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.
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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.
Lula kebab is the kebab Baku's grill houses are proudest of: minced lamb mixed with onion and a little tail fat, squeezed by hand around wide skewers and cooked fast over charcoal. It comes to the table on thin lavash with sliced raw onion tossed in sumac, grilled tomatoes and a pile of herbs, usually at long family lunches and weddings. The meat is only salted and peppered, so it tastes of lamb rather than spice. Many people skip chilling the mince, and soft warm meat slides straight off the skewer into the fire. Chef's tip: knead and slap the mince against the bowl for a few minutes; it becomes sticky and clings to the skewer.
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.
Rica means chilli in the Manado dialect, and North Sulawesi cooks are not shy with it. Ayam rica-rica turns up at Minahasa family parties and church gatherings, a heap of chicken pieces coated in a coarse, scarlet paste of fresh chillies, shallots and ginger, finished with tomato, spring onion and a fistful of lemon basil. It's hot, bright and fresh rather than deep and stewed, with a sticky sauce that clings to the meat. Serve it with lots of steamed rice and a cooling cucumber salad. Chef's tip: blend the paste coarse, with as little water as possible; a wet, smooth paste steams instead of frying and never gets that glossy, toasty edge.
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.
Up in the Central Highlands, around Kon Tum, Pleiku and Buôn Ma Thuột, roadside grills and village homestays serve this pair: chicken marinated in lemongrass and chilli, grilled slowly over charcoal, and cơm lam, sticky rice cooked inside green bamboo tubes laid in the fire. Splitting the charred bamboo reveals a cylinder of rice wrapped in a thin, fragrant skin of bamboo membrane. Both are eaten with the hands and dipped in salt, pepper and lime or a crushed peanut and sesame salt. Without fresh bamboo, rolling the rice in banana-leaf parcels gives a very similar result. Highland rice wine (rượu cần) is the usual drink, but cold jasmine tea goes just as well and is alcohol-free. Chef's tip: brush on the honey only in the last few minutes of grilling so it glazes without burning.
Makassar's other great beef soup is darker, richer and more coconutty than coto, and locals argue about which is better over late lunches at pallubasa houses near the port. The secret is kelapa sangrai: grated coconut toasted slowly to a deep brown and pounded, which gives the broth a roasted, almost nutty sweetness and a slightly gritty, full body. It's eaten with a mound of plain rice rather than rice cakes, and for the full version you ask for 'alas', a raw egg yolk dropped in the bowl that you stir into the boiling soup until it turns silky. Offal is traditional but optional; tender beef alone is delicious. Chef's tip: the coconut must reach the colour of milk chocolate, not black, because burnt coconut makes the whole pot bitter.
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.
Albóndigas turn up all over Spain: in a cazuelita on a tapas bar counter, as the second course of a weekday menú del día, and in home kitchens on a Sunday when there is time to roll them. These are made with pork and beef, softened with milk-soaked bread, browned and then simmered in a tomato sauce thickened the old Spanish way with ground fried almonds, which gives it body and a gentle nutty sweetness. Serve them with chips, rice or plenty of bread. They taste even better the next day. Chef's tip: wet your hands with cold water before rolling each meatball; the mixture won't stick and the balls come out smooth and round.
Aseeda (asida) is the stiff, slightly sour sorghum porridge eaten across Sudan, especially in Darfur, Kordofan and the countryside, where it is the daily staple. The batter is left to ferment before being cooked into a smooth, firm dough, shaped in a bowl into a dome, and turned out with mullah poured around it. During Ramadan it is a common iftar dish. Chef's tip: beat hard with a wooden spoon once the dough thickens; that beating is what makes aseeda smooth instead of lumpy.
