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Sayur lodeh
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Sayur lodeh

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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Sinangag

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.

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Vegetable pancit bihon

No Filipino birthday is complete without a big tray of pancit, because long noodles stand for a long life; aunts arrive at the party carrying it in foil trays, and it sits on the table next to the cake. Pancit bihon uses thin rice vermicelli tossed with sautéed vegetables and a soy-seasoned stock until the noodles drink up every drop and turn light brown and glossy. This version is vegetarian, with fried tofu standing in for the usual chicken, shrimp and sausage, and vegetable stock in the pan. Squeeze calamansi (or lime) over each plate; the sharp citrus is what lifts it. Chef's tip: never cut the noodles before serving, for luck, and cook them in the stock rather than boiling them first.

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Lahori chargha

Chargha is a Lahore speciality, sold from the busy food streets of Lakshmi Chowk and the old city, where whole birds are coated in a red, tangy masala, steamed in big pots and then dropped into hot oil to order. It is the centrepiece of wedding dinners and Saturday-night family outings, and makes an impressive home dinner for guests. Steaming keeps the meat moist and cooked through before frying gives it a crisp, spicy skin. Serve it with naan, raita, salad and a squeeze of lime. Chef's tip: slash the chicken deeply to the bone so the masala and steam reach the thickest parts.

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Vegetable sinigang

Sinigang is the sour soup that Tagalog families crave when the monsoon arrives between June and October, when rain hammers the tin roofs and a steaming bowl next to rice feels like the only sensible lunch. The sourness traditionally comes from young tamarind (sampalok) boiled and mashed into the broth, and the vegetables are whatever the market has: white radish, taro to thicken the soup slightly, okra, yard-long beans, aubergine and a final handful of water spinach. This vegetarian sinigang na gulay skips the pork or fish and relies on the tamarind, tomato and onion for flavour. The broth should make you pucker a little on the first sip. Chef's tip: add the tamarind in stages and taste between each, since blocks of tamarind vary a lot in sourness.

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Tofu adobo

Adobo is the dish Filipinos call national, cooked in some form in nearly every home from Ilocos down to Mindanao, and the meat versions are what most people know. In Catholic households, though, Holy Week and the Fridays of Lent call for a meatless table, and adobong tokwa (tofu adobo) is the answer many families reach for. Firm tofu is fried until it has a golden skin, then simmered in a reduced sauce of cane vinegar, soy sauce, a whole head of garlic, bay leaves and whole peppercorns until the sauce clings, sour and salty with a little sweetness. It tastes even better the next day and is eaten with mounds of plain rice. Chef's tip: press the tofu well and fry it properly; a dry, golden crust is what soaks up the adobo sauce instead of turning it watery.

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In Manila and across Luzon, adobong kangkong is the cheap green that sits in a tray at the carinderia, the roadside canteen where office workers and jeepney drivers point at two or three dishes to go with their rice. It is not a stir-fry in the Chinese or Malay sense: the water spinach is cooked briefly in an adobo base of cane vinegar, soy sauce, bay and cracked pepper, so the stems stay crunchy while the leaves soak up a sharp, salty, garlicky sauce that runs into the rice. It costs very little, takes ten minutes and is often the only vegetable on a weekday plate. Chef's tip: let the vinegar boil for a full minute before you stir anything, the way Filipino cooks do; the raw, harsh edge cooks off and the sauce turns mellow.

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Juju dhau

Juju dhau means king of curds in the Newar language, and it belongs to Bhaktapur, the old brick-and-temple city east of Kathmandu, where it is sold in round clay bowls from shops around Durbar Square and taken home by the stack. Full-fat milk, traditionally buffalo milk, is boiled down by a third until it is rich and faintly caramel, sweetened, then set overnight in unglazed clay pots that soak up the whey, leaving a custard-thick, creamy yogurt with a pale golden skin. No wedding, festival or important meal in the Valley ends without it, and it is eaten on its own with a small spoon. People often rush the reduction, and the yogurt then sets thin and sour. Chef's tip: if you don't have clay pots, set it in ceramic ramekins and pour off any whey after setting; and keep it warm and undisturbed, wrapped in a blanket, so it sets in one smooth layer.

