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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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Paneer karahi

Karahi is named after the heavy round-bottomed wok it is cooked and served in, and the roadside dhabas of Lahore and the Grand Trunk Road through Punjab are where it is at its loudest: a cook working three pans at once over a roaring flame, late at night, for tables of friends tearing naan. The Pakistani style is lean on spice and big on tomato, garlic, ginger, green chilli and crushed black pepper, with no onion and no cream, so the masala tastes bright and sharp rather than rich. Paneer takes the place of meat here and only needs warming through. The usual mistake is pouring in water to make more gravy; a karahi gets its sauce only from tomatoes cooked down until the oil comes back out. Chef's tip: crush the coriander seeds and black pepper yourself just before cooking; the coarse, fresh crunch is what makes it taste like a dhaba karahi.

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Tarte normande

Normandy is the land of orchards and dairy cows, and its apple tart uses both: sliced apples baked in a buttery pastry case, then covered with a custard of eggs, crème fraîche and sugar that sets around the fruit, golden and slightly puffed. Some cooks add a splash of Calvados, the local apple brandy. It's served for Sunday lunch, at village fêtes in autumn, and with a glass of cider. The apples stay soft but hold their slices, and the custard tastes like baked cream. Chef's tip: pre-bake the pastry case before adding the custard; skipping it is the common mistake that leaves a pale, soggy base.

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Fonio with vegetables

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Tarte tatin

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Clafoutis aux cerises

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Tortang talong

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Frappé

The frappé was invented by accident at the Thessaloniki International Fair in 1957, when a coffee rep shook instant coffee with cold water because there was no hot water to hand. Within a few years it was the drink of every Greek café and beach bar, sipped slowly through a straw for an hour or more. Instant coffee, sugar and a little water are shaken or frothed into a thick, light-brown foam, then topped up with cold water, ice and, if you like, milk. Order it sketos (no sugar), metrios (medium) or glykos (sweet). Chef's tip: use only a splash of water for the first shake; adding all the water at once is the common mistake and you get thin coffee with no foam.

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Pain perdu

Pain perdu means 'lost bread', and French families have always made it from the end of a stale baguette or brioche that would otherwise be thrown away. Thick slices are soaked in milk, eggs, sugar and vanilla, then fried in butter until caramelised outside and soft, almost like custard, inside. In France it is more often a Sunday breakfast or goûter for the children than a brunch dish, eaten with a dusting of sugar, jam or fresh fruit. Chef's tip: use bread that is a day or two old; fresh bread is the common mistake and turns soggy and falls apart in the custard.

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Bajan sweet bread

Sweet bread is what Barbadian families bake in December, wrapped in foil and handed over at Christmas visits around the island, and it's sold year round in bakeries from Bridgetown to Speightstown. It isn't a yeast bread but a dense, moist loaf packed with freshly grated coconut, sweet with brown sugar and scented with almond essence, with raisins, mixed peel and bright red glacé cherries in every slice. The top gets brushed with sugar syrup for a sticky shine. Chef's tip: use fresh or frozen grated coconut if you can; desiccated coconut makes a drier loaf unless you soak it first in the milk for 20 minutes.

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Champon

Champon belongs to Nagasaki, the port that stayed open to Chinese and Dutch traders for centuries. It was created there at the end of the 19th century by a Chinese restaurant owner who wanted a cheap, filling meal for Chinese students, and the city's Chinatown still serves it in huge bowls. Pork, squid, prawns, fishcake and a pile of cabbage are fried in one wok, then the stock goes in and the thick noodles cook right in the soup. Restaurants make the cloudy broth from long-boiled pork and chicken bones; at home a little milk gives the same mellow, creamy look. Chef's tip: fry everything over the highest heat in small batches; the slight scorch on the cabbage and pork is what flavours the soup.

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Sara udon

Nagasaki's second famous noodle dish uses the same toppings as champon but turns them into a thick sauce poured over a plate of crunchy fried noodles. The name means plate udon, though the classic noodles are very thin and fried crisp. In Nagasaki homes it is a quick weekend lunch and a standard dish at family gatherings, and supermarkets there sell the fried noodle nests ready to use. People splash it with Worcestershire sauce at the table, and a dab of hot mustard is common too. Chef's tip: pour the sauce over at the very last moment and let the noodles soften slowly as you eat, so you get crisp and soft in every mouthful.

