Short, crumbly crescent biscuits flavoured with instant coffee and ground walnuts, rolled in caster sugar while still warm. Lovely with an after-dinner coffee and at festive times.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
Hawaiian sweet bread grew from the pão doce that Portuguese families baked in the islands at Easter, and bakeries in Hilo made it famous as a soft, golden, faintly tangy loaf. Pineapple juice gives a gentle fruity sweetness, and the crumb is pillowy and pulls apart in strands. Eat it toasted with butter, or use it for French toast. Chef's tip: the dough should be very soft; be patient during kneading instead of adding extra flour.
The Scotch pie is the straight-sided, double-crust mutton pie eaten at half time on football terraces and bought from butchers' counters in every Scottish town, with an open rim at the top for adding gravy, beans or mash. The pastry is a hot water crust made with lard (an animal fat) and the filling is peppery minced mutton or lamb. Chef's tip: shape the pastry while it is still warm; cold hot-water pastry cracks.
Saimin was born in the sugar plantation camps of Hawaii, where Chinese, Japanese and Filipino workers shared pots and combined their noodle soups into one, and it is still sold everywhere from old Kauaʻi diners to the snack bars at Little League games. Springy wheat noodles sit in a clear dashi and shrimp broth, topped with sliced char siu (roast pork), pink fish cake, egg and spring onion. Chef's tip: cook the noodles separately and rinse them, so their starch doesn't cloud the clear broth.
Piccalilli is the bright yellow pickle of the English ploughman's lunch, the Boxing Day cold cuts and the cheese board, and it has been made in farmhouse kitchens since the 18th century, when Indian pickles inspired it. Crunchy cauliflower, beans and onions are salted, then folded into a sweet, sharp sauce of mustard, turmeric and vinegar. Chef's tip: salt the vegetables overnight; it draws out water and keeps them crunchy for months.
The town of Akçaabat, just west of Trabzon, is lined with köfte houses whose grills turn out small, oblong, firm meatballs that taste strongly of garlic. Made from beef mince bound with soaked stale bread, they are seared fast so the outside chars while the inside stays juicy, then served with grilled peppers, a pile of onion and parsley, and a white bean salad. Common mistake: overworking the meat with wet hands after the bread has gone in, which turns them dense; knead hard before adding bread, then mix gently. Cook until the centre reaches 71 °C. Chef's tip: rest the shaped köfte in the fridge overnight; they hold their shape on the grill and the garlic mellows into the meat.
The muleteers who carried goods over the mountain roads into Pamplona, the arrieros, lived on salt cod because it kept for weeks, and the garlicky way they cooked it took their name. Today ajoarriero is ordered in the bars around Pamplona's Plaza del Castillo, especially during San Fermín, and served in small earthenware dishes with bread. The Navarrese version is red with peppers, tomato and dried choricero pepper, and many cooks stir in egg at the end. Chef's tip: taste the cod after soaking and only salt the dish at the very end, if at all.
The Christmas pudding is the dark, fruit-packed pudding that ends Christmas dinner in English homes, traditionally mixed on Stir-up Sunday in late November when every family member stirs and makes a wish. This one uses vegetarian suet and is soaked with brandy or stout, so it contains alcohol; for an alcohol-free pudding use the same amount of strong black tea or orange juice. It is set alight at the table with warmed brandy (skip that for alcohol-free) and served with brandy butter or custard. Chef's tip: steam it again for 2 hours on the day; the second steaming darkens and enriches it.
On Chaharshanbe Suri, the bonfire night on the last Tuesday evening before Nowruz, families across Iran jump over small fires in the street and then share a big bowl of ajil-e moshkel gosha, the 'nuts that untie problems', making a wish as they eat. The same mix comes out again on Yalda, the longest night of the year in December. It mixes salted roasted pistachios and almonds with roasted chickpeas, sweet dried figs, white mulberries, raisins and sugared almonds, so every handful is sweet, salty and crunchy. The common mistake is using raw nuts; the toasting is what makes it taste like the bazaar version. Chef's tip: toss the warm nuts with a little salted water and let them dry in the oven for a light salty coating that sticks.
Stovies, from the Scots word for stewing on the stove, is the Monday dish made from Sunday's roast all over Scotland, and the ceilidh and wedding supper served late in the evening with oatcakes and beetroot. Potatoes and onions are cooked slowly in beef dripping with the leftover meat and its jelly until some potatoes collapse into a thick, savoury mash and some stay in chunks. Chef's tip: don't stir too often; let the bottom catch a little, as those brown bits are the best part.
Curd tart is the Yorkshire tea-shop tart that was made at Whitsuntide, when farms had more milk than they could drink and turned it into fresh curds. The filling of curd cheese, eggs, currants and a good pinch of allspice is set in shortcrust, so it is creamy, slightly grainy and lightly spiced, a cousin of cheesecake. Market cafés from York to Ripon still sell it by the slice. Chef's tip: use proper curd cheese or well-drained ricotta; soft cream cheese makes it heavy and smooth instead of crumbly.
