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Mantuun buuz
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Mantuun buuz

Steamed bread buns

Mantuun buuz are plain steamed buns, cousins of the Chinese mantou, served in Ulaanbaatar homes and canteens alongside meaty stews and stir-fries to soak up the sauce. The yeasted dough is shaped into rounds or rolls and steamed until pillowy and snow-white. They freeze well and reheat in minutes over steam. A common mistake is lifting the lid as soon as the timer goes; leave them 5 minutes off the heat so they don't collapse. Chef's tip: knead until really smooth, which gives a glossy, wrinkle-free surface.

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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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Almond tea

Despite the name, there's no tea in hang yan cha, and almonds play no part either: Hong Kong's version is ground from sweet apricot kernels, the 'southern almonds' sold loose in Chinese herbal shops. Old-style dessert shops in Yau Ma Tei and Sheung Wan ladle it hot from big pots after dinner, sometimes with a black sesame swirl, and grandmothers make it for coughs in the dry winter months. It is pale, creamy and smooth as single cream, with a perfumed, marzipan-like aroma and a gentle sweetness from rock sugar. A grainy texture comes from skipping the straining, so press the blended mixture through muslin. Chef's tip: stir constantly once it's on the heat; the rice starch catches on the bottom of the pan within seconds and gives the whole pot a scorched taste.

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Burmese pennywort salad

Myin khwa, 'horse's hoof', is the Burmese name for pennywort, after the shape of its round leaves, and Mandalay grandmothers swear by a plate of it to cool the body during the hot months before the monsoon. The fresh leaves are slightly bitter and grassy, a little like watercress, and they are tossed by hand with toasted chickpea flour, crushed peanuts, crunchy fried garlic and its oil, lime juice, tomato and sliced onion. The salad is served as a side to rich curries, where its clean sourness cuts through the oil. Wet leaves ruin it: the dressing slides off and turns watery, so dry them completely after washing. Chef's tip: look for pennywort sold as gotu kola at Asian and Sri Lankan grocers; young watercress makes a fair stand-in.

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Bayagyaw (split pea fritters)

Every Yangon tea shop worth its sweet milky tea keeps a tray of these by the counter from dawn, and hawkers sell them by the bag at bus stops. Soaked yellow split peas are ground until coarse, mixed with sliced onion, chilli and a spoon of rice flour, then dropped into hot oil as thin, ragged patties that fry up shatteringly crisp at the edges and nutty in the middle. People snap them into bowls of mohinga, crumble them over noodle and rice salads, or eat them plain with a sharp chilli-garlic vinegar. Blending the peas to a smooth paste is the trap: you lose the gritty texture that makes them crunch and the fritters turn dense. Chef's tip: soak the peas the night before, and fry a test fritter first; if it falls apart, stir in another spoon of rice flour.

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Renga (smoked herring with lemon and tahini)

On Sham el-Nessim, the spring festival Egyptians of every faith celebrate on the Monday after Coptic Easter, families head to parks and the Nile banks with coloured eggs, spring onions, lettuce and fish, and renga is on almost every picnic cloth. Golden smoked herring is skinned, boned and flaked, then dressed with plenty of lemon, raw onion, chilli and a garlicky tahini sauce, so the salty, smoky fish is cut by sharp citrus and creamy sesame. It is scooped up with baladi bread and crunchy greens. Shop-bought renga is cold-smoked and eaten without cooking, so it is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system unless you heat it first (see the last step). Buy it sealed from a reputable shop, within its date. Chef's tip: soak the fillets in cold water for 10 minutes to tame the salt before dressing them.

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Singapore curry puff

Spiral curry puffs are a tea-time thing in Singapore, picked up warm in paper bags from Malay kueh stalls at Geylang Serai, from heritage bakeries in Tiong Bahru, or eaten at the 4 pm break with teh tarik. The pastry is the point: two doughs rolled together into a log, sliced, and rolled out so that the cut edge shows tight spirals that shatter into crisp layers when fried. Inside is a soft, peppery filling of potato and onion cooked with curry powder and curry leaves. Shops also sell versions with chicken and a wedge of hard-boiled egg; this one keeps to potato and uses vegetable shortening so the pastry stays dairy-free. The usual mistake is frying in oil that is too hot, which browns the outside while the inner layers stay doughy; a steady medium heat lets the spirals open. Chef's tip: let the filling cool completely and keep it fairly dry, or steam from the potato will burst the seams in the oil.

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Steamed custard buns (lau sa bao)

Tear one open at a Hong Kong yum cha table and a stream of golden, buttery custard runs out, which is exactly why the name means 'flowing sand'. The filling is sweet and salty at once, grainy with mashed salted duck egg yolk and rich with butter and milk powder, wrapped in a snow-white, cotton-soft bun. Teahouses from Central to Mong Kok bring them out in bamboo baskets of three, usually near the end of the meal with a pot of pu'er or chrysanthemum tea. Most failures happen when the filling goes into the dough soft: it smears, leaks through the seams and never turns runny inside. Chef's tip: freeze the filling balls until rock hard before wrapping, then serve the buns within a few minutes of steaming, while the butter is still liquid.

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African chicken (Macanese galinha africana)

Macau restaurants have served galinha africana since the 1940s, and the story most often told is that a hotel chef in the city created it from spices that Portuguese sailors brought back from Mozambique and Angola. Today it is a signature at Macanese and Portuguese restaurants from Taipa village to Coloane, eaten at long weekend lunches with rice or crusty bread. Chicken pieces are marinated, grilled until charred, then baked under a thick, brick-coloured sauce of ground peanuts, coconut milk, chilli, paprika, garlic and onion that is rich, nutty and quietly fiery. It is often made with a pale, timid sauce; cook the onion, garlic and paprika slowly until really deep red before the coconut goes in. Chef's tip: marinate the chicken overnight in the fridge so the garlic and chilli reach the bone.