Canjeero (also called laxoox) is Somali breakfast, made fresh each morning in homes and sold in cafés from Mogadishu to Djibouti: thin, spongy pancakes from a soured batter, cooked on one side only so the top is full of tiny holes. Eaten warm, they are drizzled with sesame oil or ghee and sprinkled with sugar, then rolled up with sweet spiced tea; on weekends they come with liver or beans. They are smaller and lighter than Ethiopian injera and made mostly from wheat. Chef's tip: spread the batter in a spiral with the back of the ladle, starting in the middle; that is what makes the thin, even, lacy sheet.
Jhangora is barnyard millet, a hardy grain that grows on the high fields of Garhwal and Kumaon, and this kheer is how most hill families turn it into something special. It cooks faster than rice kheer and ends up softer and silkier, with a light, nutty taste. Because millet isn't a cereal grain, it's eaten on Navratri and Ekadashi fasts, when you'll find bowls of it at temples and in homes from Rishikesh to Chamoli. It is just as good chilled the next day. Chef's tip: soak the millet for 20 minutes before cooking; it softens evenly and you won't be left with hard little grains in the pudding.
Ask anyone from Kumaon what they miss most from home and aloo ke gutke comes up quickly. Hill potatoes are boiled, cut into rough chunks and tossed in smoking mustard oil with jakhiya, a tiny wild seed that pops and crunches like mustard but tastes more like toasted cumin. It's served at tea time with a mug of chai, on festival plates next to puri, and in local dhabas with cucumber raita. Outside Uttarakhand jakhiya is hard to find, so use cumin seeds with a few black mustard seeds instead; the dish will still taste right. Chef's tip: boil the potatoes a few hours ahead, or the night before, so they firm up and fry into crisp-edged cubes instead of crumbling.
For ceremonies in the villages around Gianyar in central Bali, a whole duck is stuffed and smothered with base genep, wrapped in banana leaves and areca-palm sheath, and buried overnight in smouldering rice husks. By morning the meat has turned meltingly soft, the fat has rendered into the spices and the parcel smells of turmeric, smoke and lime leaf. This home version keeps the stuffing and the leaf parcel but uses a low oven for three hours, then opens the parcel for a short blast to colour the skin. Serve it in its juices with rice, a sharp sambal matah and long beans or water spinach. Chef's tip: marinate the duck overnight in the fridge if you can; the paste needs time to get past the fat and into the meat.
Jakarta's original Betawi community gave the capital this rich, pale-gold soup, and on a Sunday the soto Betawi stalls along the city's side streets are packed with families. Beef brisket (and, for many, tripe) simmers until tender, then goes into a gently spiced broth made creamy with coconut milk and a splash of fresh milk, scented with lemongrass, cinnamon and cloves. Each bowl is loaded with fried potato, raw tomato and spring onion and comes with rice, lime, sambal and bitter-crisp emping crackers. It's comforting and mellow rather than fiery. Chef's tip: for a dairy-free bowl, swap the milk for more coconut milk; the soup will be a little heavier but just as good.
Ofe onugbu is the soup Igbo families in Anambra and Enugu make for Sunday lunch and for visitors coming home at Christmas. Washed bitter leaf gives a gentle, pleasant bitterness, cocoyam paste thickens it, and beef, shaki (tripe), stockfish and dried fish add layer after layer of savoury flavour, all coloured by palm oil. It is eaten with pounded yam, eba or fufu, pinched up with the fingers. The mistake to avoid is using bitter leaf that hasn't been washed enough; it should taste only mildly bitter before it goes in. Chef's tip: frozen pre-washed bitter leaf from African grocers saves an hour of squeezing and rinsing.
Bariis iskukaris ('rice cooked together') is the centre of the table at Somali family lunches, Friday gatherings and Eid, from Mogadishu to Hargeisa and Somali neighbourhoods in Nairobi, Minneapolis and London. Long-grain rice is cooked in one pot with onion, tomato and the house spice mix xawaash, and topped with fried onions and raisins; it is usually crowned with goat, but this version cooks carrots, peas and potatoes into the rice. In true Somali style, serve it with a banana on the side and a spoon of green basbaas. Chef's tip: rinse and soak the basmati so the grains stay long and separate.
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