Fat rascals are big, rough, fruit-studded cakes from the North York Moors, halfway between a scone and a rock cake, and the famous Harrogate tea rooms made them a visitor's treat. Each one gets a face of glacé cherries and blanched almonds before baking. Eat them warm, split and buttered, with a pot of tea. Chef's tip: work the dough as little as possible, just until it holds; overmixed rascals bake up tough.
From the town of Eccles near Manchester, these flat pastry cakes are filled with butter-soaked currants and peel, slashed three times on top and baked until sugary and crackly. Lancashire people eat them with a slice of crumbly Lancashire cheese, the sweet and salty pairing locals swear by. Chef's tip: chill the filled cakes for 20 minutes before baking, so the pastry stays flaky and the filling doesn't leak.
Mince and tatties is the weekday tea of Scottish homes and school canteens, so familiar that 'mince' is Scots slang for nonsense. Beef mince is browned and simmered with onion, carrot and a little oatmeal to thicken, then served with plain boiled or mashed potatoes and often peas. Chef's tip: brown the mince in batches until it crackles and turns properly brown; grey mince gives a flat flavour.
The Mission burrito comes from the taquerias of San Francisco's Mission District, where in the 1960s and 70s cooks began steaming huge flour tortillas and packing them with grilled meat, rice, beans, salsa, cheese and guacamole, then rolling the whole lot tight in foil. One is lunch and dinner for a student. Chef's tip: steam the tortilla until it is soft and stretchy; a cold tortilla splits as you roll it.
Aguaje is the scaly, chestnut-red fruit of the moriche palm that grows in the flooded forests around Iquitos, and its orange flesh ends up in ice lollies, ice cream and, above all, aguajina, the cold drink sold in plastic cups at every corner and in Belén market. The taste is unusual and loved locally: tangy, a little like apricot and carrot, with a rich, slightly oily body. Fresh aguaje must be softened in warm water for an hour before its thin layer of pulp can be scraped off; outside Peru, frozen aguaje pulp from Latin American shops is the realistic choice and gives a good result. A common slip is adding all the sugar before tasting: the pulp's sourness varies from pack to pack, so sweeten at the end. Serve very cold with lunch or on a hot afternoon. Chef's tip: blend the pulp with only part of the water first, so it breaks down fully, then stir in the rest.
Along the Sinaloa coast, from Mazatlán to Culiacán, aguachile is the cold plate that starts a long seafood lunch at the beachside palapas, eaten straight from a stone molcajete with tostadas and a cold drink. The classic version is raw prawns cured only in lime, and that raw version is the risky one: lime juice does not kill bacteria or parasites the way heat does. This safer version poaches the prawns for a minute or two until just pink and opaque, chills them and then dresses them, so you keep the snap and the fierce, grassy chilli heat. Even so, treat any cold seafood dish with care: the raw classic is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. Serve with crisp corn tostadas and slices of avocado. Chef's tip: blend the chilli water with ice-cold water and pour it on at the last minute, so it stays vivid green and the prawns stay crisp.
This is the pie of the Lancashire chippy and the Bolton market stall, a vegetarian staple of the North West long before the word was common. Sliced onions and potato are softened, then mixed with plenty of crumbly Lancashire cheese and baked in shortcrust until the filling is creamy and tangy. Traditional Lancashire is usually made with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian Lancashire or a vegetarian crumbly cheese. Serve with mushy peas or beans. Chef's tip: let the onions cool before mixing in the cheese, or it melts into oil before the pie is baked.
Sticky toffee pudding was made famous by a country hotel and a village shop in the Lake District, and Cumbria still claims it, though it now ends Sunday lunch in pubs across Britain. A soft, dark sponge made with soaked dates is soaked in a buttery brown-sugar sauce and served with more sauce, plus cream, custard or vanilla ice cream. Chef's tip: poke holes in the hot sponge and pour on a third of the sauce, so it soaks right in.
In the Langhe and Monferrato hills of Piedmont, agnolotti del plin are the Sunday and feast-day pasta, made from whatever roast was left from the day before and pinched shut with a quick twist of the fingers (plin means pinch in dialect). Each parcel is barely a mouthful of thin egg pasta around a savoury filling of roast veal, pork shoulder and beef with a little cabbage, egg and parmigiano, so this is a pork dish as well as a veal one. In the trattorie of Alba they arrive either glossed with butter and sage or simply dressed in the reduced roasting juices, sometimes with no plate at all, served in a napkin. They want nothing alongside except a green salad afterwards. Chef's tip: keep the filling quite firm and the blobs small, no bigger than a hazelnut, or the pasta will not seal tightly around them.
The village of Grasmere in the Lake District has sold its own gingerbread since the 1850s, a cross between shortbread and a biscuit with a crumbly top and chewy base, wrapped in paper for walkers and visitors to Wordsworth's grave. The real recipe is a closely kept secret; this is our home version, made with oatmeal, brown sugar and plenty of ground ginger. Chef's tip: press only the bottom half of the crumb mixture firmly and scatter the rest loosely on top, which gives the two textures.
Summer pudding is the high-summer pudding of English country gardens, made when redcurrants, raspberries and blackcurrants ripen together in July. Slices of day-old white bread line a basin and soak up the juices of lightly cooked berries overnight, turning a deep crimson and setting into a dome. Serve with cream (or a plant cream for a vegan pudding). Chef's tip: keep back a few spoonfuls of juice to paint over any white patches after turning it out.