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Red bean soup

Hong Kong Cantonese restaurants often send out a small bowl of hung dau sa on the house at the end of a banquet dinner, and dessert shops in Mong Kok serve it hot in winter and chilled with ice in summer. Long simmering breaks the adzuki beans down into a thick, velvety soup, part smooth and part whole beans, scented with the faintly bitter citrus of aged tangerine peel and sweetened with clean-tasting rock sugar. Some add a spoonful of coconut milk, lotus seeds or little glutinous rice balls. Adding the sugar too early is the common misstep, because it keeps the bean skins tough so they never collapse. Chef's tip: soak the beans, then freeze them in their soaking water for a few hours; the ice crystals crack the skins and halve the simmering time.

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Ginger scallion sauce

Every Hong Kong siu mei shop keeps a tub of this pale green relish beside the chopping block, spooned next to white-cut poached chicken over rice or tossed through plain lo mein at late-night dai pai dong stalls. Smoking-hot oil is poured over raw ginger and spring onion, and the sizzle softens their bite into a sweet, salty, fragrant sauce with a gentle heat from the ginger. It is just as good with steamed tofu, plain congee, poached fish or a bowl of rice on its own. Many home cooks blitz everything in a food processor, which bruises the spring onions into a watery paste; chop them by hand instead. Chef's tip: pour the oil while it is properly hot, shimmering and just starting to smoke, so you hear a loud crackle; lukewarm oil leaves the sauce raw and greasy.

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Sesame balls (jin deui)

No Hong Kong Lunar New Year feels complete without a plate of jin deui, though dim sum restaurants serve these golden globes every day of the year with morning tea. Each one is a thin, crackly shell of fried glutinous rice dough wrapped in toasted sesame seeds, hollow and chewy inside around a spoonful of red bean or lotus seed paste. They are best eaten within minutes of frying, alongside a pot of tea, when the shell still shatters and the seeds smell nutty. Dropping the balls into very hot oil is the classic error: the seeds scorch before the dough expands, and the balls can burst. Chef's tip: start them in moderately hot oil and keep gently pressing them against the side of the pan with a slotted spoon, which makes them swell and turn hollow.

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Water chestnut cake

Dim sum halls across Hong Kong lay out amber squares of water chestnut cake on small plates, and every Lunar New Year home kitchens steam a tray to give away to visitors. Set from water chestnut starch and brown slab sugar, the cake is translucent and gently chewy, flecked with pieces of fresh water chestnut that stay crisp and juicy. It is eaten cold and wobbly in summer, or sliced and pan-fried until the outside forms a caramel crust with a soft centre, with a cup of jasmine or oolong tea. A frequent problem is a lumpy, cloudy cake, which comes from pouring the hot syrup into the starch all at once without stirring. Chef's tip: let the cake set completely, ideally overnight in the fridge, before slicing with a knife dipped in water.

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Siu yuk (Cantonese crispy roast pork belly)

Hanging in the window of every Hong Kong siu mei shop beside the char siu and roast goose, siu yuk is a slab of pork belly whose skin has been roasted into a glassy, bubbled crackling that crunches loudly over juicy, five-spice-seasoned layers of meat and fat. Shops chop it into cubes for rice boxes at lunch, and whole slabs are carried to temples and family altars at Ching Ming and on festival days. Serve it with English-style mustard and a dish of sugar for dipping, plus rice and greens. The usual error is a damp skin: any moisture left on it steams instead of crackles, so the belly must dry uncovered in the fridge overnight. Chef's tip: prick the skin all over with a sharp skewer until it looks like sandpaper; those tiny holes are where the blisters start.

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Tainan beef soup

Before dawn in Tainan, workers and night owls fill steamy shops near the slaughterhouse districts for bowls of fresh local beef sliced paper-thin and blanched by a ladle of boiling broth, eaten with rice and a saucer of soy and ginger as a sunrise breakfast. The meat is tender and rosy, the broth clean, sweet and beefy. Traditionally the slices are barely cooked; this recipe gives a safer 30-second dip in simmering broth and a fully cooked option. The pink version is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. People often cut the beef too thick, so it toughens before it cooks through; firm it in the freezer and slice it as thin as you can. Chef's tip: bring the broth to a hard, rolling boil right before every ladle; a broth that has dropped off the boil never cooks the beef evenly.

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Mango pudding

Wobbling out of fish-shaped moulds at the end of a Hong Kong dim sum lunch, mango pudding is just as popular in small cups from dessert chains, which sell it through the sticky summer months when Philippine and Thai mangoes flood the markets. It's smooth, creamy and full of fruit, with pieces of fresh mango through it and a drizzle of cold evaporated milk on top. Restaurants usually set it with gelatine; this version uses agar, which keeps it vegetarian and sets slightly firmer and cleaner. The problem with agar is impatience: it begins to set below about 40 °C, so cold purée added too slowly turns into lumpy strands. Chef's tip: warm the mango purée before you mix it in, then whisk briskly and pour into the moulds right away.

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Ayam buah keluakChicken with black keluak nuts

Ask any Peranakan family in Singapore which dish defines the Nyonya table and most will name this one, cooked for Chinese New Year, ancestral offerings and big birthday lunches. Chicken is braised in a sour tamarind gravy built on a long-fried rempah of chillies, shallots, galangal, lemongrass and shrimp paste, together with buah keluak, the hard black nut of the kepayang tree, whose inky flesh tastes of dark chocolate, mushroom and olive. Diners dig the paste out with a teaspoon and stir it into rice. Raw keluak nuts contain hydrogen cyanide and are poisonous: use only cleaned, pre-soaked nuts sold ready to cook, and still soak them for several days, changing the water every day, as the seller's instructions say. The mistake people regret is skimping on that soak, which leaves the nuts bitter as well as unsafe. Chef's tip: cook it a day ahead; the gravy darkens and the flavours deepen overnight.