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Irish seafood chowder

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.

55 minIrishSoups
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Sel roti

When Tihar, the five-day festival of lights, arrives in late autumn, kitchens all over Nepal fill with the smell of sel roti: big, thin rings of sweetened rice batter fried in hot oil until crisp and russet outside and soft and slightly chewy inside. They are stacked high to offer to the gods, to sisters during Bhai Tika and to every guest, and they are also made at Dashain and for weddings, travelling well and keeping for days. Rice is soaked overnight and ground with sugar into a thick, pourable batter, then poured by hand in one confident circle into the oil. Many families add ghee to the batter, which makes the rings richer but means they are vegetarian rather than vegan; this version uses oil. The common mistake is oil that is not hot enough, so the batter drinks fat and turns greasy. Chef's tip: let the batter rest for an hour after grinding; it thickens and ferments slightly, and the rings puff and hold their shape better.

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Yomari

Yomari are the sweet dumplings of the Newars of the Kathmandu Valley, made once a year on Yomari Punhi, the full moon of December that marks the end of the rice harvest. Freshly milled rice flour is kneaded with hot water, pinched into a hollow cone, filled with chaku, a dark, fudgy Newari molasses, and toasted sesame, then shaped with a pointed tail like a fish or a teardrop and steamed. Children go from house to house singing for them, and families offer a few to the gods before anyone eats. The shell is soft and slightly chewy, and the filling melts into warm, smoky caramel. The usual mistake is mixing the dough with lukewarm water: it must be just off the boil so the starch swells and the dough stretches without cracking. Chef's tip: keep a bowl of warm water beside you and dip your fingertips often; damp hands smooth out cracks as you shape.

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Chatamari

Chatamari is a thin, round crêpe of rice flour that Newar cooks in Patan, Bhaktapur and old Kathmandu make on a covered griddle, so the topping steams on top while the base turns crisp underneath. It is sometimes called Newari pizza, which says something about how it's eaten: cut into wedges, hot, and shared. It is a festival and teahouse snack, served at Newar feasts and in the small eateries around Patan Durbar Square. The classic topping is a cracked egg spread over the batter with onion, tomato and coriander, and this vegetarian version keeps the egg; leave it out and add more vegetables if you prefer. The common mistake is to pour the batter too thick; it should be as thin as single cream so it cooks through before the edges burn. Chef's tip: swirl the batter with the back of a ladle in a spiral from the centre outwards, so it sets in an even, lacy layer.

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Bara, or wo in the Newar language, is a thick, savoury pancake of ground black lentils that the Newar people of the Kathmandu Valley have made for centuries. It is cooked on a flat griddle until spotted brown and lacy at the edges but soft and airy inside. It is festival food above all: it appears at Sithi Nakha in early summer, on the plates of Newar feasts and at roadside stalls in Kirtipur and Patan, where it is often topped with a cracked egg. This plant-based version keeps it plain, with ginger, garlic and cumin in the batter. Eat it hot with golbheda ko achar. The usual mistake is to add too much water when grinding: the batter must be thick enough to hold a peak, or the bara spread thin and go flat. Chef's tip: beat the ground batter by hand for 3–4 minutes until it turns pale and fluffy; the air you whip in is what makes the bara light.

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Golbheda ko achar

No momo is served in Nepal without a small bowl of golbheda ko achar, and no dal bhat feels complete without a dab of it on the side. Tomatoes (golbheda) are charred over a flame or on a dry griddle until black-blistered and soft, then pounded with garlic, green chilli and timur, the citrusy Nepali pepper that leaves a buzz on the tongue. Grandmothers grind it on the flat stone silauto; a blender or mortar does the job at home. It is smoky, sour and hot, and is made fresh in most kitchens every day or two. A spoonful of toasted sesame or soybean powder thickens the version served with momos in Kathmandu. Don't purée it smooth: the skins and seeds give it its rustic body. Chef's tip: char the garlic and chillies beside the tomatoes; their sharp edge softens and the achar tastes sweeter and deeper.