Pease pudding is the thick yellow split pea spread of Newcastle and the North East, eaten in a stottie cake with ham or simply with buttered bread, and the 'pease pudding hot, pease pudding cold' of the nursery rhyme. It was traditionally boiled in a cloth beside a ham; this plant-based version is simmered with onion, bay and a little smoked paprika for the savoury depth. Chef's tip: soak the split peas overnight; unsoaked peas take hours and cook unevenly.
Devilled kidneys were a Victorian gentlemen's club breakfast in London and on country house sideboards, and they have come back on the menus of British chop houses as a brunch dish. Lamb's kidneys are dusted with flour, mustard powder and cayenne, fried quickly and finished in a peppery sauce, then piled on hot buttered toast. Chef's tip: snip out the white core from each kidney; it is tough and has a strong taste.
On the Gower peninsula near Swansea, the cocklewomen of Penclawdd have raked cockles from the estuary sands for centuries, and Swansea market still sells them beside laverbread, a dark purée of laver seaweed. Together with smoked bacon (pork) they make the traditional South Wales breakfast: laverbread rolled in oatmeal and fried into little cakes, cockles tossed in the bacon fat with pepper and vinegar. Chef's tip: soak live cockles in salted water so they spit out their sand before cooking.
Despite the name, a Belfast pastie has no pastry: it is a round patty of seasoned pork mince, onion and potato, dipped in batter and deep-fried, and served as a 'pastie supper' with chips in chip shops across Northern Ireland. It is crisp outside and soft and peppery within, and is eaten with salt, vinegar and gravy. Chef's tip: chill the patties until firm before battering so they keep their shape in the fryer.
Brown soda bread is on every Irish table, from the Aran Islands to Wexford, sliced thickly at breakfast and served beside soup or smoked salmon in pubs. It is raised with bicarbonate of soda and sour buttermilk instead of yeast, so it is mixed and in the oven in ten minutes, with a nutty, coarse crumb and a hard crust. Chef's tip: mix with a light hand only until it comes together; kneading makes soda bread tough and heavy.
Venison from red deer on the Highland estates is cooked in autumn and winter when the stalking season brings it to Scottish butchers, and a slow casserole is the warming way to eat the cheaper cuts. Shoulder is braised with red wine, juniper berries and a spoon of redcurrant jelly until tender and dark. The wine contains alcohol; for an alcohol-free version use extra stock with a tablespoon of balsamic vinegar. Chef's tip: venison is very lean, so cook it at a bare simmer; boiling makes it dry and stringy.
The stottie is the big flat round loaf of Tyneside and County Durham, with a dimple pressed in the middle and a dense, chewy crumb; bakers in Newcastle split them and stuff them with pease pudding, cheese or a bacon filling. Its name is said to come from 'stotting', or bouncing, because it is heavy enough to bounce off the floor. Chef's tip: bake it low in the oven so the bottom gets a deep golden colour while the top stays pale.
Steak frites is the backbone of the Parisian bistro and brasserie menu, ordered at a zinc-topped table at lunchtime with a green salad and a dab of Dijon. A thick entrecôte or bavette is seared hard in a very hot pan, rested, then topped with a melting coin of shallot and parsley butter, while chips cooked twice come out crisp outside and fluffy within. In France the steak is usually served rare (saignant) or medium-rare (à point); because this is a whole-muscle cut, the inside can safely be pink as long as the outside is well seared, but cook it to your taste using the guide in the steps. Chef's tip: take the steak out of the fridge 30 minutes before cooking and salt it just before it goes in the pan, for an even, crusty sear.
Nobody agrees why Lima's chifas call it 'airport', though the favourite story is that everything 'lands' on one plate: arroz chaufa and fried noodles stir-fried together in a smoking wok with roast pork, bean sprouts, snow peas and spring onion, then crowned with a thin egg omelette, sometimes with a few fried wontons alongside. It is hearty, smoky and salty from soy and oyster sauce, a late-night and lunchtime favourite to share. The main mistake is using freshly cooked rice, which goes mushy; use rice cooked the day before and kept in the fridge. Chef's tip: for a veg version, swap the pork for firm tofu and extra vegetables, and use a mushroom-based 'oyster' sauce.
On Sunday mornings in Arequipa, families head to picanterías in Cayma and Yanahuara for a steaming bowl of adobo, chunks of pork that have marinated overnight in chicha de jora (fermented maize beer), ají panca, garlic and cumin, then cooked slowly in a clay pot with thick wedges of red onion. The sauce is dark red, tangy and garlicky rather than hot, and you mop it up with pan de tres puntas, the city's triangular bread; a mug of anise tea follows. Chicha de jora contains alcohol; for an alcohol-free adobo, use the vinegar and water swap in the ingredient list, which gives the same sour edge. Boiling it hard is the classic error, as it toughens the pork; it should barely tremble under the lid. Chef's tip: marinate the pork the evening before, always in the fridge, and cook it the next morning in its marinade.
