Grilled lemongrass chicken
Bus stations and football matches across Isan have the same soundtrack: the crackle of chicken pieces clamped in split bamboo over glowing coals, and the thump of a pestle making som tam beside them. Gai yang is marinated in garlic, coriander root, white pepper and lemongrass, then grilled slowly so the skin turns lacquered and smoky while the meat stays juicy. Tear it apart with your hands and eat it with sticky rice, green papaya salad and a sour-hot jaew dipping sauce. Chef's tip: leave it in the marinade overnight in the fridge; the lemongrass and garlic need hours to get past the skin.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
Giardiniera came to Chicago with Italian immigrants, and the city made it its own: a hot mix of chopped chillies, celery, carrot and cauliflower, brined overnight then packed in vinegar and oil. It is what Chicagoans pile on an Italian beef sandwich, a pizza or a sausage, and every deli has its own heat level. Chef's tip: don't skip the overnight salt brine; it draws out water so the vegetables stay crunchy for weeks.
Green bean casserole was invented in a test kitchen in the 1950s and spread across the Midwest via church cookbooks; today it is on most American Thanksgiving tables. This version skips the tins: fresh beans in a homemade mushroom cream sauce, topped with crisp shallots you fry yourself. Chef's tip: blanch the beans only until bright green and still squeaky, because they cook again in the oven.
Castroville, near Monterey on California's central coast, grows most of America's artichokes and calls itself the artichoke centre of the world. Roadside stands and the annual artichoke festival sell them crisp-fried, the tender hearts dipped in a light batter and served with lemon and garlic mayonnaise. Small 'baby' artichokes are best, as they have almost no choke. Chef's tip: drop each trimmed artichoke straight into lemon water; cut artichokes turn brown within minutes.
Fortune cookies are not from China at all: they were first sold in San Francisco and Los Angeles in the early 1900s, probably from a Japanese tea garden recipe, and Chinese-American restaurants made them famous. A thin vanilla and almond batter is baked into a wafer, then folded while hot around a paper message. Write your own fortunes for a party. Chef's tip: bake only two or three at a time; the wafers set in seconds and crack if you can't fold them fast enough.
Along the Atlantic coast, in the fish stalls by Essaouira harbour and in home kitchens up and down the coast, chermoula is the green, garlicky paste that seasons almost everything from the sea: whole fish for the oven, sardines for the grill and fish tagines with potatoes and peppers. It works just as well on vegetables: toss it with potatoes, aubergine or carrots before roasting, spoon it over chickpeas, or stir it into a vegetable tagine. Bright, herby and tangy, it is warm with cumin and paprika and has a little chilli heat. When you use it on fish, marinate in the fridge, never on the counter, and for no more than 2 hours, or the lemon starts to cook the flesh and turns it mushy. Chef's tip: chop by hand or pulse only briefly; blended to a smooth purée, the herbs bruise and taste grassy.
Rziza is one of the showpieces of the Ramadan table in the old imperial cities: a soft dough is stretched into a sheet, rolled up and pulled into a long, thin cord, then wound around the fingers into a skein, flattened into a nest and griddled until crisp outside and tender within. At iftar the nests are pulled apart into their fine strands and drenched in warm honey and melted butter, to eat with harira, dates and mint tea. Making it takes patience and practice; the first one or two may tear, and that is fine. Chef's tip: keep everything well oiled, your hands, the board and the dough balls; too little oil is the common mistake, and the dough then tears instead of stretching.
On the evening Passover ends, Moroccan Jewish families celebrate Mimouna by opening their doors to neighbours and friends, and the star of the table is mufleta: paper-thin rounds of unleavened dough stretched by hand and cooked one on top of another in a single pan, so a whole warm stack comes out at once. Each layer is peeled off, spread with butter and drizzled with honey, and rolled up to eat with mint tea, among sweets, dried fruits and flowers. They are soft, a little chewy and lightly crisp at the edges. The dough has no yeast, fitting for the night bread returns. The usual mistake is stretching the dough with too little oil on the board, so the sheets tear and stick together in the stack. Chef's tip: cook over a medium-low heat; a pan that is too hot scorches the bottom layer before the stack is built.