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Aloo achar

Aloo ko achar is the potato salad of Nepal, but tangy, nutty and hot rather than creamy. Boiled potatoes are tossed with ground toasted sesame, lemon juice, green chilli and timur, then finished with mustard oil in which fenugreek seeds have been fried dark. You find it everywhere: in tiffin boxes on the way to school, at picnics and on the long leaf plates of Newar feasts, alongside beaten rice and spicy beans, and it is a fixture at Dashain and Tihar gatherings when food has to sit out for hours. It keeps well, and the flavour improves after a rest. Dressing the potatoes while still hot is the usual mistake: they soak it up and turn mushy, so let them cool first. Chef's tip: toast the sesame until it just starts to pop and smells like popcorn, then grind it to a coarse sandy powder; it thickens the dressing and gives the salad its nuttiness.

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Saag (rayo ko saag)

Ask for saag anywhere in Nepal and you will get the leafy part of the dal bhat plate: a tangle of greens, most often rayo (a broad-leafed mustard green), fried fast in mustard oil with garlic and a dried chilli until just wilted. It is nothing like the slow-cooked, puréed sarson ka saag of Punjab. Nepali saag keeps its bright colour, a little bite in the stems and a pleasant bitterness. It grows in every kitchen garden from the Terai to the hills and is on the table most days from autumn to spring. Spinach, chard or Chinese mustard greens all work the same way. The common mistake is to cover the pan, which stews the leaves to a grey mush; keep the heat high and the lid off. Chef's tip: add the stems a minute before the leaves so both are done at the same moment.

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Gundruk ko jhol

In the terraced hill villages between Pokhara and Ilam, families pack mustard, radish and cauliflower leaves into clay pots after the autumn harvest, let them ferment for a week or two and then sun-dry them into gundruk. That dark, tangy leaf is the store cupboard of the winter months, and its most common use is this thin, sour soup (jhol), served on the side of dal bhat or with dhido, the stiff buckwheat or millet porridge of the hills. It tastes a little like a smoky, vinegary green tea and is light, warming and very cheap. A handful of roasted soybeans (bhatmas) is often thrown in for crunch. The mistake is to cook gundruk without soaking it first, which leaves it gritty and too sour. Chef's tip: squeeze the soaked leaves hard and fry them in the oil until they crackle before you add water; that frying gives the soup its toasty depth.

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Aloo tama

Aloo tama is the curry that tells you you are in Nepal: potatoes (aloo) and black-eyed beans (bodi) simmered with tama, slivers of bamboo shoot that have been fermented until they are pleasantly sour and funky. It is a Newar dish at heart, cooked all over the Kathmandu Valley for weddings, feasts and cold winter evenings, and every Nepali restaurant abroad keeps a pot of it. The sourness comes from the bamboo, sharpened with tomato, and the warmth from fenugreek seeds burnt nearly black in mustard oil and a dusting of timur, the Nepali Sichuan pepper that numbs the lips. Eat it with rice or beaten rice (chiura). Don't skip rinsing the bamboo: straight from the jar it can be so sharp that it takes over the whole pot. Chef's tip: let the fenugreek seeds turn a deep reddish brown before anything else goes in; that bitter-sweet, almost maple smell is the backbone of the curry.

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Dal bhat

Across Nepal, from Terai farmhouses to trekking lodges below Everest, dal bhat is not a dish so much as the meal itself, eaten twice a day, late morning and early evening, often with the words "dal bhat power, 24 hour". The plate is always the same idea: a mound of plain rice (bhat), a thin, soupy lentil dal scented with jimbu (a dried Himalayan allium) fried in ghee, a dry vegetable tarkari, a little stir-fried greens when there are some, and a sharp spoonful of achar. You pour the dal over the rice and mix it by hand, a little at a time, with bites of curry and pickle. Most newcomers make the dal too thick; Nepali dal should run off the spoon like a light soup so it soaks the rice. Chef's tip: fry the jimbu in the hot ghee only until it darkens a shade and smells of garlicky onion, about 10 seconds, then pour it straight into the dal and cover the pan to trap the aroma.