Adas bi hamod — 'lentils with sourness' — is a Lenten staple in Lebanese Christian homes and a thrifty weeknight pot everywhere else, especially in the south. Brown lentils simmer with chard, potato and a fried paste of garlic and coriander until the broth turns thick, then a generous amount of lemon makes it tangy and refreshing. It is somewhere between a soup and a stew and is just as good warm or at room temperature with bread. Common mistake: adding the lemon at the start; the acid stops the lentils softening, so add it at the end. Chef's tip: mash a ladleful of lentils against the side of the pot to give the broth body without any flour.
Every simit seller's glass cart in Istanbul has a softer cousin stacked beside the sesame rings: açma, a pillowy, slightly sweet ring of enriched dough that commuters tear apart on the ferry with a glass of tea and a wedge of white cheese. The crumb is close to brioche but lighter, with a shiny golden crust and black nigella seeds on top. Plain ones are best warm; some bakers fold olives or cheese into them. Chef's tip: rest the rolled ropes for ten minutes before shaping, so the gluten relaxes and the rings keep their shape instead of shrinking back.
Singin' hinnies are the girdle cakes of Northumberland and Tyneside, named for the singing hiss of the butter as they cook ('hinny' is a Geordie word of affection, like 'honey'). Mothers made them for children coming home from school, cooked on a heavy griddle and eaten hot, split and buttered. They are scone dough studded with currants and cooked in the pan instead of the oven. Chef's tip: keep the heat medium-low so they cook through before the outside darkens.
In Stoke-on-Trent and the Potteries towns, oatcakes are not crisp biscuits but large, soft, holey pancakes made from a yeasted oat and wheat batter, sold warm from shop hatches in the morning. They are rolled around fillings of melted cheese, tomato and mushroom, or folded up with beans. Chef's tip: the batter should be thin like single cream; if it is thick the oatcakes come out stodgy instead of lacy.
The Derbyshire market town of Bakewell in the Peak District is home to the Bakewell pudding, and its descendant, the Bakewell tart, is the one baked in every English home and village tea shop. Shortcrust is spread with raspberry jam and filled with a soft almond frangipane, then scattered with flaked almonds. Chef's tip: spread the jam thinly and leave a 1 cm border, or it boils up through the frangipane.
Two downtown Los Angeles delis founded in 1908 still argue about who first dunked a roll into the roasting pan juices, but either way the French dip is LA's own sandwich: thin slices of roast beef piled into a crusty French roll that is dipped in a rich, savoury beef jus, eaten with hot mustard at the counter. Chef's tip: make the jus from the roasting pan; the browned bits stuck to the tin are where the flavour lives.
Ask in a Marrakech side street where to eat cheaply and you will be pointed to a stall with a vat of loubia: white beans stewed until creamy in a garlicky tomato sauce spiked with cumin, paprika and a little ginger, ladled into a bowl and eaten with bread. At home the same dish is a weekday staple, often cooked with a piece of meat, but the meat-free version here is just as satisfying and is how plenty of families make it. The sauce should be thick and orange with olive oil pooling on top. A sprinkle of cumin and a drizzle of oil at the table are customary. Avoid adding the tomato before the beans are tender; its acid keeps the skins tough however long they simmer. Chef's tip: soak the beans overnight and cook them until tender before the tomato goes in properly; acid stops beans softening, so loubia rushed with tomatoes from the start can stay chalky.
Ayvalık, the olive-oil town on the north Aegean, turned the humble cheese toastie into a feast: a long, soft loaf split and stuffed with kaşar, beef sucuk, beef salami, tomatoes and pickles, pressed hot, then opened up again to be piled with ketchup, mayonnaise and Russian salad. It is eaten for breakfast or as a late snack after a swim. This one has beef sausage and salami, so check the label if you avoid pork. Chef's tip: press it twice, once with the cheese and meats, then again after opening it to add the cold toppings, so the bread stays crisp.
Before any tapa reaches the bar in Seville, a little dish of aliñadas usually does: cracked green manzanilla or gordal olives steeped in brine with garlic, wild thyme, fennel and a strip of orange peel. Markets like Triana sell them by the scoop, but they are simple to dress at home from plain olives in brine. Give them two days; the herbs need time to get into the flesh. A common mistake is serving them after a day; they need at least two days in the brine for the garlic and herbs to reach the stone. Chef's tip: crack each olive with the flat of a knife until it just splits; a crushed olive goes soft and cloudy in the jar.
Accras are the first thing on the table at a Sunday lunch, a christening or a Christmas réveillon in Martinique and Guadeloupe, and they are sold by the paper bag from roadside stalls and beach shacks. The best-known version is made with salt cod; this is the vegetable one, with grated carrot and courgette, spring onion, garlic, parsley and a little Scotch bonnet in a light batter. They puff up in the oil and should be crisp outside and soft inside. Serve them hot with sauce chien and lime. Chef's tip: rest the batter for half an hour; it thickens and the fritters puff up much better.
Simnel cake is England's Easter fruit cake, once baked by girls in service to take home on Mothering Sunday and now the centrepiece of Easter tea. A light fruit cake has a layer of marzipan baked through the middle and more on top, decorated with eleven marzipan balls for the apostles, leaving out Judas. Chef's tip: wrap a band of baking paper round the outside of the tin; it stops the edges drying out during the long, slow bake.