Before Eid and during Ramadan, Moroccan kitchens fill with the scent of fekkas: logs of a soft, eggy dough studded with almonds, raisins, aniseed and sesame are baked, cooled, sliced thin and baked again until dry, golden and very crunchy. They are offered to guests on trays with ghriba and other biscuits and dunked into mint tea or milky coffee, and they keep for weeks in a tin, so they are perfect to make ahead. The flavour is gently sweet, with liquorice notes from the anise and a little lemon. Avoid slicing the logs while they are still hot from the first bake; they crumble. Let them firm up first. Chef's tip: let the baked logs cool completely, ideally overnight, before slicing; warm logs crumble under the knife.
Cape Cod and the bogs of south-eastern Massachusetts grow much of America's cranberry crop, and this uncooked relish is the sharp, bright alternative to cooked cranberry sauce on many New England Thanksgiving tables. Fresh cranberries are chopped with a whole orange, peel and all, then sweetened, so it is crunchy, tart and fragrant, lovely with roast vegetables, nut roasts or cheese. Chef's tip: make it a day ahead; the sugar draws out the juices and softens the bitterness of the peel overnight.
Kaab el ghzal, 'gazelle ankles' or horns, are the most elegant of Moroccan biscuits: a slim crescent of fragrant almond paste flavoured with orange-flower water, wrapped in a pastry rolled so thin it is almost transparent, then baked only until it sets and stays pale. They are made for weddings, Eid, engagements and any visit that deserves honour, and are served with mint tea. The filling is soft and marzipan-like, the pastry delicate and barely crisp. They take time, so make a full batch and freeze half. Chef's tip: bake them until just firm and barely coloured; browning is the common mistake and makes the pastry hard.
Fried green tomatoes are the early-summer and end-of-season treat of Alabama and Georgia kitchens, when the garden is full of firm, unripe fruit. Thick slices are dipped in buttermilk and a cornmeal crust and fried until crisp outside, while the inside softens and stays tangy. Serve them hot with a spoonful of pimento cheese or a dab of remoulade. Chef's tip: salt the slices and let them drain for 10 minutes so the crust doesn't go soggy.
Pimento cheese is the 'caviar of the South', sold in tubs in every Carolina supermarket and spread in white-bread sandwiches at the Masters golf tournament in Augusta. Grated sharp cheddar, sweet red pimento peppers and mayonnaise are mashed together with a little heat, and it ends up on crackers, celery, burgers and fried green tomatoes. Traditional cheddar is made with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian cheddar if you need to. Chef's tip: grate the cheese yourself; pre-grated cheese is coated in starch and makes a dry, grainy spread.
Banana pudding is the potluck and barbecue-joint dessert of Tennessee, the Carolinas and Mississippi, scooped from a deep dish next to the pulled pork. Vanilla wafers, sliced bananas and a stove-top custard are layered so the biscuits soften to cake, then the top is finished with toasted meringue the old-fashioned way. Chef's tip: pour the custard on while it is still warm so it seeps into the wafers.
Georgia calls itself the Peach State, and in June and July roadside stands around Fort Valley sell peaches by the basket for this summer cobbler. In the old Southern style, a simple batter is poured over melted butter, then the peaches go on top; as it bakes the batter rises up around the fruit into a golden, cakey crust with crisp edges. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream. Chef's tip: don't stir after the peaches go in; the layers sort themselves out in the oven.
Chess pie is the plain-pantry pie of Virginia, Kentucky and the Carolinas, made with nothing but butter, sugar, eggs and a spoonful of cornmeal, so it was baked year-round when there was no fruit. It sets into a rich, translucent custard with a crackly, golden sugar crust on top. Nobody agrees on the name; one story says a cook called it 'jes' pie'. Chef's tip: the cornmeal and vinegar aren't optional; they stop the very sweet custard from being cloying and help it set.