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Pandesal

Pandesal is the bread of the Filipino morning: small, soft, slightly sweet rolls with a fine breadcrumb coating, bought hot at dawn in brown paper bags from the neighbourhood panaderia (bakery) and eaten before school or work. They are torn open and filled with butter, cheese or peanut butter, or dunked straight into a cup of coffee, and at night the leftovers are toasted. Despite the name ('salt bread'), they are gently sweet, with a pillowy crumb and a thin crust. Home-made ones are best eaten within hours of baking. Chef's tip: the classic shape comes from rolling the dough into a log, coating it in crumbs and cutting slices, which bake into those familiar oval rolls with cut sides up.

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Mentaiko pasta

Mentaiko, pollock roe cured with salt and chilli, is the food gift everyone brings back from Hakata in Fukuoka, where shops near the station sell it in rows of red sacs. The pasta came from the Japanese-style spaghetti cafés of Tokyo in the 1960s and is now on menus right across Japan, Fukuoka included. The roe is not really cooked: the heat of the drained spaghetti and the melting butter turn it into a pink, salty-spicy coating. Mentaiko is a raw cured product. Use very fresh, sushi-grade fish from a trusted fishmonger; not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. For mentaiko, that means a chilled, sealed pack well within its date. Chef's tip: save a ladle of the pasta water; a spoonful loosens the roe so it clings to every strand instead of clumping.

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Motsunabe

In Hakata, the old merchant half of Fukuoka, motsunabe is the winter dish of izakayas and back-street restaurants. Soft pieces of beef small intestine simmer in a garlicky soy broth under a tall heap of cabbage and garlic chives, with slices of chilli on top. When the pot is nearly empty, champon noodles go into the rich broth to finish the meal. Many butchers and Asian grocers sell the intestine already cleaned and boiled, which saves time. Chef's tip: keep the white fat on the intestine; as it melts into the broth it makes the soup rich and sweet, which is the point of the dish.

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Korean corn dog

In Korea a 'hot dog' means this: a sausage, often with a stick of mozzarella above it, dipped in a sweet yeasted batter and rolled in breadcrumbs or tiny potato cubes before frying. They are sold from stalls in Myeongdong in Seoul, outside schools and at every busy station, and the cheese pull is half the fun. A roll in sugar straight from the oil, then a zigzag of ketchup and mustard, is the classic finish. Chef's tip: freeze the skewered sausages and cheese for 15 minutes before dipping; the cold cheese holds its shape and the batter grips better.

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Parippu

No Sri Lankan rice-and-curry plate is complete without a bowl of parippu, from a Colombo office canteen to a farmhouse kitchen in the dry zone; many families also mop it up with bread or pol roti for breakfast. Unlike a North Indian dal, the red lentils are cooked with turmeric, green chilli and a strip of rampe (pandan leaf), then softened with thin coconut milk and finished with a sizzling tempering of mustard seeds, shallots, dried chilli and curry leaves, so it tastes mellow, fragrant and only gently spicy. Keep it pourable: it thickens a lot as it stands. The usual mistake is adding the coconut milk too early and boiling it hard, which makes it split and grainy. Chef's tip: stir the thick coconut milk in off the heat at the very end; it gives a silky, almost creamy finish without curdling.

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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Bara

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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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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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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Kwati

Kwati is a thick, warming soup of nine kinds of sprouted beans that the Newar families of the Kathmandu Valley cook on Janai Purnima, the August full moon also called Kwati Punhi, when the monsoon is at its height and people are said to need strength against the damp. The mix usually includes black gram, green mung, chickpeas, soybeans, field peas, kidney beans, cowpeas, field beans and rice beans, soaked and sprouted for two or three days beforehand, then cooked with ajwain, ginger, garlic, tomato and a pinch of timur. Markets in Asan sell ready-mixed kwati beans in the week before the festival. It is eaten in bowls with beaten rice or simply on its own. The mistake people make is skipping the sprouting, which leaves the soup heavy and the beans hard. Chef's tip: fry the ajwain until it crackles; its thyme-like warmth makes the beans easier to digest and is the flavour of the festival.

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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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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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Adobong kangkong

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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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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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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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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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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Mast-o khiar

Mast-o khiar is the cool yogurt bowl that sits beside rice and stew on Iranian tables all summer, and families pack it in a cool box for picnics in the parks of Tehran and Isfahan. Thick yogurt is mixed with crunchy diced cucumber and dried mint, then dressed up with walnuts, raisins and a scattering of dried rose petals, which make it sweeter and more fragrant than the plain garlic-cucumber dips of its neighbours. Serve it with polo, kuku or simply with bread. Chef's tip: soak the raisins in warm water for 10 minutes first so they are plump, not chewy.