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Ginger milk curd

Born in the Pearl River Delta town of Shawan in Panyu, Guangdong, ginger milk curd crossed the border to become a favourite of Hong Kong dessert parlours in Jordan and Causeway Bay, ordered hot on a winter night. There's no setting agent: an enzyme in fresh ginger juice curdles hot milk within minutes into a trembling, spoonable custard that's sweet, creamy and warming, with a peppery ginger kick. It is eaten straight from the bowl while still warm, with nothing alongside. Long-life UHT milk is the classic mistake, since its proteins have been changed by the high heat and it simply won't set; use fresh pasteurised whole cow's milk. Chef's tip: use mature, fibrous ginger rather than young pink-tipped ginger, and heat the milk to 70–75 °C, measured with a thermometer.

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Black sesame soup

Steaming bowls of inky ji ma wu are a staple of Hong Kong dessert shops on cool evenings, eaten after dinner or as a late-night snack on the way home. The soup is thick enough to coat a spoon, nutty and roasted with a faint bitterness that balances the rock sugar, and so smooth it feels like warm velvet. It's often paired half-and-half in one bowl with almond tea or walnut soup, or served with sweet glutinous rice balls. Over-toasting the sesame is the mistake to avoid; once the seeds scorch, the whole pot tastes acrid. Chef's tip: blend the toasted seeds with water for a full two minutes, until no grit is left between your fingers, before it goes into the pan.

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Milkfish belly congee

Tainan breakfast stalls open before six for this, ladling it into bowls beside plates of fried dough sticks and braised fish skin. It is not the thick Cantonese kind: cooked rice is simmered briefly in a light, ginger-scented broth, so the grains stay separate, and slices of rich, boneless milkfish belly are poached in it until just set, then showered with celery, fried shallots and white pepper. Milkfish is farmed in the ponds around Tainan; look for boneless frozen belly in Asian supermarkets, or use sea bass belly. The error most cooks make is boiling the belly hard, which breaks the soft fat and clouds the broth. Chef's tip: lower the slices into the pot skin-side down and keep the liquid just shivering; the belly firms gently and keeps its sweet, silky layer of fat.

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Steamed egg with minced pork

Hong Kong grandmothers make this on busy weeknights, and it is one of the first dishes children there learn to love: a trembling, glass-smooth egg custard with a layer of soy-seasoned minced pork underneath, served in its dish with a drizzle of soy and sesame oil and a bowl of white rice. It costs little, cooks in minutes and tastes of comfort. Getting the texture right is all about gentle heat. The pitfall nearly everyone hits is steaming on full blast with no lid on the dish, which gives a pitted, spongy surface; cover the bowl and steam on a medium heat instead. Chef's tip: use warm stock or water at 1½ times the volume of the beaten eggs, and strain the mixture through a sieve to remove the bubbles.

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Beef brisket noodles

Queues form outside the brisket shops of Central and Sham Shui Po at lunchtime for a bowl of ngau naam min: wobbly chunks of beef brisket, braised for hours with chu hou paste, star anise, cinnamon and dried tangerine peel until the fat and sinew melt, set over springy egg noodles in a separate, clear, peppery broth with daikon. The braise is dark, sticky and aromatic, the broth light and clean, and you dip between them. A slosh of Shaoxing rice wine goes in the braise; an alcohol-free swap is in the ingredient list. Many home cooks cut the brisket before cooking into small cubes, which then shrink and dry out; braise it in big pieces and cut it afterwards. Chef's tip: the braise is better the next day, so make it ahead, chill it and lift off the fat before reheating.

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Soy sauce fried noodles

Order this at a Hong Kong cha chaan teng or a dim sum breakfast and it lands on the table glossy, mahogany brown and smelling of the wok, a plate of nothing more than noodles, soy sauce, bean sprouts and spring onions. Thin egg noodles turn springy and slightly crisp at the edges, coated in a sweet-salty soy glaze, while the sprouts stay crunchy. Locals eat it for breakfast with milk tea, or share it at yum cha next to steamed dumplings, often with a dab of chilli oil. Wet noodles are the enemy here: if they go into the wok damp, they steam, clump and turn soggy instead of frying. Chef's tip: toss the noodles with chopsticks or tongs rather than a spatula, lifting and shaking them through the sauce, so the strands stay long and separate.

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Galinha à portuguesa (Portuguese chicken)

Puzzlingly, you will not find this in Portugal: galinha à portuguesa belongs to Macau, where cooks mixed a Portuguese idea of a creamy baked chicken with the turmeric, curry powder and coconut milk that came through the Portuguese trading routes from Goa and Malacca. Macanese restaurants and Hong Kong's cha chaan teng serve it bubbling in a clay pot or baking dish, golden on top, with chicken and potatoes in a mild, yellow, gently sweet coconut sauce, always with white rice to soak it up. It is a favourite for family dinners and Christmas tables. The thing people get wrong is boiling the coconut sauce hard, so it splits and turns oily; keep it at a gentle simmer. Chef's tip: brown the chicken well first, and finish under a hot grill for the speckled golden top that Macau restaurants are known for.

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Lo mai gai (sticky rice in lotus leaf)

Unfold the dried lotus leaf at a Hong Kong yum cha table and a cloud of tea-scented steam rises from a parcel of glossy sticky rice, hiding a centre of soy-braised chicken thigh, shiitake and slices of lap cheong, the sweet Chinese pork sausage. Teahouses from Sheung Wan to Mong Kok sell it from the morning trolleys, and office workers grab one as a filling breakfast with a pot of pu'er. The rice is chewy and sticky but each grain stays whole, and the leaf gives it a faint grassy perfume. Shaoxing rice wine goes into the filling; an alcohol-free swap is given in the ingredient list. The most common mistake is cooking the rice in water like plain rice: soaked glutinous rice must be steamed, or it turns into paste. Chef's tip: wrap the parcels tightly and steam them again from cold or frozen; they reheat better than almost any dim sum.