Sweet tea is the house wine of the South, poured by the jug at every barbecue joint, meat-and-three and Sunday lunch from South Carolina to Texas. Strong black tea is sweetened while hot so the sugar dissolves completely, then cooled and poured over plenty of ice with lemon. A pinch of bicarbonate is an old trick that softens bitterness and keeps it clear. Chef's tip: let the tea cool to room temperature before chilling; putting it straight in the fridge hot makes it go cloudy.
Boiled peanuts are sold steaming from roadside stands and petrol stations all along the back roads of South Carolina, Georgia and Alabama, ladled into paper bags in late summer when the green peanut harvest comes in. Raw peanuts are simmered for hours in heavily salted water until soft as cooked beans, salty and earthy. A Cajun-spiced version with chilli is popular too. Chef's tip: taste a peanut every hour; they are done when the kernel is completely soft with no crunch.
Tomato pie is the high-summer lunch of the Carolinas and Virginia, made when the ripe tomatoes are piling up on the windowsill. Salted, drained tomato slices are layered in a pastry case with basil and spring onion, then covered with a rich topping of cheddar and mayonnaise that bakes golden and bubbly. It is best warm or at room temperature with a green salad. Choose a vegetarian cheddar if needed, as traditional cheddar uses animal rennet. Chef's tip: salting and draining the tomatoes is the difference between a sliceable pie and a soggy one.
Boston brown bread is the dark, moist loaf New England families steam in a tin can and slice next to a pot of Saturday-night baked beans. It mixes rye flour, wholemeal and cornmeal with buttermilk and molasses, so it is sweet, slightly sour and almost cake-like, with no yeast and no oven. Eat it warm with butter or cream cheese. Chef's tip: steam it in clean food tins or a pudding basin covered tightly with buttered foil, because any steam that gets in makes the top soggy.
Anadama is a cornmeal and molasses sandwich loaf from the fishing towns of Rockport and Gloucester on Cape Ann, where it was sold from bakery vans for generations. The cornmeal is cooked into a mush first, which keeps the crumb soft and gives it a gentle sweetness and a golden colour. It makes excellent toast with butter and jam. Chef's tip: let the cornmeal mush cool to lukewarm before adding the yeast, or the heat will kill it.
Johnnycakes are Rhode Island's own cornmeal pancakes, cooked on a griddle at diners and church breakfasts from Narragansett to Westerly, and argued over across the state line. They are made with stone-ground white cornmeal scalded with boiling water, so there is no flour or egg, and they come out crisp and lacy outside and soft within. Serve with butter and maple syrup. Chef's tip: let the scalded batter rest for 10 minutes so the cornmeal swells; skipping the rest gives gritty cakes.
Indian pudding is the old colonial dessert of Massachusetts and Connecticut, still on the menu at historic Boston taverns and at autumn church suppers. Cornmeal, then called Indian meal, is cooked in milk with molasses, ginger and cinnamon and baked very slowly until it turns dark, soft and spoonable, a bit like a spiced polenta custard. Serve it warm with vanilla ice cream melting on top. Chef's tip: pour cold milk over the top halfway through baking; it makes the soft, whey-like layer the dish is known for.
Despite the name, Boston cream pie is a cake: two layers of butter sponge with a thick vanilla pastry cream between them and dark chocolate glaze poured over the top. It was created at the Parker House hotel in Boston in the 1850s and is now the official dessert of Massachusetts, served at birthdays and diners across the state. Chef's tip: chill the filled cake for 30 minutes before glazing so the custard sets and the layers don't slide.
Whoopie pies are Maine's official state treat and a lunchbox favourite in Pennsylvania Dutch country too; you find them wrapped in cling film by the till at petrol stations and bake sales all over New England. Two domed, soft chocolate cakes hold a thick, fluffy white filling. This filling is a meringue buttercream, so there's no gelatine-based marshmallow. Chef's tip: pipe or scoop the batter in even mounds and leave room, as they spread to 8 cm.