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Pinakbet

Pinakbet comes from the Ilocos region in the far north-west of Luzon, where families cook whatever grows behind the house: bitter melon, small aubergines, okra, yard-long beans and tomatoes, simmered with very little water until the vegetables shrink and wrinkle (the name comes from the Ilocano for 'shrivelled'). Ilocanos season it with fermented fish paste; here white miso gives the same savoury, salty depth without any fish, and a little squash (more common in the Tagalog version) adds sweetness. It is an everyday lunch dish, eaten with rice and often a spoonful of extra miso on the side. Chef's tip: choose small, firm bitter melon and don't scrape out every bit of the pith; a little bitterness is the point.

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Ginataang kalabasa at sitaw

Ginataan means 'cooked in coconut milk', and in the coconut country of Bicol and Southern Tagalog it is how a lot of weeknight vegetables end up on the table. Ginataang kalabasa at sitaw is the homely version: chunks of orange squash and lengths of yard-long beans simmered in coconut milk with garlic, onion and ginger until the squash just starts to melt into the sauce, turning it pale gold and lightly sweet. Bicolano cooks drop in a long green chilli or two for warmth. It is a one-pot dish served with rice, and many families make it on days when there is no money for meat. Chef's tip: keep back a few chunks of squash to mash into the sauce at the end; it thickens it naturally.

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Conkies

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.

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Halo-halo

Halo-halo ('mix-mix') is what the Philippines eats through the hot dry months of March to May, bought from roadside stalls and snack shops and eaten slowly with a long spoon in a tall glass. Sweetened beans and chickpeas, banana cooked in brown sugar, jackfruit, nata de coco and sugar-palm fruit go in first, then a mountain of finely shaved ice, a splash of evaporated milk and a crown of ube halaya, a slice of leche flan or a scoop of ube ice cream, with crunchy pinipig (toasted pounded rice) on top. Unlike Malaysian ais kacang, there's no syrup over the ice: the sweetness comes from the layers and the milk. You stir everything together before eating. Chef's tip: chill the glasses and the toppings first so the ice doesn't melt before you have finished building.

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Leche flan

Leche flan is on the table for every Filipino Noche Buena on Christmas Eve, at fiestas and at birthdays, steamed in the oval aluminium tins called llaneras and turned out shining under a dark caramel. Unlike Spanish flan or the Brazilian pudim, it is made with egg yolks only, condensed milk and evaporated milk, so it is much denser and smoother, almost like a firm custard fudge, and a little goes a long way. A grating of calamansi or lime zest cuts the richness, and many cooks steam rather than bake it. The leftover whites go into meringue biscuits. Chef's tip: strain the custard twice and stir, don't whisk; air bubbles become holes in the finished flan.

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Ube halaya

Ube halaya is a thick, deep purple jam made from purple yam, slowly stirred with coconut milk, condensed milk and butter until it pulls away from the pan. Bohol, where ube grows in abundance and the province holds a festival for it every January, claims it, and in Baguio jars of it are bought as pasalubong (gifts) to take home. It appears at Christmas and fiestas, spread on bread, eaten by the spoonful, packed into halo-halo or shaped in moulds and topped with latik or grated cheese. Real ube has a gentle, nutty, vanilla-like flavour; purple sweet potato is not the same. Chef's tip: frozen grated ube from Asian grocers works perfectly and saves an hour of peeling and grating.

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Bibingka

During the nine dawn masses of Simbang Gabi, from 16 to 24 December, vendors set up outside churches across the Philippines baking bibingka in clay pots with hot coals both underneath and on top. Churchgoers buy them on the way out at 5 am, still steaming in their banana-leaf liners, with a hot drink. The cake is made from rice flour and coconut milk, springy and slightly chewy, with a browned, buttery top covered in salty white cheese, slices of salted duck egg, sugar and grated coconut. This version bakes it in an ordinary oven and finishes it under the grill for that charred top. Chef's tip: warm the banana leaves over a flame for a few seconds until they turn glossy and supple; cold leaves crack and the batter leaks under them.

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Turon

Turon is the afternoon snack sold by vendors on every Filipino street corner, school gate and jeepney stop around three o'clock, often next to banana cue on bamboo skewers. A slice of saba banana and a strip of ripe jackfruit are rolled in a thin spring roll wrapper with brown sugar, then fried in oil that has more brown sugar sprinkled in it, so each roll comes out wrapped in a crackly, glassy caramel shell. It is eaten hot with your fingers, when the banana inside has turned soft and sticky. Saba is a short, firm cooking banana; ripe plantain is the closest substitute. Chef's tip: roll them tightly with no air pockets, or the caramel blows holes in the wrapper.