In many Moroccan homes, coffee is bought ready-mixed from the roaster with a spoonful of 'attria', a warm blend of ground spices such as cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cardamom, black pepper and toasted sesame, that gives it a rounded, gently peppery aroma. It is brewed in a pan or a pot and sipped black and sweet, or with a splash of milk, after lunch, with pastries for guests, or on cold mornings. The spices soften the bitterness and make the whole kitchen smell wonderful. This home version mixes the spices into ordinary ground coffee. Chef's tip: keep the coffee at a bare simmer and never let it boil hard; vigorous boiling, the usual mistake, extracts bitterness from both coffee and spices.
Velvety, coral-coloured and rich with coconut, bobó de camarão is what Bahian families put on the table when there is something to celebrate, and beach restaurants from Praia do Forte to Itacaré serve it in clay pots with white rice and farofa. Cassava is boiled until it falls apart, blended with coconut milk into a smooth cream, then folded into prawns cooked with onion, tomato, peppers and a slick of dendê oil. The result is somewhere between a stew and a thick sauce, sweet from the prawns and gently earthy from the cassava. A frequent mistake is boiling the prawns in the purée for too long, which leaves them tough and curled; they go in at the very end. Cassava must always be cooked right through, never eaten raw: cut out the woody core and boil it until a knife meets no resistance. Chef's tip: blend the cassava while it is still hot, with some of its cooking water; cold cassava turns gluey in the blender.
Romesco belongs to the fishing quarter of El Serrallo in Tarragona, where fishermen made it to eat with the day's catch, and where an annual contest still decides who pounds the best one. It is close kin to the salvitxada served with calçots, but deeper and hotter: the ñoras are fried, a small dried chilli goes in, and hazelnuts share the work with almonds. Serve it with grilled fish, prawns, potatoes, or any roasted vegetable. Chef's tip: fry the bread and nuts in the same oil you will use in the sauce; it carries their toasted flavour into every spoonful.
On Fastnacht Day, the Tuesday before Lent, bakeries and church kitchens across south-central Pennsylvania fry thousands of these square potato doughnuts to use up the fat and sugar before the fast. Mashed potato in the yeast dough makes them light but slightly dense and moist. They are eaten plain, sugared, or split and spread with molasses. Chef's tip: cut them into squares with a knife and make a slit in the middle of each; that is the traditional Fastnacht, and there are no scraps to re-roll.
Rollmops are the pickled herring rolls of the North Sea and Baltic coasts, pinned with a wooden pick around gherkin and onion and kept in a jar of spiced vinegar; in Berlin and Hamburg they are the classic morning-after breakfast and a fixture of New Year's Day tables. Making them at home takes a week of fridge time but very little work. Because the fish is never cooked, use herring that has been frozen at −20 °C for at least 24 hours (most fresh 'sashimi-grade' or commercially frozen fillets qualify; ask your fishmonger), and keep everything chilled. Rollmops are not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. Chef's tip: let the jars rest a full five days; the vinegar needs that long to firm the flesh and soften the tiny bones.
No fish and chip shop in the North of England is complete without a tub of mushy peas, and in Nottingham and Leeds they are sold with mint sauce from pea stalls at fairs. Dried marrowfat peas are soaked overnight with a little bicarbonate of soda, which softens their skins, and then simmered until they break down into a thick, savoury green mash. Chef's tip: rinse the soaked peas very well, or the bicarbonate leaves a soapy taste.
Named after Queen Victoria, who took a slice with her afternoon tea, the Victoria sandwich is the cake of English village fetes, Women's Institute competitions and every birthday tea in the shires. It is two light butter sponges joined with raspberry jam and buttercream, finished with a dusting of caster sugar. Chef's tip: weigh the eggs in their shells and use the same weight of butter, sugar and flour; that is the classic way to get a perfect crumb.
Every Irish county has its apple cake, but it is especially loved in Armagh's orchard country and in Kerry, baked in late September when the Bramleys come in. Sharp cooking apples bake into soft, tart pockets in a buttery sponge, under a crunchy sugar and cinnamon crumb. Serve warm with custard or softly whipped cream. Chef's tip: toss the apple slices in lemon juice and sugar only at the last minute, or they release water into the batter.
Balmoral chicken, named after the royal castle on Deeside, is the Scottish hotel and wedding-dinner dish of chicken breast stuffed with haggis, wrapped in smoked streaky bacon (pork) and roasted, usually with a whisky cream sauce. This version uses a peppercorn cream sauce with no alcohol. Chef's tip: make a deep pocket rather than butterflying the breast, so the haggis stays inside as it cooks.
Manchester tart is the school-dinner pudding generations of Mancunians remember: a shortcrust case spread with raspberry jam, filled with thick, cold vanilla custard and covered in desiccated coconut, sometimes with a glacé cherry on top. It is a nostalgic Northern bake for birthdays and school reunions. Chef's tip: make the custard really thick and cool it a little before pouring, so it sets in clean slices.