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Rooh Afza sherbet

During Ramadan almost every household in Pakistan breaks the fast at sunset with a jug of this bright red sherbet on the table, from Karachi apartments to village courtyards in Punjab. It is made with the herbal rose syrup sold as Rooh Afza (any rose sherbet syrup works), stirred into ice-cold water with a squeeze of lemon and a spoonful of swollen basil seeds (tukh malanga) that are said to cool the body after a long, hot day without water. Some families make it with cold milk instead, which turns it pink and creamy. The mistake people make is adding the basil seeds dry; they clump into hard lumps, so soak them first. Chef's tip: chill the water and syrup well before mixing so you need less ice and the sherbet does not taste watered down.

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Roasted red pepper & fennel

Big pieces of sweet red pepper and fennel tossed with lemon, black pepper and olive oil and roasted until soft and just starting to brown, then topped with black olives, toasted pine nuts and fresh herbs. It works as a side or a light starter, warm or cold. The vegetables can also be roasted on the barbecue jiko.

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Kashmiri chai

Kashmiri chai, called pink tea or gulabi chai across Pakistan, came down from Kashmir to become the winter drink of Lahore, Karachi and Islamabad: it is ladled out at weddings, sold from steaming pots at tea stalls on cold nights and served with nankhatai biscuits at family gatherings. The colour is real chemistry, not food colouring: green tea leaves are boiled hard with a pinch of baking soda until the brew turns deep red, then whisked and splashed to get air into it, and finally cooked with milk until it blushes pink. It is lightly salted in the old Kashmiri way and sweetened in the city way; add as much sugar as you like. The mistake people make is using black tea; only green tea leaves turn pink. Chef's tip: pour in ice-cold water as soon as the brew is reduced, and beat it hard; the shock and the air are what lock in the bright colour.

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Sheer khurma

Sheer khurma means milk with dates in Persian, and in Pakistan it is the taste of Eid ul-Fitr morning: after the Eid prayer, families come home and every visitor who knocks that day is handed a small bowl. It is richer and nuttier than everyday seviyan: whole milk is boiled down until creamy, fine vermicelli fried golden in ghee goes in late, and it is loaded with soaked dried dates (chhuhare), almonds, pistachios, cashews, raisins and charoli seeds, scented with cardamom. It is served warm in the morning and thickens to a spoonable pudding when cold. The mistake most people make is adding the vermicelli too early or using too much; it keeps drinking milk as it cools and turns stodgy. Chef's tip: soak the dried dates overnight and slice them thinly; fresh soft dates melt away, but soaked chhuhare stay chewy and sweet in every spoonful.

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Pakistani chana chaat

In Pakistan a bowl of chana chaat is on almost every iftar table during Ramadan, next to the dates, pakoras and a jug of red sherbet, and in Lahore and Karachi street vendors toss it to order all year round in big steel bowls. The Pakistani style is simple and sharp: plump chickpeas and potato with raw onion, tomato, green chilli, lots of coriander and mint, tamarind chutney, lemon juice and a heavy hand of chaat masala, served cold or at room temperature. It is a quick, filling, high-fibre snack. People often mix it too early and the onion goes limp and the potato mushy; dress it no more than 15 minutes before eating. Chef's tip: toss the chickpeas with the chaat masala and salt first, before anything wet goes in, so the spice clings to them.

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Chickpea chapli kebab

Chapli kebab comes from Peshawar, where Namak Mandi and the Qissa Khwani Bazaar are lined with cooks frying giant flat kebabs in shallow iron pans; the name comes from chaprikh, flat in Pashto. This chickpea version keeps everything that makes a chapli kebab taste right: coarsely crushed coriander seeds, dried pomegranate seeds (anardana) for sourness, chilli flakes, green chilli, onion, tomato and a little maize flour to bind it, with a slice of tomato pressed into each one so it chars in the pan. Serve them with naan, sliced onion and a sharp green chutney. The usual mistake is blitzing the chickpeas to a smooth paste in a processor; the kebab needs texture, so mash by hand and leave some pieces. Chef's tip: press them really thin, about 1 cm, and with ragged edges; the thin edges go crunchy, which is the whole point of a chapli.

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Sindhi kadhi

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.

