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Dublin coddle
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Dublin coddle

Coddle is Dublin's own dish, a Saturday-night pot from the city's old working-class neighbourhoods that would sit on a low heat until people came home. It is a pork dish: thick pork sausages and back bacon, with layers of onion and potato, gently stewed in stock so everything turns soft and savoury. Many Dublin families still make it on Saturdays. Serve with brown soda bread to mop up the broth. Chef's tip: brown the sausages first; the traditional pale coddle is authentic, but a little colour adds a lot of flavour.

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Frankincense water

Around Salalah in Oman's Dhofar region, where the frankincense trees grow on the dry hills behind the coast, many households drop a few tears of resin into a jug of water at night and sip it the next day, believing it settles the stomach. The water turns faintly milky and tastes cool, piney and slightly bitter. It is drunk at room temperature, in small glasses, often in the morning. Use only food-grade Boswellia sacra resin sold for eating (the pale hojari grade is best), never incense blends, and do not drink it if you are pregnant or breastfeeding, or without asking a doctor if you take regular medication. The mistake is using too much resin, which makes it unpleasantly bitter. Chef's tip: rinse the tears in a sieve first to wash off dust and resin powder, and the water will be clearer and gentler.

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Lao iced coffee

High on the Bolaven Plateau above Pakse, the coffee towns around Paksong grow most of Laos's beans, and roadside stalls there brew them dark and strong through a long cloth sock, all day long. Ordered cold, it arrives as a glass of ice with a thick layer of sweetened condensed milk at the bottom, the black coffee poured over and stirred to a caramel brown, often with a free cup of weak tea to sip afterwards. It is bitter-sweet, chocolatey and much richer than a café latte, made for hot afternoons on the plateau or a morning stop in Pakse. A French press or a fine sieve lined with a paper filter stands in for the cloth sock. Pouring hot coffee straight onto ice before adding the milk is where it goes flat: the condensed milk won't dissolve in cold coffee and sinks in a gluey lump. Chef's tip: stir the condensed milk into the hot coffee first, then pour over the ice.

10 minLaoDrinksGluten free
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Khmer green mango salad with crispy dried fish

Sharp enough to make you wince and then reach for more, nhoam svay is the salad sold from glass-fronted carts around Siem Reap's Old Market and packed for weekend picnics at the West Baray reservoir. Hard green mango is cut into fine strands and tossed with shallots, mint and a dressing of lime, fish sauce and palm sugar, then topped with crunchy roasted peanuts and flakes of salty dried fish fried until crisp. It is eaten as a snack on its own or as a fresh, sour side to grilled meat and rice. Many people dress it too early, which draws water out of the mango and leaves a limp, watery salad. Chef's tip: fry the dried fish slowly until it shatters, then crumble it over at the very last moment; for a vegetarian version, leave it out and use soy sauce in place of the fish sauce.

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Khmer pickled vegetables

Cambodian cooks keep a jar of chrouk in the fridge the way others keep ketchup. These quick pickles of green papaya, carrot, cucumber and a little ginger come on the side of broken-rice breakfasts in Phnom Penh, with grilled food at night markets and tucked into num pang baguettes, adding crunch and a sweet-sour snap to anything rich or smoky. The brine is simply rice vinegar, sugar and salt, which keeps the vegetables pale and crisp. Pouring the brine on boiling hot is the classic slip: it softens the cucumber and dulls the colours. Chef's tip: salt the papaya and carrot for 15 minutes and squeeze them before jarring; they stay crunchy for a week instead of turning floppy by day two.

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Kep crab with green Kampot pepper

This is the dish people travel to the seaside town of Kep for: at the crab market, women haul baskets of blue swimmer crabs out of the water, and the wooden restaurants behind them stir-fry the catch for lunch with whole sprigs of green peppercorns picked that week in the Kampot hills. Fresh green pepper is juicy and aromatic rather than fiery, popping between the teeth with a bright, almost citrusy heat, and it clings to the sweet crab meat along with garlic and a light, salty-sweet sauce. Eat it with your hands, with rice and a saucer of salt, pepper and lime. Overcooking is the usual failure: crab left in the wok too long turns dry and stringy. Chef's tip: buy crabs already killed and cleaned by the fishmonger, or frozen cut crab, and throw out any piece that smells off; cook just until the shells turn bright orange and the meat is opaque right through.