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Chelow with tahdig

Chelow is the plain, fluffy steamed rice at the centre of almost every Iranian lunch table, and tahdig ('bottom of the pot') is the crisp golden crust that forms underneath it. In homes from Tehran to Isfahan the pot is turned out at the table and the shards of tahdig are fought over before anyone touches the stew. The method is the master one for all Persian polo dishes: long-grain rice is soaked, boiled briefly, then steamed slowly under a cloth-wrapped lid so every grain stays separate and long. This page gives a yogurt-and-saffron tahdig, with potato and flatbread versions in the steps. Serve it with ghormeh sabzi, a yogurt dip and fresh herbs. Chef's tip: turn the heat up for the first 10 minutes until you hear a steady sizzle, then right down; that early burst is what sets the crust.

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Sabzi polo

Sabzi polo is the rice of Nowruz, the Persian New Year on the spring equinox, when families across Iran sit down on the first evening to a mound of rice speckled green with dill, parsley, coriander and chives. Fresh green herbs stand for renewal, and the dish is traditionally paired with fish on the New Year table; a vegetarian house serves it with kuku sabzi, the herb omelette, fried eggs or a bowl of yogurt. The rice tastes bright and grassy, with a gentle garlic note and a golden lavash crust underneath. Chef's tip: chop the herbs the day before and spread them on a tray to dry slightly; damp herbs make the rice heavy and clumpy.

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Adas polo

Adas polo is a homely Tehran weekday rice, also served at the Yalda winter-solstice gathering in December, when tables fill with dried fruit. Brown lentils and long-grain rice are layered and steamed together, then topped with dates and raisins warmed in butter with cinnamon, so every spoonful is savoury, earthy and lightly sweet. Unlike Levantine lentil-and-rice dishes, the rice keeps its long separate grains and gets a saffron crust underneath. Serve it with yogurt, a herb plate and salad shirazi for a complete meal. Chef's tip: cook the lentils separately until just tender but whole; they finish softening during the steam.

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Shirin polo

Shirin polo ('sweet rice') is the wedding rice of Iran, especially among Azerbaijani families in Tabriz, where a gleaming platter of it is carried out at the celebration feast to wish the couple a sweet life. Long grains of saffron rice are layered with candied orange peel, fine strips of carrot, slivered almonds and pistachios, all perfumed with cardamom and rosewater. It is fragrant and only gently sweet, with a citrus bitterness that keeps it from being cloying. Serve it as the centrepiece of a party with yogurt and a herb stew. Chef's tip: blanch the orange peel three times in fresh water; skip this and the whole platter tastes bitter.

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Baghali polo

Baghali polo is the rice Iranians cook when fresh broad beans appear in the markets of Tehran and Shiraz in late spring, though frozen beans keep it on the table all year and it turns up at parties and weddings across the country. Bright green beans and plenty of dill are folded through steamed saffron rice, giving a soft, buttery, herb-heavy dish with sweet nuggets of bean in every mouthful. It is often served with lamb; at a vegetarian table pair it with a fried egg, mast-o khiar and a sharp salad. Chef's tip: peel the inner skins off the broad beans; the bright green centres are tender and sweet, the skins tough.

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Vegetarian ghormeh sabzi

Ghormeh sabzi is often called Iran's national dish: a dark green stew of slowly fried herbs, kidney beans and whole dried limes that perfumes Iranian kitchens on Friday mornings and turns up at nearly every family gathering. The original is made with lamb; this vegetarian version uses mushrooms and plenty of beans for body, and keeps the deep, sour, almost smoky herb flavour that makes the dish. It is spooned over chelow with its crust on the side. Chef's tip: fry the herbs in oil until they turn very dark green and smell nutty; that long frying is the flavour of the stew.

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Kuku sabzi

Kuku sabzi is a deep green, herb-packed egg cake that Iranian families make for Nowruz, the New Year on the first day of spring, often alongside sabzi polo. It is more herb than egg: just enough egg binds a heap of parsley, coriander, dill and chives, with crunchy walnuts and little sour barberries. It is eaten warm or cold, cut into wedges, tucked into lavash with yogurt and radishes, and it travels well to the Sizdah Bedar picnic thirteen days later. Chef's tip: cook it slowly with the lid on; high heat browns the base before the middle sets.

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Mirza ghasemi

Mirza ghasemi comes from Gilan, the green, rainy Caspian province around Rasht, where it is eaten as a starter or a light lunch with bread or rice. Aubergines are charred whole until smoky and soft, then cooked down with a lot of garlic, turmeric and tomato, and finished by stirring in eggs so they set in soft streaks through the purée. It tastes smoky, sweet and garlicky, and is best scooped up with warm flatbread and pickles. Chef's tip: char the aubergines over a gas flame or under a hot grill until the skin is papery and black all over; a pale-skinned aubergine gives no smoke.