In August the barrens of Down East Maine turn blue with lowbush blueberries, smaller and more intense than the cultivated kind, and every diner and county fair sells this pie. The filling is just berries, sugar, lemon and a little thickener under a buttery double crust, so it tastes of fruit rather than spice. Frozen wild blueberries work well all year. Chef's tip: bake until the juices bubble thickly through the vents in the centre, not just the edges; that is when the thickener has worked.
On autumn weekends the orchards of Vermont, New Hampshire and the Hudson Valley fry cider doughnuts by the hundred for families who come to pick apples. Fresh, cloudy apple cider (unfiltered apple juice, not the alcoholic kind) is boiled down to a syrup so the tender cake doughnut tastes of apple, then rolled hot in cinnamon sugar. Chef's tip: keep the oil at 180 °C with a thermometer; cooler oil makes greasy doughnuts and hotter oil burns them before the middle cooks.
These soft, folded rolls come from the Parker House hotel in Boston, where bakers in the 1870s brushed rounds of milk dough with butter and folded them in half like a pocket book. They are the bread basket at New England Thanksgiving tables, pulling apart in tender layers. Chef's tip: fold each round slightly off centre, so the top half overhangs a little; it keeps them from springing open in the oven.
Philadelphians eat more soft pretzels than anyone in America, bought by the dozen from corner bakeries in the morning and from street vendors with yellow mustard. The Philly pretzel is shaped like a figure eight and baked touching its neighbours, so you tear them apart in a row with soft sides. A bath in a bicarbonate solution gives the brown, chewy skin. Chef's tip: bake the bicarbonate of soda first; it makes it more alkaline and gives a darker, more pretzel-like crust.
Bananas Foster was invented in the 1950s at a family restaurant in the French Quarter, when New Orleans was the main port for bananas from Central America, and it is still flamed at the table there for birthday dinners. Bananas are cooked in butter, brown sugar and cinnamon, then flambéed with dark rum and banana liqueur and spooned over vanilla ice cream. It contains alcohol; for an alcohol-free version replace the rum and liqueur with 4 tbsp orange juice and a few drops of rum flavouring and skip the flaming. Chef's tip: use bananas that are ripe but still firm, or they turn to mush.
Maque choux (say 'mock shoe') is a Cajun side of fresh corn smothered with the 'holy trinity' of onion, celery and green pepper, made in the bayou country of south-west Louisiana when the corn comes in during June and July. Cooks scrape the cobs for their milk and simmer everything with butter and a splash of cream until sweet and silky. Many add bacon; this version is meat-free. Serve with rice and beans or grilled vegetables. Chef's tip: let the corn catch slightly on the bottom of the pan before stirring; those browned bits are the flavour.
Chow-chow is the end-of-summer pickle of Pennsylvania Dutch kitchens, a way of using up the last beans, peppers, cauliflower and green tomatoes before the frost. It is one of the 'seven sweets and seven sours' set out on Lancaster farm tables, bright with mustard seed and turmeric, sweet and sharp, and good with cheese, bean dishes and sandwiches. Chef's tip: cut every vegetable to roughly the size of a kidney bean so it cooks evenly and looks right in the jar.
Red beet eggs are on the table at every Pennsylvania Dutch church picnic and Easter lunch, a jar of shocking-pink eggs sitting in the same sweet-sour brine as the pickled beets. The whites take on colour and tang from the outside in, while the yolks stay creamy. Slice them on a salad or eat them whole with a pinch of salt. Chef's tip: two days in the brine gives a thin pink ring; leave them four days for colour almost to the yolk.
Pepper cabbage is the oil-free, vinegar-dressed slaw served alongside chicken pot pie and roast pork dinners in Berks and Lancaster counties, and at fire-hall suppers all over south-eastern Pennsylvania. Finely shredded cabbage is tossed with sweet peppers, celery seed, sugar and vinegar, so it is crisp, cold and sweet-sharp. Chef's tip: shred the cabbage as fine as you can; thick ribbons never soak up the dressing.