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Sweet potato ginger soup

Cheap, warming and ready in under an hour, this is the tong sui Hong Kong families make at home on cold, damp winter nights, ladled out after dinner or before bed rather than ordered in a shop. Chunks of orange, yellow or purple sweet potato turn tender and fudgy in a clear amber syrup made with brown slab sugar and plenty of smashed ginger, so each spoonful is sweet first and then pleasantly hot. Some cooks add a few pitted red dates or a piece of dried tangerine peel. Boiling the sweet potatoes from the start is the usual slip; by the time the ginger has given up its heat, they've collapsed and clouded the syrup. Chef's tip: soak the cut sweet potato in cold water for 10 minutes to rinse off surface starch, and add it only once the ginger broth has simmered for a good 10 minutes.

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Taiwanese sesame oil chicken soup

When the first cold fronts reach Taipei, steam rises from clay pots of this at street-corner stalls, and families make it at home for new mothers and anyone run down by winter. Bone-in chicken is browned in dark, toasty black sesame oil with a mound of ginger fried until curled and crisp, then simmered in rice wine for a deeply warming, slightly bitter-sweet broth that is eaten with rice or thin wheat noodles. This soup is traditionally made with plenty of rice wine, and simmering does not cook all the alcohol off; for an alcohol-free pot, use the stock option given with the wine. A common error is heating black sesame oil on a high flame: it scorches quickly and makes the whole soup bitter. Chef's tip: fry the ginger slowly in the oil before the chicken goes in, until the slices curl at the edges and look dry; that is where the soup's warmth comes from.

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Mango shaved ice

Every summer, from late May to September, the dessert shops of Taipei's Yongkang Street have queues that stretch round the corner for one thing: a mountain of feathery milk ice buried under cubes of ripe Aiwen mango. The ice is frozen milk shaved so thinly it melts on the tongue like snow, and it's drenched in mango syrup and sweetened condensed milk, often with a scoop of mango sorbet on top. At home, freeze the milk base the night before; the active work then takes about 15 minutes. Shaving the block straight from the freezer is a common mistake, as it splinters into icy shards; let it soften for 5 minutes so it curls into ribbons. Chef's tip: chill the serving bowls in the freezer too, so the snow holds its height while you add the toppings.

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Sambal stingray

Weekend evenings at the seafood stalls of Newton, Chomp Chomp and East Coast Lagoon smell of charring banana leaf, and the dish sending up that smoke is usually sambal stingray. A fan-shaped stingray wing is spread thickly with a dark red, slow-fried sambal of chillies, shallots, candlenuts and toasted shrimp paste, laid on banana leaf and cooked over high heat until the sweet, delicate flesh pulls cleanly off the soft cartilage in strands. It comes with calamansi or lime, raw sliced shallots and a little dish of sour chinchalok, and a plate of steamed rice. Underfrying the sambal is the classic error: until the oil splits away and turns red, the paste tastes raw and harsh. If you can't find stingray, skate wing is the best substitute and cooks the same way. Chef's tip: score the thick end of the wing and push sambal into the cuts, so the flavour gets right into the flesh.

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Singapore prawn noodle soup

Long before lunch, the big pots at Singapore's prawn mee stalls have been bubbling with fried prawn shells and pork bones, and the regulars from Zion Road to Tiong Bahru arrive with one question: soup or dry? This is the soup version, which is different from the stir-fried Hokkien prawn mee: a sweet, briny, rust-coloured broth poured over yellow noodles and rice vermicelli, topped with halved prawns, tender pork ribs, kangkong and bean sprouts, finished with fried shallots and a dusting of chilli powder. A dish of sliced red chilli in soy sauce sits alongside. The most common mistake is boiling the shells without frying them first, which gives a pale, thin broth; the depth comes from shells toasted in oil until they are deep red and smell like the sea. Chef's tip: freeze prawn shells and heads from other meals over a few weeks so you have a big bag ready for the stock.

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Crema de malangaMalanga root soup

Ask anyone raised in Havana what they were fed when they were ill and the answer is usually crema de malanga: a pale, velvety soup of the starchy root, gently scented with garlic and onion. It is also one of the first foods Cuban babies and grandparents alike are given, because it is soft, mild and filling. The classic mistake is grating raw malanga with bare hands, which can make your skin itch; peel it wearing gloves and rinse it well. Serve it plain or with a few croutons. Chef's tip: blend in the butter at the end rather than frying in it, so the soup tastes clean and creamy rather than heavy.

40 minCubanSoupsGluten free
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Kyar zan hingaGlass noodle soup with chicken

Lighter than mohinga and a favourite with children, kyar zan hinga turns up at Yangon donation feasts, at evening noodle stalls and on the family table when someone needs something soothing. Slippery glass noodles swim in a clear, peppery chicken broth with shredded chicken, crunchy wood-ear mushroom, chewy knots of dried lily buds, bouncy fish balls and whole quail eggs. Each bowl is finished at the table with lime, chilli flakes, fried garlic and coriander, and crisp split-pea fritters are often torn in on top. Simmering the glass noodles in the pot is the classic error: they swell, go soft and drink up the broth, so add them straight to the bowls instead. Chef's tip: knot each softened lily bud before it goes into the soup; it keeps them from shredding and gives every spoonful a little chewy bite.

