stalls and ugali at home. It is simply ripe tomato and red onion cut small, with coriander, chilli and lime, and sometimes cucumber or avocado. Chef's tip: soak the sliced onion in salted water for ten minutes; it takes away the harsh bite without losing the crunch.
Gâteau patate are little half-moon pastries made from mashed sweet potato dough and filled with sweetened grated coconut and cardamom, then fried until golden. They are a teatime treat in Mauritian homes and are sold at markets and fairs, especially around Divali and the end of the year. Chef's tip: use the sweet potatoes while still warm to make the dough; cold mash needs more flour and the gâteaux turn heavy.
Daulat ki chaat appears in the lanes of Chandni Chowk only in the coldest months, from about November to February. Vendors whisk milk and cream through the night and leave it out under the winter dew, then skim off a foam so light it disappears on your tongue, topped with saffron, khoya, sugar and pistachios. It's sold before the sun gets high, because warmth destroys it. A home kitchen can't recreate a Delhi winter night, so this version uses very cold milk and cream whipped to a loose foam and layered with saffron. It comes close: airy, cool, faintly sweet. Chef's tip: chill everything, bowl and whisk included, for at least 4 hours; the colder the milk, the more stable the foam.
Raj kachori is the showpiece at Delhi's sweet-and-chaat shops: a fist-sized puri, fried until it balloons and turns crisp as a biscuit, then cracked open and stuffed with potato, chickpeas, sprouted moong, sweet yogurt, two chutneys and a snowfall of sev. It arrives on a steel plate at weddings and family outings, and it's eaten with a spoon because there's no other way. Every bite is crunchy, cold, sweet, sour and spicy at once. The puris can be fried a day ahead and kept in a tin. Chef's tip: roll the dough thin and even, and keep the oil properly hot; a puri rolled thicker on one side won't puff into a full ball.
Listen for a spoon tapped against a bowl in any Indonesian neighbourhood and you will find a bakso cart, its glass case stacked with meatballs and two kinds of noodles. The meatballs are springy, almost bouncy, sitting in a clear, garlicky beef broth with yellow noodles, glass noodles and a little green veg. Everyone then builds their own bowl at the counter with sambal, sweet soy sauce, vinegar and a scattering of fried shallots; it is the go-to comfort on a wet afternoon. Chef's tip: keep the beef and everything that touches it ice-cold while you blend, because warm meat gives dense, crumbly balls instead of that famous bounce.
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.
Walk through any Delhi office district at lunchtime and you'll find a cart with a huge brass pot of pale white peas and a stack of soft kulchas warming on a tawa. Delhiites call it chole kulche even though it's made with dried white peas (safed matar) rather than chickpeas. The vendor scoops the peas onto a leaf plate, piles on raw onion, tomato, green chilli and ginger, squeezes lime over and dusts it with a sour, smoky masala. It's tangy, fresh and filling, and very different from the rich, stuffed Amritsari kulcha. Chef's tip: mash a ladleful of the cooked peas back into the pot; it thickens the liquid so the toppings and masala cling instead of sliding off.
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.
Xalwo is the sweet of Somali celebrations: weddings, Eid and the arrival of guests are all marked with a tray of this dark, glossy, chewy confection, cut into diamonds and served with coffee or spiced tea. Sugar is caramelised, then cooked slowly with cornflour and oil or ghee while the cook stirs without stopping until it pulls away from the pan. It is a cousin of Omani and Yemeni halwa. Chef's tip: stir constantly and keep going until the oil starts to separate and shine on the surface; stopped early, xalwo stays soft and does not set.
At Tết, the lunar new year, a plate of nem rán sits on almost every family feast tray in Hanoi and the north, and the same rolls turn up at weddings, death anniversaries and Sunday lunches all year. Northern cooks wrap a filling of minced pork, crab or prawn, glass noodles and wood ear mushroom in thin rice paper, which fries into a pale golden, bubbly shell quite different from wheat-wrapped spring rolls. Southerners call the same idea chả giò. Serve them cut in pieces with rice vermicelli, lettuce, herbs and a warm sweet-sour fish sauce. Chef's tip: fry them twice, first gently to cook the filling through, then briefly in hotter oil to crisp; they stay crunchy far longer.
Drive through west Bali to the ferry port of Gilimanuk and the roadside warungs all sell the same thing: ayam betutu, chicken cooked so long in spice paste that it slumps off the bone into a fiery, turmeric-orange gravy. The paste is base genep, Bali's master seasoning of shallots, garlic, galangal, aromatic ginger, turmeric, chillies, candlenuts and shrimp paste, and it is rubbed inside and out before the bird braises gently in a covered pot. Expect deep heat, a little bitterness from the greens tucked inside and a rich, almost buttery sauce. Pile it on steamed rice with water spinach or a raw sambal matah to cut through. Chef's tip: braise it the day before; the paste mellows overnight and the chicken reheats beautifully.
Bal mithai belongs to Almora in Kumaon, where sweet shops on the old Lala Bazaar have sold it for well over a century. Khoya is cooked slowly with sugar until it caramelises to the colour of dark chocolate, set into bars and rolled in little white sugar balls, which give a crunchy bite against the fudgy middle. Families carry boxes of it home from the hills as the town's best-known souvenir. The flavour is deep and toffee-like, with no added colour or cocoa. Chef's tip: keep the heat low and be patient; the deep brown comes from slow caramelising over half an hour, not from turning the flame up.
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.
Black soybeans, called bhatt, grow on the slopes around Almora and Pithoragarh, and churkani is the everyday Kumaoni way of eating them: roasted in a dry iron pan until they crack, then simmered with garlic, ginger and a little rice flour into a thick, nearly black gravy. It's the kind of food that keeps people warm through a hill winter, eaten with steamed rice, a spoonful of ghee and a sharp radish raita. The roasting gives a nutty, almost smoky taste you won't get from boiling the beans. Chef's tip: cook it in an iron kadhai if you have one; the metal reacts with the beans and gives churkani its traditional dark colour.
Methi matar malai belongs to the Punjabi wedding buffet and the dhaba menu as much as to winter home cooking, when bunches of fresh fenugreek pile up in the markets of Ludhiana and Jalandhar. Bitter-sweet methi leaves and sweet green peas sit in a pale, silky gravy of onion, cashew and cream, mild enough for children and rich enough for a celebration. Serve it with butter naan, lachha paratha or jeera rice. Chef's tip: salt the chopped methi and squeeze it before cooking; it takes away much of the bitterness while keeping the flavour.
Weekend visitors from Saigon who drive down to the beach town of Vũng Tàu make a point of eating bánh khọt at open-air stalls, where cooks tend rows of dimpled clay or cast-iron pans over charcoal. The batter of rice flour, coconut milk and turmeric fries into bite-sized cups with a shatteringly crisp base and a soft, custardy top, each finished with a small shrimp and spring onion oil. You wrap them in mustard greens or lettuce with herbs and dip them in sweet-sour fish sauce. At home, an aebleskiver or takoyaki pan works well. Chef's tip: cover the pan for the first minute so steam sets the tops, then uncover so the bottoms crisp in the oil.
Showing 18 of 4,484 recipes
Show more recipesPage 250 of 499
Vegan
Gluten free
Spicy
Indian
Mauritian
Indonesian
Somali
Vietnamese