Funnel cake started in Pennsylvania Dutch kitchens and became the smell of every American county fair and boardwalk, from the Kutztown Folk Festival to the Jersey shore. A thin batter is poured through a funnel in loops into hot oil, so it fries into a crisp, lacy, golden nest that you tear apart with your fingers under a snowfall of icing sugar. Chef's tip: keep your finger over the funnel until it is right over the oil, then move in quick overlapping circles from the centre out.
Gooey butter cake is a St. Louis institution, sold in squares at south-side German bakeries and baked for church coffee hours and Christmas mornings. Legend says a baker in the 1930s got his proportions wrong and the mistake sold out. A thin, chewy yeast-free cake base is covered with a sweet cream cheese and butter layer that bakes into a crackly, shiny top over a gooey middle. Chef's tip: take it out while the centre still jiggles; the goo is the point, and an overbaked one is just a sweet sponge.
Buckeyes are the sweet of Ohio, made by the tray for Christmas cookie swaps and for Ohio State football parties, because they look like the glossy brown nuts of the state's buckeye tree. A firm, sweet peanut butter fondant is rolled into balls and dipped in chocolate, leaving a pale circle on top. Chef's tip: freeze the balls for 20 minutes before dipping; warm ones slide off the stick and muddy the chocolate.
Kringle came to Racine, Wisconsin, with Danish bakers in the 1800s, and the town's bakeries still ship thousands of these flat oval pastry rings at Christmas. Thin layers of buttery laminated dough wrap a pecan and brown sugar filling, and the top is glazed with white icing. It is the official state pastry, eaten with coffee at breakfast. Chef's tip: keep the dough and butter cold at every fold; if the butter melts into the dough you lose the flaky layers.
Wild rice is the seed of a lake grass that the Ojibwe people of northern Minnesota still harvest by canoe in late summer, and this creamy soup is on every lunch counter and church cookbook in the Twin Cities when the weather turns cold. The long black grains split open and turn chewy and nutty in a velvety broth with mushrooms, carrots and celery. Many versions add chicken; this one is vegetarian. Chef's tip: cook the wild rice separately and add it at the end, or it soaks up all the soup.
Garlic noodles were made famous by a Vietnamese family restaurant in San Francisco's Sunset District in the 1970s, served next to roast Dungeness crab, and now every Bay Area Vietnamese place has its own version. Springy noodles are tossed in a glossy sauce of lots of butter and garlic with a savoury, sweet seasoning and grated hard cheese. Restaurants use oyster and fish sauce; this vegetarian version uses vegetarian mushroom 'oyster' sauce and soy. Parmesan is made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian hard cheese. Chef's tip: cook the garlic gently until pale gold, never brown, or the whole dish turns bitter.
Gilroy, south of San José, calls itself the garlic capital of the world, and its summer garlic festival made these fries famous; today they are sold at Bay Area baseball games too. Crisp, double-fried chips are tossed while hot with raw garlic softened in olive oil and a lot of parsley, so they are pungent and fresh. Chef's tip: toss the garlic on at the end, off the heat; garlic fried with the chips burns and turns bitter.
Every autumn Pennsylvania Dutch families once gathered round a copper kettle in the yard to stir 'lattwarick', apple butter, all day over a wood fire. There is no butter in it: apples and cider are cooked down for hours until the sugars caramelise into a thick, glossy, deep brown spread. It is eaten on bread with cottage cheese, a combination Lancaster calls 'smearcase and apple butter'. Chef's tip: it is done when a spoonful on a cold plate holds its shape and no ring of liquid seeps out.
Philadelphia's sticky buns descend from the 'schnecken' of German bakers, and Reading Terminal Market still sells them warm by the tray, glistening with caramel and pecans. Soft rolls of cinnamon-raisin dough are baked on top of butter and brown sugar, then flipped so the hot caramel runs down over them. Chef's tip: turn them out within 5 minutes of leaving the oven; once the caramel cools it glues the buns to the tin.