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Vegetarian mee rebus

Malay hawker stalls at Geylang Serai and the old Adam Road food centre ladle mee rebus from a vat of thick, reddish-brown gravy that is sweet, gently spiced and earthy, poured over springy yellow noodles and heaped with halved boiled egg, fried tau kwa, bean sprouts, green chilli and a squeeze of calamansi. It is eaten any time, but especially on Hari Raya mornings and as a filling lunch. Many stalls build the gravy on dried shrimp and beef stock; this vegetarian version gets its body from mashed sweet potato, its savoury depth from fermented soybean paste (taucheo) and a well-fried spice paste, and uses vegetable stock. The usual mistake is under-frying the rempah, which leaves the gravy tasting raw and sharp; cook it until the oil separates and turns red. Chef's tip: the gravy thickens as it stands, so keep a kettle of hot stock nearby and loosen it to a pourable, velvety consistency just before serving.

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Minchi (Macanese minced meat with potatoes)

If one dish says home to Macanese families, the descendants of Portuguese and Chinese Macau, it is minchi: a quick hash of minced beef and pork seasoned with soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce and a touch of sugar, mixed with crisp little cubes of fried potato and crowned with a runny fried egg. It appears on weeknight tables, at Macanese restaurants near Rua do Cunha, and at gatherings of the Macanese community abroad, always with plain white rice. Savoury, slightly sweet and full of crunch, it tastes like the meeting of a Portuguese kitchen and a Cantonese wok. A common error is stirring the potatoes into the meat too early, which makes them soft and floury; fry them separately until crisp and fold them in at the end. Chef's tip: let the mince sit undisturbed for a minute in the hot pan before stirring, so it browns instead of stewing.

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Taiwanese sweet potato congee

Tainan's late-night congee shops lay out dozens of little dishes under glass, and the bowl that goes with them is this loose, gently sweet rice porridge dotted with soft orange sweet potato. Older Taiwanese remember it as the food of lean years, when sweet potato stretched the rice; today it is comfort food at breakfast, at midnight after the markets, and whenever someone is unwell. Unlike Cantonese congee, the grains stay distinct in a cloudy, silky liquid. Many cooks cut the sweet potato too small, so it collapses into mush and turns the pot muddy; chunks of about 3 cm keep their shape. Chef's tip: serve it with something salty and crunchy, such as pickled cucumbers, peanuts or a radish omelette, because the contrast is the whole point.

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Soy sauce chicken

Glossy, chestnut-brown and hung by the neck in siu mei shop windows across Hong Kong, see yau gai is the gentle cousin of roast meats: a whole chicken poached in a fragrant master stock of light and dark soy, rock sugar, star anise, cinnamon and ginger until the skin is lacquered and the meat silky and sweet-savoury. It is chopped onto plates of rice with a ladle of the sauce for a quick lunch, or served at home with blanched greens. Shaoxing rice wine goes into the stock, with an alcohol-free option in the list. Traditional cooks pull the bird while it is still pink at the bone; this recipe does not, and the chicken is cooked to 74 °C in the thickest part of the thigh. The main pitfall is a rolling boil, which tears the skin and toughens the breast; keep the stock barely trembling. Chef's tip: strain and freeze the stock, and it gets deeper every time you reuse it.

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Bajan pumpkin fritters

Barbadian grandmothers turn leftover boiled pumpkin into these little fritters for Sunday tea, frying spoonfuls of a soft, spiced batter until puffed and golden, then rolling them in sugar while still hot. Inside they are tender and custardy, with cinnamon, nutmeg and a hint of vanilla. They're best eaten warm, straight from the paper towel. The common mistake is a watery batter from wet pumpkin, which makes flat, greasy fritters: drain the cooked pumpkin well. Chef's tip: use the dense, orange West Indian pumpkin or butternut squash; watery jack-o'-lantern pumpkins don't work well.

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Burmese tomato salad

Come the cool season, when tomatoes are at their sweetest in Mandalay and the dry towns of Upper Burma, this thoke (a salad 'mixed by hand') is the quick dish that appears beside rice and curry at almost every meal. Slices of ripe tomato and onion are squeezed together with toasted chickpea flour, crushed peanuts and fried shallots in their oil, so the juices and flour turn into a light, nutty dressing that clings to every piece. Lime and fresh chilli sharpen it, and coriander lifts it. Home cooks often add fish sauce; this vegetarian version uses salt and a pinch of sugar. Dressing it too early is the most common mistake: salt pulls water from the tomatoes and leaves a soupy plate. Chef's tip: mix with your fingertips just before serving, pressing lightly so some tomato juice blends into the flour.

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Burmese pumpkin curry

On a weekday lunch table in a Yangon home, this soft orange curry usually sits beside a sour leaf soup, a plate of boiled greens and a mound of plain rice. Wedges of pumpkin are cooked slowly in a pounded paste of onion, garlic and ginger with turmeric and chilli, until the flesh turns tender and glossy and the oil rises to the top, the sign of a well-made Burmese hin. It tastes sweet, gently hot and savoury all at once; many households stir in dried shrimp, but this version keeps it plant-based with a little salt and sugar. Where cooks go wrong is stirring the pot every few minutes: the pumpkin breaks into mash, so shake the pan instead. Chef's tip: leave the skin on a firm, dense pumpkin such as kabocha; it holds the pieces together and softens enough to eat.

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Bahamian conch salad

At the Fish Fry on Arawak Cay in Nassau, conch salad is made to order: a vendor cracks the shell, dices the conch with tomato, onion, sweet peppers and goat pepper, and drowns it in lime and sour orange in front of you. Traditionally the conch is eaten raw, "cooked" only by the citrus; that raw version is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system, and this recipe gives a safer version in which the conch is poached briefly first. Buy cleaned conch from a trusted fishmonger and discard any that smells of ammonia. The common mistake is dicing unevenly; everything should be in small, matching cubes. Chef's tip: make it no more than an hour ahead, or the lime turns the vegetables limp.

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Bajan salt bread

Every rum shop and fish fry in Barbados sells "bread and two", and the bread is almost always salt bread: plain, crusty rolls with a soft, slightly chewy crumb and a split down the top, made for stuffing with fish cakes, a slice of cheese or fried flying fish as a cutter. Despite the name, they aren't especially salty; the name sets them apart from sweet bread. The usual mistake is pale rolls with a soft crust from too cool an oven. Chef's tip: put a tray of boiling water in the bottom of the oven for the first 10 minutes for a properly crisp crust.