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Trey aing (grilled fish with lemongrass)

Around Siem Reap and the floating villages of the Tonlé Sap, weekend outings mean a bamboo picnic hut by the water and a whole fish grilled over charcoal in a wire basket. The fish is stuffed and rubbed with lemongrass, garlic and salt, so the skin blisters and smokes while the white flesh stays moist; diners pull off flakes and wrap them in lettuce with mint, basil, sliced cucumber and sour green mango, then dunk the parcel in a garlicky lime dip with crushed peanuts. Snakehead or tilapia are the usual fish, but sea bass or bream are excellent. Turning the fish too soon is the classic misstep; the skin tears and sticks to the grill. Chef's tip: oil the fish and the basket well, then leave it alone until the underside releases by itself, about 10 minutes.

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Burmese pork curry

Glistening under a layer of brick-red oil, pork curry sits at the front of every Yangon htamin zain, the rice-and-curry shops where office workers queue at lunchtime and point at pots. Chunks of pork belly and shoulder are cooked very slowly in a paste of onion, garlic and ginger until the meat is spoon-tender, the fat has melted into the sauce and the oil floats free on top. It tastes savoury and gently sweet rather than fiery, and arrives with plain rice, a sour leaf soup, boiled vegetables and a dish of fish-paste dip. People often fry the onion paste too fast; it scorches before the water has cooked out and the curry turns bitter, so keep the heat at a steady medium. Chef's tip: the curry tastes even better the next day, when the pork has soaked up the sauce; lift off a little of the oil before reheating if you prefer it leaner.

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Lao fish soup with dill

Restaurants on stilts over the Mekong at Pakse, where the Xe Don river joins it, serve tom pa at lunch in big communal bowls, and southern Lao families make it at home whenever the market has fresh river fish. Chunks of fish poach gently in a clear broth fragrant with lemongrass, galangal and lime leaf, soured with tomato and lime and finished with a generous fistful of dill, an herb Lao cooks use far more than their neighbours. The result is light, tangy and aromatic, with soft fish and a whisper of chilli heat; spoon it over sticky rice or sip it between mouthfuls of jeow. Boiling hard once the fish goes in is the mistake to watch, as the pieces break up and the broth turns cloudy. Chef's tip: add the dill only when the pot is off the heat, so it stays green and sweet.

30 minLaoSoupsGluten free
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Burmese pea fried rice

Ask almost anyone from Yangon what they ate for breakfast as a child and the answer is often this: last night's rice, fried in a hot wok with soft boiled peas and plenty of onion, eaten before school with a glass of hot green tea. It is pale, gently savoury and comforting rather than spicy, with the peas bursting creamy against slightly crisp grains of rice. Families add a few slices of cucumber on the side and a spoon of crispy onions, and some cooks toss in a pinch of turmeric for colour. The usual error is using freshly cooked rice, which clumps and steams instead of frying. Chef's tip: crumble the cold rice with damp hands before it goes in the wok, so every grain hits the hot oil separately.

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Khmer red chicken curry

When a Cambodian family celebrates (a wedding, Khmer New Year, the Pchum Ben days in autumn), a big pot of red curry is usually on the stove, and in Phnom Penh it is just as likely to be eaten for breakfast from a street stall with a crusty baguette for mopping. It is a gentle, fragrant curry rather than a fiery one: chicken on the bone simmered in coconut milk with a red kroeung of dried chillies, lemongrass and galangal, plus chunks of sweet potato, aubergine and long beans that soak up the orange-tinged sauce. Dropping all the vegetables in at once is the error to avoid; the aubergine collapses before the sweet potato is cooked. Chef's tip: make it a few hours ahead or the day before, as the flavours deepen and the sauce settles into a silky, spoonable gravy.