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Bun kebab

Bun kebab is Karachi's own street burger, sold from carts on Burns Road and outside colleges from late afternoon into the night, each one fried to order on a huge flat tawa. The vegetarian version is the oldest: a soft patty of chana dal and potato spiced with cumin and chilli, dipped in beaten egg so it gets a lacy, golden coat, then tucked into a buttered bun with tangy tamarind chutney, green chutney, onion rings and shredded cabbage. It is messy, cheap and loved by children and grown-ups alike. Most people make the mixture too wet, and the patties fall apart in the egg; mash the dal and potato while dry and steamy, not with their cooking water. Chef's tip: toast the buns cut side down on the same tawa after the patties, so they pick up the spiced egg and butter.

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Vegetable Sindhi biryani

Sindhi biryani is the biryani of Karachi, Hyderabad and the rest of Sindh, and it is the one people order by the deg (a huge pot) for weddings, Eid lunches and every big family gathering. What makes it Sindhi is the tang and the heat: plenty of tomatoes, yogurt, whole green chillies and sour dried plums (aloo bukhara) in the masala, with chunks of potato that soak up all of it. This vegetable version keeps all of that and swaps the meat for potato, carrot, cauliflower and peas, layered with half-cooked basmati, fried onions, mint and saffron milk, then steamed shut. A common mistake is boiling the rice until soft before layering; take it out when a grain still has a firm white core, because it finishes in the steam. Chef's tip: fry the onions until deep brown but not black, and keep the oil they fried in; it carries their flavour into every layer.

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Watalappan

Watalappan came to Sri Lanka with the island's Malay and Muslim communities, and no Eid table in Colombo, Beruwala or Kandy is complete without it; it now turns up at weddings and birthdays across every community. Thick coconut milk and eggs are sweetened with kithul jaggery, the dark palm sugar from the fishtail palm, and spiced with cardamom, nutmeg and a little clove, then steamed until it sets into a wobbly, honeycombed custard the colour of toffee. Cashews scattered on top add crunch. Dark muscovado sugar works if you can't find kithul jaggery. The common mistake is steaming it on a fierce boil, which makes it full of large holes and watery; a steady, gentle simmer gives a smooth set with the fine honeycomb that's prized. Chef's tip: strain the mixture through a sieve before steaming to remove any stringy egg and jaggery grit.

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Aloo keema

Aloo keema is the dinner that turns up in Pakistani homes from Karachi to Peshawar several times a month: quick, cheap, and loved by children and grandparents alike. Mince is browned with onion, tomato and whole spices, then simmered with potato cubes and peas until the potatoes soak up the masala. It is usually eaten with hot chapati or paratha, and leftovers become a filling for sandwiches and samosas the next day. Chef's tip: keep frying the mince until all the water it releases has gone and it starts to sizzle; that's where the browned, meaty flavour comes from.

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Parippu vadai

Parippu vadai are the crunchy, lumpy fritters sold from glass boxes on Sri Lankan trains and from carts along Colombo's Galle Face Green at sunset, often with a couple of fried prawns pressed on top; ours are the plain vegetarian kind, which are just as common. Soaked yellow split peas (kadala parippu) are coarsely ground with green chilli, onion, curry leaves and fennel, shaped into flat discs and deep-fried until craggy and golden, crisp outside and nubbly within. Eat them hot with a cup of plain tea or a spoonful of seeni sambol. They're different from South Indian medu vada, which are made with smooth black lentil batter. The common mistake is grinding the lentils to a smooth paste; leave plenty of whole and half peas for the crunch. Chef's tip: hold back about a quarter of the soaked peas and stir them in whole after grinding.

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Vegetable kottu roti

After dark in Colombo you hear kottu before you see it: the rhythmic clang of two steel blades chopping roti on a hot flat-top at every street stall from Pettah to Wellawatte. Shredded godamba roti is stir-fried with leeks, carrot, cabbage, onion, chilli and egg, then moistened with a spoonful of spicy curry gravy so it's soft, smoky and messy in the best way. Stalls usually ladle on chicken curry gravy; we make a quick vegetable curry sauce instead, and the egg keeps it vegetarian rather than vegan. Leftover parathas or frozen flaky flatbreads stand in well for godamba roti. The common mistake is overcrowding a small pan, which steams everything; cook in two batches if your pan is under 30 cm. Chef's tip: chop the roti into strips while it is still slightly warm, then let it dry for 10 minutes so it fries rather than turns mushy.