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Grenadian nutmeg ice cream

Grenada, the Spice Isle, grows much of the world's nutmeg, and in St George's ice cream parlours the local favourite is a rich egg-custard ice cream scented with freshly grated nutmeg. The flavour is warm and almost floral, nothing like the dusty jar spice, and it is lovely with fried plantain or a slice of black cake. The common mistake is overheating the custard so the eggs scramble; take it off the heat as soon as it coats a spoon. Chef's tip: grate the nutmeg straight into the hot milk and let it steep for 20 minutes before making the custard, so the flavour runs all the way through.

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SalufPuffy flatbread

Saluf is the everyday bread of Yemenite Israelis, slapped onto a hot pan or taboon in Rosh HaAyin and Sha'arayim in Rehovot and eaten with marak temani, hilbe and zhug. It is soft and blistered, thicker than pita and with no pocket, made to tear and dunk. Home cooks often roll it too thin, which gives a cracker; it should be about 1 cm thick so it stays pillowy. Chef's tip: cook it under a lid on a very hot dry pan for the first minute, which traps steam and puffs it the way a taboon does.

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Taiwanese radish omelette

Ask a Taiwanese grandmother what to cook when there's nothing in the fridge and the answer is often this: a few eggs and a handful of preserved radish turned into a thick, golden omelette, cut into wedges and passed round. It's a staple of the rice-and-small-dishes spread at Taipei breakfast shops and late-night congee counters, and it reappears on the stir-fry restaurant table and in home lunchboxes. The chopped radish fries up crunchy and caramel-sweet inside soft, puffy egg, with crisp brown lacy edges. Skipping the rinse is where most go wrong: unrinsed radish makes the omelette far too salty. Chef's tip: dry-fry the radish first until it smells toasty, then use plenty of oil and a hot pan so the egg puffs and the edges frill.

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Bermuda fish chowder

Bermudians call fish chowder their national dish, and every Sunday brunch and Cup Match picnic has a pot of it: a dark, thick soup made from a long-simmered fish-head stock with tomatoes, vegetables and white fish, seasoned at the table with a splash of black rum and sherry peppers sauce (hot peppers steeped in sherry). This recipe contains alcohol in those optional table seasonings; for an alcohol-free bowl, use a few drops of hot pepper sauce and a little molasses instead. The mistake to avoid is a thin, watery stock; the bones must simmer long enough to give body. Ask your fishmonger for heads and frames from white fish, gills removed. Chef's tip: let the finished chowder rest for 30 minutes before serving; it thickens and the flavours deepen.

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Trini curry shrimp

Sold from food stalls in San Fernando and eaten at south Trinidad family lunches, curry shrimp is the fast curry of the island: the sauce is built in minutes, and the shrimp go in only at the very end. Plenty of garlic, roasted geera and hot pepper give a bright, punchy curry that you wipe up with dhalpuri or spoon over rice. The mistake nearly everyone makes the first time is stewing the shrimp, which turns them rubbery; they need three or four minutes, no more. Chef's tip: save the shells, simmer them in the water for 10 minutes and use that stock in the curry for a much deeper seafood flavour.

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Trini curry duck

Curry duck is the dish of the riverside lime in south and central Trinidad, cooked in a big iron pot over a wood fire while friends cool off in the water. The duck is chopped small, marinated in green seasoning, then "burnt" into a curry paste fried until almost black, which gives the sauce its dark colour and deep, slightly bitter edge. It's served with rice, dhal and sada or paratha roti. A common mistake is serving it before the duck has fully broken down: duck is chewy and needs long, slow cooking. Chef's tip: spoon off the yellow duck fat that rises during cooking and keep it for roasting potatoes.

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Lao bamboo shoot soup

When the rains arrive in June, Vientiane's morning markets fill with pale, freshly dug bamboo shoots, and pots of kaeng nor mai start simmering in kitchens across the city for the family lunch. The broth is a deep olive green, tinted by the juice squeezed from yanang leaves, and thickened with a spoonful of pounded soaked sticky rice so it coats the spoon. Earthy bamboo, sweet pumpkin and slippery mushrooms float in it with lemon basil on top, and a basket of sticky rice and a dish of jeow sit alongside. Skipping the pre-boil of the bamboo is where most cooks go wrong: raw shoots taste bitter and need cooking through to be safe, so always blanch fresh ones and drain. This version leaves out the fermented fish of village kitchens and seasons with salt and tamari. Chef's tip: squeeze the yanang leaves in cold water, never hot, or the broth turns brown and loses its grassy freshness.

60 minLaoSoupsVeganGluten free
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Jamaican conch soup

From Montego Bay's craft market cookshops to roadside pots around Falmouth, conch soup is sold by the cup on Fridays and Saturdays: tender pieces of conch in a thick, peppery broth with potatoes, pumpkin, carrot and chewy flour spinners. Conch is famously tough, so it is pounded and simmered slowly before the vegetables go in. Buy cleaned frozen conch meat from a fishmonger; thaw it in the fridge and throw away any that smells off. The most common mistake is not tenderising the conch, leaving rubbery chunks; pound it well and simmer until a knife slides in. Chef's tip: a little lime rubbed into the conch before pounding removes its slippery film and freshens the flavour.

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Jamaican jerk pork

Boston Bay in Portland is where jerk pork was born, and the jerk pits there still slow-smoke pork shoulder over green pimento wood under sheets of zinc until the outside is dark and crusted and the meat is smoky and juicy. This home version uses boneless pork shoulder rubbed with a wet paste of scotch bonnet, pimento, scallion, thyme and ginger, then cooked slowly in a covered barbecue or oven and finished over high heat. The biggest mistake is rushing the marinade; it needs at least 12 hours in the fridge to get into the pork. Cook until the thickest part reaches at least 63 °C, then rest; for tender, chopped jerk like the stalls, keep going to about 85 °C. Chef's tip: throw a handful of soaked allspice berries and bay leaves onto the coals for the smoky pimento flavour of the real pits.