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Kashk-e bademjan

Kashk-e bademjan is the aubergine dip that greets you at the start of a meal in Tehran restaurants and at family gatherings all over Iran, swirled on a plate and decorated with fried onions, mint oil, walnuts and white ribbons of kashk. Fried aubergine is mashed with golden onions and garlic, then enriched with kashk, a tangy, salty fermented whey. Most kashk is made from soured yogurt without rennet, but some brands use cheese whey, so check the label if you avoid animal rennet; strained Greek yogurt beaten with a little sour cream and lemon is a good substitute. Serve it with warm flatbread. Chef's tip: fry the dried mint for a few seconds only, off the heat; it should smell sweet, not scorched.

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Salad shirazi

Salad shirazi is named after Shiraz, the city of gardens in Fars province, and it is the salad served with almost every Persian rice and kebab meal. Tomato, cucumber and onion are cut into tiny, even dice and dressed simply with lime juice (or sour grape verjuice, ab-ghooreh, in Shiraz itself), dried mint and a little oil. There are no peppers or herbs to muddy it: it is crunchy, sharp and cold, and is spooned onto rice as a relish. Chef's tip: dice everything as small as a pea; the tiny cubes are what make it taste like Shirazi rather than a chopped salad.

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Ash reshteh

Ash reshteh is the thick soup Iranians cook in big pots in the days before Nowruz and for Sizdah Bedar, the spring picnic day, when the noodles (reshteh) are said to help you grasp the threads of good luck for the coming year. Chickpeas, beans and lentils are simmered with a mountain of green herbs and spinach, thickened with flat noodles and finished at the table with tangy kashk, crisp onions and a sizzling swirl of mint oil. It is a meal in a bowl, hearty and herby. Kashk is usually made without rennet, but check the label; strained yogurt is a good substitute. Chef's tip: add the noodles only once the beans are soft, and stir often after that, because they thicken the pot and it can catch on the bottom.

120 minPersianSoups
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Sholeh zard

Sholeh zard is the bright yellow rice pudding that Iranians cook in huge pots as nazri, food given away to neighbours and strangers, especially during the month of Muharram and on religious feast days; neighbourhoods in Tehran and Mashhad fill with its smell of saffron and rose. Rice is simmered until it almost melts, then sweetened, coloured gold with saffron and perfumed with rosewater and cardamom. It sets softly as it cools and is decorated with cinnamon lines, almonds and pistachios. This version uses a little oil instead of butter, so it is vegan. Chef's tip: add the sugar only when the rice is completely soft; sugar added early stops the grains from breaking down.

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Faloodeh

Faloodeh is the summer treat of Shiraz: thin rice noodles frozen in a rosewater syrup to make an icy, crunchy, chewy sorbet, sold in ice-cream shops across the city and in Tehran on hot evenings. Each glass is finished at the counter with a squeeze of fresh lime and, for many, a spoon of sour cherry syrup. It is very different from Indian falooda, which is a creamy milk drink; this one is dairy-free, sharp, floral and refreshing. Chef's tip: scrape the mixture with a fork every 30 minutes while it freezes, so you get snowy crystals rather than a solid block.

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Persian love cake

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.

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Doogh

Doogh is the salty, fizzy yogurt drink served in tall glasses with lunch across Iran, and above all with kebab and rice at the chelow-kababi restaurants of Tehran. Bottled sparkling doogh from the mineral springs of Abali, in the mountains east of the capital, is the famous one; at home it is mixed from yogurt, cold water and soda water with crumbled dried mint, and sometimes wild pennyroyal (kakuti) or rose petals. Its bubbles and mint set it apart from plainer, still yogurt drinks. It is cooling and good with rich, herby food. Chef's tip: add the sparkling water last and stir gently, or the fizz disappears before it reaches the glass.

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Caldo verde

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.

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Açorda alentejana

Açorda à alentejana is the shepherd's supper of the Alentejo, the wide, hot plain of cork oaks and wheat fields south of Lisbon. It is barely cooked at all: raw garlic, salt and a big handful of fresh coriander are pounded to a paste in the bowl, sliced day-old bread goes on top, and boiling water poured over turns it all into a fragrant, green broth, crowned with a soft poached egg. Unlike Spain's sopa de ajo, nothing is fried and there is no paprika; the flavour is fresh herbs, sharp garlic and fruity olive oil. Alentejanos eat it at home in summer and winter alike, and in Évora's tascas in the evening, sometimes with a few olives or a slice of fresh cheese. Chef's tip: use firm, dense, two-day-old country bread; soft sandwich bread collapses into mush the moment the water hits it.

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