In Lehigh and Berks counties no Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner comes without potato filling, sometimes called potato stuffing: buttery mashed potato folded with toasted bread cubes, celery, onion and parsley, then baked until the top crisps. It is soft and savoury, rich enough to stand in for gravy. Chef's tip: dry the bread cubes in the oven first so they hold their shape instead of turning to paste.
At Amish smorgasbords and family-style restaurants around Intercourse and Bird-in-Hand, buttered noodles are passed round the table with mashed potatoes as though nobody had heard of choosing one starch. Wide, thick egg noodles are tossed with butter cooked until nutty and brown and a handful of toasted breadcrumbs. Chef's tip: take the butter off the heat the moment it smells of hazelnuts and the specks turn tan; seconds later it burns.
Apple stack cake is the old mountain wedding cake of eastern Kentucky and Tennessee: legend has it neighbours each brought a layer, and the bride's popularity was judged by the height. Six thin, biscuit-like layers flavoured with sorghum or molasses and ginger are stacked with a thick filling of cooked dried apples, then left for two days so the layers soften into a moist, spiced cake. Chef's tip: don't cut it the day you make it; the resting time is part of the recipe.
Chocolate gravy is a Sunday-morning treat in the hills of Arkansas, Tennessee and eastern Kentucky, passed down in mountain families who made it from pantry staples. It is a glossy, pourable cocoa pudding cooked in a skillet and ladled over split biscuits with a pat of butter, something between breakfast and dessert. Chef's tip: whisk the cocoa, sugar and flour together before the milk goes in, so there are no lumps.
Soup beans, a pot of brown pintos simmered all afternoon until the broth turns thick and creamy, are the everyday supper of the coal-country hollows of Kentucky and West Virginia, served with cornbread, raw onion and chow-chow. Most mountain cooks add a ham hock or salt pork; this meat-free pot gets its savour from browned onion, garlic and a little smoked paprika. Chef's tip: mash a ladle of beans against the pot side near the end to thicken the 'pot likker'.
In the South a biscuit is not a cookie but a tall, tender, flaky quick bread, baked every morning in kitchens from Georgia to Tennessee and split open for butter and sorghum, sawmill gravy or a slice of country ham. Cold butter and buttermilk, a light hand and a hot oven give layers that pull apart in steamy flakes. Chef's tip: press the cutter straight down without twisting; twisting seals the edges and stops them rising.
Southern cornbread is baked in a smoking-hot cast-iron skillet so the edges fry crisp and brown, and in much of the Deep South it is made with little or no sugar, unlike the cakey Northern kind. It goes on the table with greens, pinto beans and barbecue, and leftovers get crumbled into a glass of buttermilk. Chef's tip: the batter must sizzle loudly when it hits the pan; if it doesn't, the skillet isn't hot enough for a crust.
Salt-rising bread was baked by settlers in the Appalachian mountains of West Virginia and western Pennsylvania who had no yeast; a starter of potato, cornmeal and milk is kept very warm until wild bacteria make it bubble. The loaf is dense, fine-textured and famous for its cheesy, tangy smell, and is best toasted and buttered. Chef's tip: the starter needs a steady 38–40 °C, so stand it in an oven with only the light on, and check it is truly bubbling before going on.
Pecans grow wild along the rivers of Georgia, Alabama and Texas, and pecan pie, a gooey brown-sugar custard packed with toasted nuts, is the star of Thanksgiving tables right across the South. This version uses golden syrup and dark brown sugar for a caramel flavour. Chef's tip: toast the pecans first; raw pecans taste flat and go soft in the filling.
Every Creole restaurant in New Orleans, from neighbourhood po'boy shops to grand old dining rooms in the Garden District, serves bread pudding, because the city's light, crusty French bread goes stale in a day. The bread soaks in a cinnamon custard with raisins and bakes until puffed and golden, then gets a warm whiskey butter sauce. The sauce contains bourbon; for an alcohol-free version use 3 tbsp apple juice and 1 tsp vanilla instead. Chef's tip: let the bread soak for a full 30 minutes so it drinks up the custard; dry patches bake hard.