240 minJamaicanMeatGluten freeSpicy
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Jamaican cornmeal pudding

Jamaican cornmeal pudding is the cousin of sweet potato pudding, cheaper and quicker to make, and a fixture at Sunday dinner and church harvest suppers from Kingston to the hills of Manchester. Cornmeal is first cooked on the stove in coconut milk with sugar and nutmeg, then baked until firm, sliceable and caramel-edged, with a thin, soft layer on top. The classic mistake is pouring raw cornmeal straight into hot liquid, which makes lumps; whisk it into cold liquid first. Chef's tip: pour a little extra coconut milk over halfway through baking to get that custardy "hallelujah" top.

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Jamaican hominy corn porridge

Hominy porridge is a weekend job in Jamaican homes from Spanish Town to Mandeville: the dried, hulled corn kernels need soaking overnight and a long, slow simmer before they burst open, tender and chewy, in a creamy coconut and spice base. The finished porridge is thick and comforting, sweetened with condensed milk and perfumed with cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla, and it reheats beautifully through the week. The mistake many people make is adding the coconut and milk at the start, where they catch and burn during the long cook; boil the corn in water first. Look for dried white hominy at Caribbean or Latin shops, and remember the overnight soak. Chef's tip: stir in a spoonful of cornmeal or flour mixed with water at the end if you like it thicker, as many Jamaican cooks do.

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Tamina (roasted semolina with honey)

Word of a birth in an Algiers household brings a steady flow of visitors, and each is offered a small dish of tamina with coffee: semolina roasted in a dry pan until it smells like toasted hazelnuts, then bound with melted butter and honey and dusted with cinnamon. It is soft, crumbly and sweet, a little like a spoonable halva, and is said to give strength to the new mother. Tamina is also made for Mawlid and served with tea, with the cinnamon often sifted over in a lattice pattern. Chef's tip: toast the semolina slowly over a medium-low heat and stir without stopping; burnt dark specks make the whole batch bitter and cannot be picked out.

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Mbesses (Kabyle semolina cake)

Somewhere between shortbread and cornbread, mbesses is the plain cake of Kabyle kitchens, a shallow tray of semolina rich with melted butter, lightly sweetened and baked until golden on top. The texture is sandy and tender, breaking into crumbs that taste of toasted grain and butter, with a hint of orange blossom. It is cut into diamonds and served with milky coffee in the afternoon, or offered to guests who drop by during Ramadan evenings. Some households scatter sesame or nigella seeds over the top before baking. Chef's tip: spread the mixture into the tray with a light hand; pressing it down hard is the most common mistake and gives a dense, heavy cake.

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Bradj (date-filled semolina diamonds)

When the first warm days arrive, families in Constantine and across eastern Algeria mark the spring festival with picnics, boiled eggs and plates of bradj: diamonds of buttery semolina sandwiching a layer of spiced date paste, cooked slowly on a griddle rather than baked. The outside turns golden and crumbly, the date layer stays soft and sticky, and orange-blossom water perfumes the whole thing. Bradj is served warm with a drizzle of honey or a cold glass of buttermilk, and is just as good the next day with coffee. Chef's tip: press the dough together rather than kneading it; worked like bread dough, semolina turns tough, and bradj should break with a crumble.

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White cherry preserve

Absheron is famous for its white cherries, pale yellow fruit with a pink blush that ripen in June in the sandy orchards around Mardakan and Shuvalan. Baku families stone them one by one with a hairpin and cook them slowly into a clear golden preserve, sharpened with lemon, which is served in tiny glass bowls (mürəbbə qabı) with black tea; you sip the tea and eat a spoon of cherries between sips. A common mistake is cooking the fruit in one long boil, which shrivels it. Chef's tip: cook in short spells with long rests in between, so the cherries plump up with syrup and stay whole and glossy.

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Tagella (Tuareg sand-baked bread)

Out in the Hoggar mountains around Tamanrasset, Tuareg cooks bury a thick disc of dough in sand heated by a wood fire, cover it with embers and dig it up half an hour later with a dense, chewy crumb and a thick crust that is beaten clean of sand. The bread is then broken into pieces and soaked in a spicy tomato and onion sauce, a hearty meal for a camp or a desert evening; meat goes in when there is some, and this is the plain version cooked on ordinary days. At home, a very hot oven with a cast-iron pan gives a similar crust. Expect a filling, rustic dish with a smoky, peppery sauce. A frequent slip is making the dough too dry; it should be soft, or the thick round cracks and stays raw in the middle. Chef's tip: bake the bread until it sounds hollow when knocked, because an underbaked, doughy centre turns to paste in the sauce.

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Rougag (Saharan paper-thin flatbread)

Across the oases of the Algerian Sahara, from Biskra to Ouargla, women spread a soft semolina dough over a domed griddle so thin that light shows through it, then lift the sheet off within a couple of minutes. Rougag is the base of chakhchoukha and rfis, torn into pieces and soaked in sauce, but fresh sheets are also eaten folded around dates or a spoon of stew. Freshly made it is soft and flexible with toasty brown blisters; left to dry, it keeps for weeks in a tin. An upturned wok or a large non-stick pan stands in for the griddle. Chef's tip: oil your hands, not the pan; dough that is not wet enough to stretch is the common mistake, so it should feel almost too sticky to handle.