Few plates say Puglia as plainly as this one: a pale, velvety purée of dried broad beans beside a tangle of boiled wild chicory, the two joined by a stream of green olive oil. Families from the Murgia to the Salento cook it on winter weekdays and through Lent, and Bari trattorias still put it on the menu as the true taste of cucina povera. The beans are sweet and earthy, the greens bitter, and every forkful should carry a little of both. Chef's tip: buy dried broad beans that are already skinned and split; they cook to a cream on their own, with no sieving.
Saffron buns, called 'tea treats' in parts of Cornwall, were handed out at Sunday school outings and chapel tea treats, and they still glow yellow in bakery windows from Penzance to Truro. A pinch of saffron steeped in warm milk colours a soft, enriched dough studded with currants and peel, so they taste gently floral and fruity. Eat them split and spread with butter or clotted cream. Chef's tip: steep the saffron overnight for the deepest colour and flavour.
On a Rabat family table, the Friday couscous is often preceded by a spread of small cooked salads, and the jewel-red dish of beetroot cubes is always one of them. Boiled beetroot is cut into dice and dressed with cumin, a little sugar, olive oil and either vinegar for a sharp version or orange-flower water for a softer, perfumed one; some cooks use both. It is earthy, sweet and bright, and needs nothing more than parsley on top. Make it a few hours ahead so the beets soak up the dressing, and serve it cool with bread and other salads. Chef's tip: dress the beetroot while it is still slightly warm; it absorbs the dressing far better than cold beets do.
In Hidalgo, the pulque country north of Mexico City, the pulquerías serve curados: pulque blended with fruit, and the strawberry one is pink, thick and creamy. Home cooks and taquerías make this alcohol-free cousin for the whole family, a strawberry agua fresca blended with evaporated milk, so it is like a light milkshake that you drink with tacos on a hot afternoon. It contains no pulque or alcohol. Chef's tip: use the ripest, darkest strawberries you can find; pale ones give a thin, sour drink.
Tagoula is mountain food from the Souss and the Atlas: coarse barley (or maize) cooked in salted water until it is thick enough to hold a shape, then turned into a shared dish, hollowed in the centre and filled with golden argan oil, honey and sometimes a spoon of smen. Families eat it for breakfast on cold days and it is a traditional dish for Yennayer, the Amazigh New Year in January. Everyone dips spoonfuls of the soft, nutty porridge into the pool of oil and honey, so each bite is sweet, savoury and rich at once. Outside Morocco, a roasted walnut oil is the closest stand-in for culinary argan oil. Chef's tip: pour the grits into boiling water in a thin stream while beating with a wooden spoon; dumping them in at once is the usual mistake and leaves lumps.
Segovia's confiterías have sold ponche since the 1920s: layers of light sponge brushed with syrup, sandwiched with thick custard and wrapped in a thin coat of marzipan whose sugared top is branded into a diamond lattice with a hot iron. It is the cake for a family celebration, or the sweet finish after a roast suckling-pig lunch in the old town. The syrup is traditionally laced with liqueur; leave it out, or swap it for orange juice, for an alcohol-free cake. Chef's tip: let the custard cool and set completely before assembling, or the layers slide.
Treacle tart is an old English nursery pudding, a favourite of Victorian kitchens and still served with clotted cream or custard in pubs and school canteens. Despite the name it's made with golden syrup thickened with fresh breadcrumbs, sharpened with lemon zest and juice, baked until chewy at the edges and soft in the middle. Chef's tip: warm the syrup before mixing so the breadcrumbs soak it up evenly.
From Kittery to Bar Harbor, roadside lobster shacks on the Maine coast serve this every summer: big chunks of sweet lobster meat, barely dressed with mayonnaise, lemon and celery, piled into a hot-dog bun toasted in butter. Over the border in Connecticut they serve it warm with melted butter instead, and both camps think the other is wrong. Chef's tip: dress the lobster lightly, just enough to gloss it; the meat should be the star, not the mayonnaise.
On the road into Chefchaouen, women from the Rif villages sit with rounds of jben wrapped in palm leaves, a fresh, soft, lightly salted cheese with a clean, milky tang. Breakfast in the north often means a slab of it drizzled with olive oil, sprinkled with dried thyme or za'atar, with olives, honey and warm bread. Traditionally jben is curdled with animal rennet (sometimes with thistle or fig sap), so check if you buy it; this home version uses vegetarian (microbial) rennet and pasteurised milk, and is drained in the fridge. Hands-on time is about an hour; the curd then needs 1–2 hours to set and 4–6 hours to drain. Keep it chilled and eat it within 4 days. Chef's tip: avoid UHT and ultra-pasteurised milk, which will not set into a firm curd; ordinary pasteurised whole milk works well.
The Selkirk bannock is a round, glossy fruit bread from the Border town of Selkirk, first baked in the 1850s and famously eaten by Queen Victoria at Abbotsford. Unlike a plain oat bannock it is a rich yeast dough that is mostly sultanas, sliced and buttered with afternoon tea. Chef's tip: work the sultanas in only after the dough has risen once, or they tear the gluten and the loaf won't lift.