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Kyay oh

Served bubbling in a small brass pot, which is what kyay oh means, this Chinese-Burmese soup fills the late-night noodle shops of Yangon's Chinatown and the busy breakfast places of Mandalay. A clear, peppery pork broth carries thin rice noodles, springy hand-rolled pork balls, sliced pork, tender greens and an egg cracked in at the last moment so it poaches in the pot. Garlic oil, white pepper and a side of vinegar with chopped chilli keep each spoonful sharp and warming. The pitfall is boiling the broth hard once the pork balls are in; they toughen and the soup turns cloudy, so keep it at a gentle bubble. Chef's tip: slap the pork mince against the bowl for a minute before shaping; it gives the balls their bouncy, almost crunchy texture.

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Burmese gourd fritters

Afternoon fry stalls along the lanes of downtown Yangon sell these by the paper cone, golden sticks of bottle gourd still crackling from the wok, and they are the fritter most people choose to dunk into a breakfast bowl of mohinga. Inside the thin rice-flour shell, the gourd steams until soft and almost juicy, mild and slightly sweet against the crunchy, salty coating. A tangy tamarind sauce with garlic and chilli is the usual partner. The classic failure is a thick, gluey batter that hides the vegetable and goes chewy within minutes; it should be as thin as single cream. Chef's tip: add a few drops of lime juice and ice-cold water to the batter just before frying; the cold keeps the coating light and crisp.

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Salted egg chicken

Zi char stalls, the cook-to-order kitchens at the back of Singapore's coffee shops, made salted egg yolk sauce famous with crab and prawns, and the chicken version has become a dinner-table favourite with families who order three or four dishes to share with rice. Crisp, double-fried pieces of thigh are tossed through a sandy, frothy sauce of salted duck egg yolks foamed in butter with curry leaves and bird's eye chilli, so every nook is coated in something rich, savoury and faintly sweet. Serve it straight away with plain rice and a simple stir-fried green vegetable to balance the richness. The most common mistake is adding the yolks to butter that is too hot: they scorch, turn grainy and never foam. Chef's tip: mash the steamed yolks through a sieve while they are still warm, so they melt into a smooth, frothy coating.

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Hainanese curry rice

Late-night and early-morning crowds in Tiong Bahru, Beo Crescent and Jalan Besar know the drill at a Hainanese curry rice stall: point at what you want, then ask for it "banjir", flooded. A plate of white rice disappears under two gravies, a mild, coconut-rich curry with soft potato and chicken, and a dark, five-spice braising sauce, then gets topped with crumbed fried pork chop, braised cabbage and a runny-edged fried egg. It is messy, comforting and salty-sweet, and leftovers taste even better the next day. The usual mistake is a thin, watery curry; it should be thick enough to cling to the rice, so let the potatoes break down a little and reduce the gravy well. Chef's tip: crush cream crackers rather than using breadcrumbs for the pork chop, as the old Hainanese cooks do; they fry up shatteringly crisp and stay that way under the gravy.

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Teochew fish soup

Office workers in the CBD form long lunch queues for a dish that looks almost plain: a bowl of clear, sweet broth with thick slices of batang (Spanish mackerel), wedges of tomato, silken tofu, lettuce and a little salted vegetable, served with rice or thick rice noodles. Good stalls simmer fish bones for hours, but at home a well-flavoured stock and plenty of ginger get you close in half an hour. The fish should be just set and springy, the broth light, gently tangy from tomato and savoury from fish sauce. Most home versions go wrong by boiling the slices hard, which breaks them up and turns them chalky; they need only a few minutes at a gentle simmer. Chef's tip: toss the fish slices with a pinch of salt and a teaspoon of tapioca starch before cooking, which keeps them silky and stops them falling apart.

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Singapore-style fried vermicelli

Despite the name, nobody in Singapore grew up on this: sing chau chau mai was invented in Hong Kong's cha chaan teng and Cantonese kitchens, where a little curry powder and a hot wok turn thin rice vermicelli golden-yellow. It is tossed with strips of char siu (Cantonese barbecued pork), prawns, egg ribbons, peppers, onion and bean sprouts, and comes out dry, springy and fragrant with a gentle curry warmth. Diners order it for lunch with a glass of iced lemon tea. A classic misstep is soaking the vermicelli too long in hot water, so it breaks into short, mushy bits in the wok; soak it in cold water until just pliable. Chef's tip: toast the curry powder in the oil for a few seconds before the noodles go in, so it tastes rounded rather than raw and dusty.