Texas sheet cake is the big, thin chocolate cake that turns up at church potlucks, funerals and family reunions all over Texas, cut into squares straight from the tray. It is made with buttermilk and boiled cocoa butter, so it is moist and light, and the icing is poured over while the cake is still hot so it sets into a fudgy layer studded with pecans. Chef's tip: have the icing ready the moment the cake leaves the oven; warm cake plus warm icing is the whole secret.
Kolaches came to central Texas with Czech settlers in the 1800s, and the bakeries along the highway through West, Caldwell and Hallettsville now sell them by the dozen for breakfast. They are soft, sweet yeast buns with a well pressed into the top, filled with apricot, cherry, prune or sweetened cream cheese and dusted with a crumbly posypka topping. Chef's tip: press the well deep and wide, nearly to the base, or the buns rise and push the filling out.
Ask for 'red or green?' in any New Mexico café and red means this sauce, made from the sun-dried chile pods that hang in long ristras outside adobe houses in Chimayó and Hatch every autumn. The pods are toasted, soaked and blended into a smooth, brick-red sauce that is earthy and gently sweet rather than smoky, poured over enchiladas, eggs, beans and burritos. Chef's tip: toast the pods for only a few seconds a side; burnt chile makes the sauce bitter.
Fried cheese curds are what Wisconsin eats at supper clubs, ballparks and the State Fair in West Allis every August: fresh, squeaky cheddar curds dipped in a light batter and fried until the cheese just starts to melt and stretch. Many bars use a beer batter; this one uses sparkling water for the same lightness without alcohol. Serve with ranch dressing or marinara. Fresh curds are traditionally made with animal rennet, so look for curds or a young cheddar labelled vegetarian. Chef's tip: fry straight from the fridge; cold curds stay intact while the batter crisps.
Deep-dish pizza was born in Chicago's River North in the 1940s and is still the dish visitors queue for downtown: a tall, flaky, buttery crust baked in a steel pan, filled with a thick layer of mozzarella and vegetables, and finished with chunky crushed tomato on top so the cheese doesn't burn during the long bake. You eat it with a knife and fork. Mozzarella is often made with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian one. Chef's tip: laminate the dough with soft butter and roll it up like a cinnamon roll; that is what gives the crust its flaky, biscuit-like layers.
Detroit-style pizza started in an east-side bar in 1946, baked in the blue steel trays used in the city's car factories. The airy focaccia-like crust is topped edge to edge with cubed cheese, which melts down the sides into a crunchy, lacy, caramelised frame, and the tomato sauce goes on last in two stripes. The local brick cheese is hard to find, so use half mild cheddar, half mozzarella, both with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: push the cheese right into the corners and against the tin; that is where the famous burnt-cheese crust comes from.
Every autumn, small farms across Kentucky and Tennessee still press sorghum cane and boil the juice into a thin, tangy syrup, and these soft spice cookies are how many mountain families use it at Christmas. Rolled in sugar, they bake with crackled tops and chewy middles, tasting of ginger and that distinctive earthy sweetness. Molasses works if you can't find sorghum. Chef's tip: chill the dough so the balls hold their shape and crack rather than spreading flat.
Sweet potato pie is the Thanksgiving and Christmas dessert of African American kitchens across the South, from Mississippi Delta church suppers to Sunday dinners in Atlanta. Roasted orange sweet potatoes are mashed with butter, evaporated milk, eggs and warm spices into a filling lighter and silkier than pumpkin pie. Chef's tip: roast the sweet potatoes whole rather than boiling them; you get a deeper, sweeter, less watery filling.
Red velvet is the Southern celebration cake of weddings, Juneteenth gatherings and Christmas in Texas and the Carolinas: soft, faintly chocolatey layers with a tang of buttermilk and vinegar, a deep red colour and thick, white cream cheese frosting. The colour once came partly from cocoa reacting with acid; today a little food colouring is usual. Chef's tip: use natural (not Dutch-process) cocoa, which keeps the colour brighter and the crumb lighter.