On hot evenings in the villages of the Middle and High Atlas, supper is often nothing more than saykouk: steamed couscous, usually barley, cooled and then drowned in ice-cold lben, the tangy buttermilk left after churning butter. It is eaten with spoons from a big shared bowl and is wonderfully cooling, sour and creamy, with the grains soaking up the milk as you eat. Some families sweeten it with a little sugar, others keep it salty; both are right. This quick version uses instant couscous so it is ready in about 20 minutes. Don't pour the buttermilk over warm couscous: it should be fully cool, or the buttermilk splits and the dish loses its refreshing chill. Chef's tip: let the couscous cool completely before the buttermilk goes in, or it turns the buttermilk warm and slightly grainy.
Olive sellers in the Marrakech medina build tall pyramids of green, violet and black olives, and some of the most tempting bowls are the ones already dressed with chilli paste, garlic and preserved lemon. Making zitoun mchermel at home is simple: rinse good brined olives, then toss them with harissa, cumin, paprika, lemon rind, herbs and olive oil and give them a day in the fridge to soak up the flavours. They come to the table at almost every meal, next to bread and salads, and are perfect with mint tea or as a snack before dinner. Chef's tip: lightly crack each olive with the flat of a knife or the bottom of a glass so the marinade gets inside.
Roadside cafés on the mountain passes of the High Atlas keep small clay tagines warming over charcoal, and the one most travellers order for breakfast or a quick lunch is the Berber omelette: eggs cracked over a bubbling base of tomato, onion, cumin and paprika, then covered until they just set. It arrives sizzling with olives and herbs on top and plenty of bread to wipe the dish clean, usually with a glass of mint tea. At home you can use a small tagine on a heat diffuser or a lidded frying pan. For anyone pregnant, very young, older or with a weak immune system, cook until the yolks are firm. Chef's tip: never put a clay tagine straight onto a high flame; use a diffuser and medium-low heat, or it can crack.
In Şanlıurfa a bowl of bostana goes on the table beside every summer meal of kebab, köfte or bulgur pilaf. Tomatoes, cucumbers, green peppers, onion and fistfuls of parsley and mint are chopped very small, seasoned with isot and drowned in lemon juice and a little water, so you spoon up the juices as well as the vegetables. It is meant to be cold, sour and refreshing in the city's fierce heat. Common mistake: making it hours ahead; the cucumber goes limp. Chef's tip: chill the bowl and add a couple of ice cubes just before serving, as Urfa grandmothers do.
Axoa (say 'ash-o-a') comes from Espelette, the Basque village whose house fronts are hung with strings of drying red peppers every autumn, and it is still the dish of the October pepper fair and of market-day lunches in Cambo and Bayonne. Veal shoulder is cut into small dice, then stewed with onions, mild green peppers and a good spoonful of ground Espelette pepper, which brings warmth and a fruity, smoky perfume rather than real fire. The result is soft, juicy and brick-red at the edges, best spooned over boiled potatoes or with crusty bread. Chef's tip: stir most of the Espelette pepper in at the end of cooking; long simmering dulls its fragrance.
Porter cake is the Dublin fruit cake made with stout, the dark beer once drunk by the porters of Dublin's markets and docks; it is baked for Christmas, christenings and wakes across Leinster. The fruit is simmered in the stout, which gives the crumb a deep, malty, slightly bitter flavour and keeps it moist for weeks. This recipe contains alcohol: most of it cooks off, but for an alcohol-free version use strong black tea or alcohol-free stout. Chef's tip: wrap the cooled cake and leave it for 2–3 days before cutting; it slices better and tastes richer.
A cream tea is the West Country's afternoon treat: warm scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam with a pot of tea, served in tea gardens across Devon and Cornwall. In Devon the cream goes on first and the jam on top; in Cornwall it's the other way round, and the argument never ends. These scones are plain and light so the cream and jam shine. Chef's tip: cut straight down with the cutter and don't twist it, or the scones rise lopsided.
Cali's bakeries and Sunday food stalls by the Pance river sell aborrajados all day: thick slices of very ripe plantain, fried soft, pressed around a slab of white cheese, sometimes with guava paste, then coated in a light batter and fried again until golden. The result is sweet, salty and gooey, a snack you eat with your hands alongside a glass of lulada or champús. Choose plantains with skins almost completely black; yellow ones are too starchy and never get sweet. Queso blanco or campesino is often set with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian mozzarella or similar. The usual mistake is batter that is too thick, giving a heavy, bready shell; it should coat like thin pancake batter. Chef's tip: chill the stuffed plantain parcels for 10 minutes before battering; they hold together much better in the oil.
Abará is the steamed sister of acarajé, sold from the same wooden trays by the baianas in white lace who set up on the corners of Salvador's Pelourinho, Rio Vermelho and the Barra seafront. The batter is identical, black-eyed peas skinned and ground with onion and dried shrimp, but instead of hitting hot dendê it is wrapped in banana leaf and steamed, so it comes out soft, dense and sunset-orange, tasting of palm oil, sea and pulses. Baianas split it open and fill it with vatapá, caruru, vinagrete and a few whole shrimp; at home it is lovely with just a spoonful of pepper sauce. Plan ahead: the peas need soaking overnight. The usual mistake is leaving the skins on, which makes the parcels grey, gritty and heavy. For a vegetarian version, leave out the shrimp and add a pinch more salt. Chef's tip: beat the paste hard with a wooden spoon for a few minutes before wrapping; the air you work in is what keeps abará light rather than rubbery.