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Gu lou yuk (Cantonese sweet and sour pork)

Ask a Hong Kong family what they order at a dai pai dong for the children, and gu lou yuk is near the top: nuggets of pork shoulder fried twice until shatteringly crisp, then tossed at the last moment with pineapple, green and red pepper and onion in a shiny, tangy, scarlet sauce. Cantonese cooks in Guangzhou and Hong Kong have made it for well over a century, and it is a fixture of wedding banquets and takeaway menus worldwide. Eat it fresh with steamed rice while the coating still crunches. A common pitfall is simmering the pork in the sauce, which turns the crust soggy within a minute; thicken the sauce first, then toss for a few seconds only. Chef's tip: the second, hotter fry is what makes it crisp, so don't skip it.

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Kampot pepper and lime dip

Every table in Kampot and along the crab-shack pier at Kep gets a saucer of tuk mrech, and diners mix their own: a heap of salt, a spoonful of freshly cracked local pepper and a squeeze of lime. It is sharp, salty and floral-hot, with none of the sweetness of most Khmer dips, and it is meant for dragging grilled corn, griddled tofu, fried eggs or a pepper crab through. Kampot pepper carries a protected geographical indication and tastes fruity and resinous rather than just hot; any good whole black peppercorns work, but pre-ground pepper does not. People often get it wrong by grinding the pepper to dust, which turns the dip muddy and bitter, or by mixing it hours ahead so the lime goes flat. Chef's tip: warm the peppercorns in a dry pan for a minute before cracking them, and squeeze the lime straight into the saucer at the table so it stays fresh and zingy.

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White cut chicken with ginger-scallion oil

No Cantonese celebration in Hong Kong or Guangdong is complete without a plate of baak chit gai: at Lunar New Year, weddings and ancestor offerings, the whole chicken stands for family togetherness. It is the purest of the poached dishes, with pale, springy skin, a thin layer of jelly beneath it from the ice-water plunge, and smooth, juicy meat, all lifted by a dipping bowl of ginger and spring onion sizzled with hot oil and salt. Serve it at room temperature with rice cooked in the poaching stock. Old-style cooks leave it pink at the bone, but here the chicken is always cooked until the thickest part of the thigh reads 74 °C. The biggest error is boiling hard, which splits the skin; the water should only shiver. Chef's tip: grate the ginger finely and squeeze out a little of its juice, or the oil turns watery and bitter.

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Cantonese roast goose

Drive out along the coast road to Sham Tseng in the New Territories and the restaurants there have been roasting geese for generations; Hong Kongers make the trip for a plate of it with lai fun noodles, or order a half goose for a family dinner. The skin is thin, crisp and deep mahogany, the meat dark, rich and juicy, scented from the inside with five-spice, bean paste and garlic. Sour plum sauce cuts through the fat. This home version uses an oven-ready goose (head already removed, as it is sold), dried overnight and roasted in a domestic oven. A frequent slip is roasting a goose straight from the wrapper: without its overnight drying and a glaze, the skin stays leathery. Chef's tip: pour off the rendered fat as it collects; it is superb for roasting potatoes or frying rice.

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Steamed spare ribs with black bean sauce

Small saucers of pork spare ribs, chopped into bite-sized chunks and glistening with fermented black bean and garlic, come out of every Hong Kong teahouse steamer from dawn until lunch. Done right, the meat is plump and tender, slips off the little bone with your chopsticks, and sits in a salty, garlicky, faintly sweet juice that is wonderful spooned over rice. At home it makes an easy weeknight dish with rice and some blanched choi sum. The mistake to avoid is skipping the rinse: soak the ribs in cold water first to draw out the blood, otherwise the sauce turns grey and murky. Chef's tip: ask the butcher to chop the ribs into 3 cm pieces across the bone, and add a little potato starch to the marinade, which gives the teahouse silky coating.