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Pol roti

Pol roti is the hearty coconut flatbread that rural Sri Lankans eat for breakfast or an evening meal, cooked on a flat iron pan (thachchi) and torn up with lunu miris, parippu or a spicy potato curry; you'll see it stacked in glass cases in kades from Anuradhapura to Matara. Wheat flour is mixed with lots of freshly grated coconut, finely chopped onion and green chilli, and the dough is patted out thick by hand, so the roti come out chewy, with toasted coconut flecks and a sweet, savoury smell. The common mistake is rolling them thin: pol roti should be a good 1 cm thick and soft inside. Chef's tip: pat each roti out on a banana leaf or oiled baking paper and flip it straight onto the pan; it's too soft and crumbly to lift any other way.

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Cobb salad

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.

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String hoppers

String hoppers are lacy nests of steamed rice-flour noodles, pressed through a hand mould onto small woven mats, and they're the classic Sri Lankan breakfast or dinner in Tamil homes in Jaffna and in Sinhala homes everywhere, bought by the dozen from neighbourhood shops when there's no time to make them. They're soft and light and made to soak up kiri hodi, a thin, turmeric-yellow coconut milk gravy with fenugreek and curry leaves, plus pol sambol and a potato or dhal curry. Kiri hodi is sometimes made with Maldive fish; we keep it vegetarian. Roasted red rice flour gives a nuttier, pinker nest. The common mistake is using cold or warm water for the dough: it must be boiling, or the strings crack and fall apart. Chef's tip: steam the nests for only 6–8 minutes; longer and they turn rubbery.

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Egg hoppers

Hoppers (appa) are the crisp-edged, bowl-shaped pancakes that street cooks in Colombo, Kandy and Jaffna make in rows of small round pans every evening; an egg hopper has an egg cracked into the soft centre so it steams to a runny yolk. The batter of rice flour, coconut milk and yeast (traditionally toddy) is left to ferment until it's light and slightly sour, which gives the lacy, golden rim and the spongy middle. They're eaten hot with pol sambol and lunu miris, and plain hoppers come with sweet jaggery for dessert. Kerala's appam is a cousin, but Sri Lankan hoppers are thinner and crisper and the egg version is their own. The common mistake is a batter that's too thick, which gives heavy, pale hoppers; it should flow like single cream. Chef's tip: swirl the pan in one quick full turn the moment the batter goes in, then cover at once.

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Kiri bath

Kiri bath is the first food eaten at Sinhala and Tamil New Year (Aluth Avurudu) in mid-April, cooked at the exact auspicious time the astrologers announce, and it also starts the first day of each month, birthdays and new jobs across Sri Lanka. White rice is boiled until very soft, then cooked again with thick coconut milk and salt until it sets into a creamy slab that is cut into diamonds. It's eaten with lunu miris, a fierce red onion and chilli paste, or with jaggery and bananas for the sweet-toothed. Lunu miris often contains Maldive fish; ours doesn't. The common mistake is adding the coconut milk before the rice is completely soft: the grains stay hard. Chef's tip: press the hot rice flat with a banana leaf or the back of a spoon dipped in coconut milk; it stops sticking and gives the classic glossy top.

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Ala thel dala

Ala thel dala means 'potato tempered in oil', and it's the quick, fiery potato fry that Sri Lankan mothers make when there's no time for a full curry, served with rice, packed into a lunch box with parippu, or eaten with bread at breakfast. Boiled potato cubes are tossed in hot oil with mustard seeds, plenty of red onion, curry leaves, turmeric and roughly crushed dried chilli until the edges turn golden and the onion goes soft and sweet. Unlike an Indian aloo sabzi there are no ground cumin or coriander, just chilli heat, onion and curry leaf. The usual mistake is boiling the potatoes until they're soft right through; they then break up in the pan. Chef's tip: stop boiling when a knife still meets a little resistance in the middle; the potatoes finish cooking in the pan and keep their shape.