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Zviti (pounded pepper and flatbread mash)

Fire-blistered green chillies, a few tomatoes and a fist of garlic go into a wooden mortar, and the cook in Bou Saâda or M'Sila pounds them with torn flatbread until everything turns into a coarse, hot, smoky mash. Zviti is served straight from that wooden bowl, sometimes in a carved mortar the size of a salad bowl, and eaten by hand with more bread, often on cold evenings in the steppe towns. The flavour is sharp and grassy from the chillies, sweet from the charred tomato and soothed by plenty of olive oil. Choose a mix of hot and milder long chillies to set the heat you like. Don't leave the charred skins on the peppers and tomatoes: they turn the mash bitter and stringy. Chef's tip: pound rather than blend; a food processor whips it into a watery soup, so if you must use one, pulse briefly and add the bread last.

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Aghroum (Kabyle semolina flatbread)

Up in the villages of Kabylie, aghroum is simply the word for bread, and the everyday loaf is a flat, unleavened round of semolina, water, salt and a thread of olive oil, baked on a clay griddle over a low fire. It comes out firm and close-textured, with a crust speckled brown and a faintly sweet, nutty crumb that tastes of the grain. Kabyle families tear it to scoop up olive oil, dried figs and buttermilk at breakfast, or to mop the sauce of a bean or vegetable stew at midday. A heavy cast-iron pan or flat griddle does the job of the clay one at home. Chef's tip: keep the heat at medium-low and turn the bread often; a griddle that is too hot is the usual mistake, leaving a burnt crust around a raw, gummy middle.

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Sevan trout

Ishkhan, 'the prince', is the name Armenians give to the trout of Lake Sevan, the vast blue lake high in the mountains north-east of Yerevan, and lakeside restaurants on the Sevan peninsula serve it grilled whole or stuffed with herbs and baked. The native ishkhan is now rare and protected, so the fish served today is farmed trout, cooked the same way: stuffed with tarragon, dill, coriander and garlic, roasted until the skin crisps, with lavash and lemon. A common mistake is wrapping the fish tightly in foil, which steams it soft; leave it uncovered for a crisp skin. Chef's tip: brush the fish with a little tkemali or pomegranate molasses in the last five minutes for a sweet-sour glaze. The fish is done when the flesh is opaque and flakes easily at the backbone.

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Ka'ak nakache (date-filled semolina rings)

Constantine bakers own a special brass tweezer, the nakache, just for decorating these rings: a rope of buttery semolina dough is wrapped round spiced date paste, joined into a circle and pinched along the top into chevrons and leaves. Baked pale, ka'ak nakache is crisp and short outside with a soft, cinnamon and clove scented filling, a classic of Eid trays and of the coffee served to guests in the old city. Without the tweezer, a fork or the back of a small knife makes a good pattern. Chef's tip: let the buttered semolina rest for at least 30 minutes before adding water; skipping the rest is the usual mistake, and the rings crack as you shape them.

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Griwech (honey-dipped pastry knots)

No Ramadan table in Algeria feels complete without a plate of griwech next to the chorba, ready for the sweet craving that follows the fast. Thin sheets of dough are cut into rectangles, slit and twisted into knots, fried until crisp and golden, then plunged into warm honey and scattered with toasted sesame. Each piece snaps cleanly, then melts into a sticky, orange-blossom sweetness. Batches are made days ahead and kept in tins for visitors through the month and on into Eid. Chef's tip: keep the oil at 170 °C; oil that is too hot is the usual mistake, colouring the outside before the layers inside crisp, so the griwech goes soft in the honey.

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Dziriettes (almond flower pastries)

Named after the women of Algiers, dziriettes are the jewels on any wedding or Eid tray: thin, crisp pastry pinched into a flower or crown, filled with a dome of almond paste scented with orange blossom, then baked and soaked in warm honey. They take patience, but the result is delicate and fragrant, with a shatter of pastry giving way to a soft, moist almond centre. Families often make a few hundred over several evenings, together, before a celebration, and serve them with mint tea or coffee. Chef's tip: roll the dough so thin you can almost see the worktop through it; thick pastry is the commonest mistake and turns dziriettes stodgy instead of crisp.

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Armenian string cheese

Chechil, called tel panir in Armenian, is the plaited string cheese of Armenian families from Yerevan to Beirut and Boston: fresh curd is melted in hot water, stretched again and again into long, fine strands with nigella seeds worked through, then twisted into a braid. To eat, you pull the braid apart into thread-fine strings, good with herbs, lavash and a glass of tan. Traditionally made with animal rennet; vegetarian rennet works too. A common mistake is stretching a curd that is not acidic enough; it melts into a blob instead of pulling. Chef's tip: test a small piece in hot water first, as for sulguni; if it stretches 30 cm without breaking, it is ready.

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Jamaican pumpkin soup

Ital kitchens in the Blue Mountains cook pumpkin soup on cool evenings, when the mist comes down over the coffee farms and something golden and peppery is needed. This one is meat-free and dairy-free: calabaza, carrot and chocho simmer with thyme, scallion and pimento until the pumpkin breaks down into a thick, naturally sweet broth, with a few spinners for chew. People often add the scotch bonnet already cut, which can make the whole pot ferociously hot; drop it in whole and take it out when the soup tastes right. Chocho (chayote) is optional, and courgette is a fair swap. Chef's tip: leave the soup chunky rather than blending; Jamaicans like to see the pieces of pumpkin collapsing into it.

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Chicken tabaka

Tsitsila tabaka is named after the tapa, a heavy cast-iron pan with a screw-down lid that Tbilisi cooks use to press a split spring chicken flat as it fries, so every bit of skin touches the hot metal and turns golden and crackling. In old Tbilisi restaurants it comes with a little jug of garlic water (niortskali) and satsebeli tomato sauce. A common mistake is using a big chicken, which takes so long that the skin burns before the inside cooks; a small poussin is right. Chef's tip: a heavy saucepan filled with water works as the weight at home. Chicken is done when the thickest part of the thigh reaches 74 °C.

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