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Bean curd skin rolls with oyster sauce

A tea-house regular, fu pei guen arrive at Hong Kong dim sum tables in small steamer dishes, sitting in a pool of dark, glossy oyster sauce gravy. The bean curd skin is fried first, so it blisters and wrinkles, then it is braised until it turns soft and silky and soaks up the sauce, while the pork, bamboo shoot and mushroom filling inside stays juicy. The flavour is savoury and gently sweet, best with rice or between har gow and siu mai at Sunday yum cha. A splash of Shaoxing rice wine seasons the filling; there is an alcohol-free swap in the list. Where most home cooks go wrong is soaking the dried bean curd sheets in water, which turns them to rags; wipe them with a damp cloth instead so they just become supple. Chef's tip: make the rolls a day ahead, fry them, and braise them just before serving.

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Pe pyot (boiled yellow peas)

Before the city wakes, pe pyot sellers pedal through Yangon's townships calling out from bicycle baskets of warm, steaming peas, scooping portions into leaf parcels for families to eat with fried rice, flatbreads or toasted naan. Dried yellow or white peas are soaked overnight and simmered until creamy inside but still whole, then seasoned simply with salt and a spoon of oil fried with shallots. The flavour is mellow, earthy and slightly sweet, and the texture is soft and fluffy, like a good baked potato. Too much bicarbonate of soda is the common slip: a pinch softens the skins, but more turns the peas to soapy mush. Chef's tip: make a double batch; pe pyot keeps for three days in the fridge and turns tomorrow's leftover rice into pea fried rice.

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Pandan chiffon cake

No Singapore birthday table, office tea or visit to grandma's feels complete without a pandan chiffon cake, the pale green ring sold whole at heritage bakeries and neighbourhood confectioners and carried home in a box, and travellers fly home with one in their hand luggage. The crumb is cottony and springy, moist from coconut milk, and the flavour comes from juice squeezed from blended pandan leaves: grassy, vanilla-like and faintly nutty. It is served plain, in tall wedges, with kopi or tea. The usual mistake is greasing the tube pan; a chiffon needs to cling to bare metal to climb, and cooling it upside down is what keeps it tall. Chef's tip: beat the egg whites only to firm, glossy peaks that curl over at the tip; stiff, dry whites won't fold in smoothly and leave white streaks and holes.

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Steamed scallops with garlic and glass noodles

At the seafood stalls of Sai Kung and Lei Yue Mun, diners pick shellfish from the tanks and the kitchen sends them back in minutes: scallops on the half shell, each sitting on a nest of glass noodles under a heap of garlic, half fried golden and half left raw, steamed just until the scallop turns opaque, then finished with a splash of soy and a hiss of hot oil over spring onions. The noodles soak up all the sweet juices, the scallop is soft and barely firm, and the garlic is both mellow and sharp. Serve one or two each as a starter. Use only very fresh scallops: discard any that smell off or have cracked or broken shells. Most people overcook them; a large scallop needs only 5 to 6 minutes. Chef's tip: frying half the garlic and keeping half raw is the restaurant trick for deep, rounded garlic flavour.

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Wu gok (crispy taro dumplings)

Few dim sum crack like wu gok: the shell of mashed taro puffs in the fryer into a golden, honeycomb lace so delicate it shatters at a touch, giving way to a soft, nutty taro layer and a juicy filling of diced pork, shiitake and oyster sauce. Hong Kong teahouses fry them to order through the morning and they are a must at Lunar New Year banquets. Eat them straight away, with a pot of jasmine tea to cut the richness. Lard is the traditional fat in the taro dough; vegetable shortening works too. The classic failure is oil that is too cool or too hot: below about 170 °C the dumplings fall apart, above 190 °C they brown before the lace forms. Chef's tip: chill the shaped dumplings for half an hour so the dough is firm and the lace blooms evenly.

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Shan pickled mustard greens

Jars of sour, olive-gold mustard greens sit on every noodle stall in Shan State, from Kengtung to the five-day markets around Inle Lake, and families keep a crock going through the cool season. The greens are wilted, rubbed with salt and packed under cloudy water saved from rinsing rice; its starch feeds the natural fermentation, and after a few days the leaves turn crunchy, tangy and pleasantly funky. A spoonful goes on top of Shan noodles, beside sticky rice, into soups, or stir-fried with garlic and chilli as a side dish. Leaves poking above the brine are the main thing that goes wrong, since that is where mould starts; keep everything pressed under the liquid. Chef's tip: use the cloudiest rice water from the first rinse, and add a spoon of cooked rice to get the souring going faster.

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