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Beetroot curry

Beetroot grows well in the cool hills around Nuwara Eliya and Welimada, and its curry is a jewel-pink regular on lunch packets and home rice-and-curry tables across the island. The beetroot is cut into thin matchsticks and cooked with onion, green chilli, curry leaves and a light, unroasted curry powder, then finished with coconut milk, so it's sweet, mildly spiced and brilliantly coloured. It's a good way to win over people who think they don't like beetroot. One frequent mistake is grating the beetroot, which turns the curry into a wet purée; matchsticks keep a pleasing bite. Chef's tip: add a squeeze of lime at the very end; it brightens the colour and cuts the earthy sweetness.

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Chitrali ghalmandi

In the Chitral valley in Pakistan's far north, where winters are long and dairy is plentiful, bread is often a meal in itself, and ghalmandi is one of the best loved: soft, thin wholewheat breads stacked with a filling of crumbled fresh cheese, onion, green chilli, coriander and mint, then cut into wedges and eaten warm with salty tea. It is made for guests and on cold evenings, and every household seasons the cheese its own way. Rolling the breads too thick is the common mistake; they turn heavy and the layers do not hold together, so roll them almost see-through. Chef's tip: brush each hot bread with ghee the moment it comes off the griddle and spread the cheese straight away, so the warmth softens the cheese and glues the stack together.

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Wattakka curry

Wattakka (pumpkin) curry is one of the soft, sweet dishes on a Sri Lankan buth (rice) spread, and in villages around Kurunegala it often appears at Poya day almsgivings, when temple meals are always meat-free. The pumpkin is cooked in its skin with dark roasted curry powder, cinnamon, a pinch of fenugreek and pandan, then thickened with coconut milk and a spoonful of ground mustard, which gives it a gentle tang. Some cooks also add toasted coconut paste (kalu pol); we keep it simpler. The common mistake is cutting the pumpkin too small, so it dissolves into mush before the gravy is ready; keep the chunks about 4 cm. Chef's tip: leave the skin on butternut or Kent pumpkin; it holds each piece together and softens completely as it cooks.

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Cameroonian coconut rice

A colourful one-pot rice from Cameroon: long-grain rice simmered in thin coconut milk with tomato paste, chilli, cinnamon-clove powder and thyme, studded with carrot and yellow pepper. It's lightly spiced, creamy and fragrant. Serve it with beans, a vegetable stew or a simple salad.

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Gotu kola sambol

Gotu kola (Asiatic pennywort) grows wild along the paddy edges in the south and centre of Sri Lanka, and a raw sambol of its leaves is the green, slightly bitter bite that balances a rice-and-curry lunch. Families in Galle and Matara will tell you it is good for the memory, and it is often served at the start of a meal or with kola kenda, the herbal porridge. The leaves are shredded as finely as possible, then tossed with shallot, tomato, green chilli, a little fresh coconut and plenty of lime, so it's crunchy, peppery and bright. Look for pennywort bunches in Sri Lankan, Thai and Vietnamese shops. The mistake to avoid is dressing it too early: the salt and lime wilt the leaves within half an hour. Chef's tip: roll a stack of leaves into a tight cigar and slice it hair-thin with a sharp knife; the finer the shreds, the better it tastes.

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Pol sambol

Pol sambol sits on the table at almost every Sri Lankan meal, from breakfast hoppers and string hoppers in a Kandy home to a rice packet bought at a roadside kade. Grandmothers grind it on a stone (miris gala) so the chilli and onion bruise into the coconut, and it turns a bright brick red, hot, sour and salty all at once. Most island recipes add a spoonful of Maldive fish (dried tuna flakes); we leave it out to keep it vegetarian and add a little extra onion and lime for depth. A common mistake is using dried desiccated coconut straight from the packet, which tastes dusty; fresh or frozen grated coconut gives the proper moist texture. Chef's tip: rub the chilli, onion and salt together first with your fingers until they turn juicy, then work in the coconut so every flake turns red.

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