Bread and butter pudding was the thrifty English way of using up stale bread, and today it's a pub and Sunday-lunch pudding from the Cotswolds to London. Buttered slices of bread are layered with sultanas, soaked in a vanilla and nutmeg custard and baked until puffed with a crisp, sugary top and a soft, wobbly centre. Chef's tip: let the bread soak in the custard for 30 minutes before baking, so it's creamy all the way through.
Sweet and salty is the whole point here. Córdoba's empanadas hold a filling of beef, onion, a little potato, raisins and olives, and the moment they come out of the fryer they get a sprinkle of sugar that melts into the crackly crust. They turn up at birthday parties, school fundraisers and the patriotic holidays of 25 May and 9 July, often next to a bowl of locro. If the sugar on top sounds odd, try one: the contrast with the cumin and paprika is the local hallmark. The error that ruins them is frying in oil that isn't hot enough, which leaves them pale and greasy; keep it at 175 °C. Chef's tip: dust with sugar within seconds of draining, while the surface is still glistening, or it won't stick.
Spotted dick is the steamed suet pudding of English school dinners and gentlemen's clubs in London, the 'spots' being the currants and 'dick' an old word for pudding. Suet makes it light and moist; this recipe uses vegetarian suet, so it is meat-free. It is rolled, wrapped and steamed, then served in thick slices with hot custard. Chef's tip: leave a pleat in the paper and foil so the pudding has room to swell.
Along the coast of Santa Fe, especially during Lent and Holy Week, fishmongers' stalls and riverside kiosks sell fried empanadas filled with sábalo or surubí. The fish is poached, flaked and folded through soft onion and sweet pepper, then sealed in a thin oil-based dough and fried until blistered and crisp. Squeeze lemon over them and eat them warm, with a green salad or just a paper napkin. Any firm white fish works: hake, cod or a farmed catfish. The mistake people make most is skipping the bone check; river fish such as sábalo hide fine bones, so run your fingers through every flake. Chef's tip: keep the filling quite dry and cold before you fill the discs; extra liquid turns to steam in the hot oil and bursts the seams.
In Boston, Irish families made corned beef the centre of St Patrick's Day, swapping the bacon joint of home for the cheaper brisket sold by Jewish butchers, and New Englanders still call the whole pot a boiled dinner. Salt-cured beef brisket is simmered for hours with spices, then potatoes, carrots and wedges of cabbage cook in the same broth. Serve with grainy mustard. Chef's tip: slice the beef across the grain, thinly; cut along the grain it looks stringy and chews tough.
Potato soup is what Irish pubs and farmhouse kitchens set down on a wet afternoon from Kerry to Mayo, always with a heel of brown soda bread. Floury potatoes, onion and leek are sweated in butter and simmered in stock, then blended to a velvety, comforting soup with a gentle onion sweetness. A swirl of buttermilk and chives adds freshness. Chef's tip: sweat the leeks slowly without browning them; colour makes the soup taste bitter and turns it grey.
Mendoza's empanadas are all about juice. The filling uses roughly as much onion as beef, cooked only briefly so it stays sweet and wet, then gets folded with hard-boiled egg and a whole green olive in every pastry; the dough is a tender one made with beef fat. They come out of wood ovens across the province for Sundays, family gatherings and the grape harvest, and are eaten by hand, leaning forward, with a tomato and onion salad on the side. The classic error is filling the dough while the meat is still warm: the fat melts, the pastry turns soggy and the seal splits in the oven. Cool the filling completely, ideally overnight. Chef's tip: cut the beef into small cubes with a knife instead of buying mince; it stays juicier and gives the bite a Mendoza cook expects.
Order a licuado in any Argentine café or bar and you will get a tall glass of fruit blended with milk (con leche) or water (con agua), and banana with milk is the one nearly everyone grows up on. It is breakfast for teenagers in a hurry, a merienda with tostados, and the drink parents in Buenos Aires make when the fruit bowl has spotty bananas. It should be thick, cold and smooth, with a light froth, sweet mainly from ripe fruit. Using under-ripe bananas is the mistake: they taste chalky and need lots of sugar, so wait for brown freckles. Chef's tip: slice and freeze the bananas the night before and you can skip the ice; the shake comes out colder and thicker without being watered down.
At beach shacks along Narragansett Bay and in Galilee, clam cakes are bought by the paper bag, half a dozen at a time, to dunk in a cup of clear clam chowder. They are not patties but craggy, golden fritters, crisp outside and soft inside, studded with chopped quahog clams. Chef's tip: use the clam juice as part of the liquid; it puts the sea flavour into every bite of batter.
Irish scones are the centre of afternoon tea in hotels and country houses from Galway to Wicklow, and the bake that every Irish cook makes from memory. Buttermilk makes them light and tender with a faint tang, and an egg wash gives the glossy golden top. Serve warm, split, with butter, raspberry jam and whipped cream. Chef's tip: press the cutter straight down without twisting; twisting seals the edges and stops them rising tall.
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