Hummingbird cake arrived in the South from Jamaica in the late 1960s and became famous after a Greensboro, North Carolina reader sent the recipe to a Southern magazine; it has been a church bake-sale and birthday favourite ever since. Mashed banana, crushed pineapple and toasted pecans make a moist, spiced oil cake under cream cheese frosting. Chef's tip: use very ripe, black-spotted bananas for sweetness and moisture.
In Louisiana, Mississippi and Georgia, fried okra is served in bowls on every meat-and-three counter and eaten like popcorn in summer, when okra pods are young and tender. Sliced into coins, dipped in buttermilk and tossed in seasoned cornmeal, they fry crisp and nutty with none of the slipperiness okra is known for. Chef's tip: choose pods no longer than your finger; big ones are woody.
In New Mexico sopaipillas arrive in a basket with every plate of enchiladas or carne adovada, from Albuquerque diners to Santa Fe cafés, along with a squeeze bottle of honey. Small squares of dough puff up into hollow pillows in hot oil; you tear off a corner and drizzle honey inside to cool the heat of the red or green chile. They are a different thing from Chile's pumpkin sopaipillas. Chef's tip: roll the dough evenly to 3 mm and spoon hot oil over the tops as they fry; that is what makes them balloon.
Cauliflower cheese is the bubbling, golden side that appears beside the Sunday roast in English homes, and on its own it makes a comforting vegetarian supper with crusty bread. Tender cauliflower is baked under a mustardy cheddar sauce with a crisp, browned top. Many cheddars are made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian mature cheddar. Chef's tip: steam the cauliflower and let it dry; wet florets water down the sauce.
Fry bread is eaten across the Navajo (Diné) Nation of Arizona and New Mexico, at powwows, rodeos, flea markets and family gatherings. It grew out of the flour and lard handed out as government rations after the Long Walk of 1864, so it carries a painful history as well as pride. The dough is simple, stretched by hand and fried until puffed, crisp at the edges and chewy inside. Eat it with honey and icing sugar, or as the base for Navajo tacos. Chef's tip: poke a small hole in the centre before frying so it cooks evenly and doesn't balloon.
Sourdough has been San Francisco's bread since the Gold Rush of 1849, when miners kept a wild starter going, and the cool, foggy climate around the Bay helps give it its famously sour tang. Bakeries at Fisherman's Wharf still serve it hollowed out as a bowl for chowder. A long, cool rise gives a crackling dark crust and a chewy, open crumb. You need an active starter, fed 6–8 hours before. Chef's tip: for a more sour loaf, give the shaped dough a longer, colder rest in the fridge, up to 36 hours.
Hushpuppies are the little golden cornmeal fritters served in paper baskets at fish camps and seafood shacks from the North Carolina coast to the Gulf, always next to fried catfish and slaw. The batter has onion and buttermilk, so they are crunchy outside and steamy and slightly sweet inside. Chef's tip: let the batter rest for 10 minutes so the cornmeal hydrates; it makes them rounder and less gritty.
Perloo (or purloo, pilau) is the Charleston and Savannah family of rice dishes born on the Carolina Gold rice plantations, where West African cooks simmered rice in rich broth with whatever the coast or yard gave. This one uses smoked bacon (pork), tomato and fresh shrimp, so every grain is separate, red-tinged and full of flavour. Chef's tip: once the lid goes on, don't lift it or stir; perloo should be fluffy, never creamy like risotto.
Burgoo is the thick, peppery stew Kentuckians cook in iron kettles for Derby parties, church picnics and political rallies, stirred for hours with a wooden paddle. Traditionally it used whatever meat was shot or raised; today it is usually beef, pork shoulder and chicken simmered with tomatoes, corn, okra, butter beans and potatoes until it all melts together. Chef's tip: burgoo should be thick enough that the paddle stands up; cook it down more if it's soupy.
In the villages of the Anti-Atlas and the south, tafarnout is named after the domed clay oven it is baked in, lined with pebbles that are heated by a wood fire until the dough slapped onto them puffs and blisters within minutes. The stones leave the bottom deeply dimpled and charred in spots, while the top stays soft; it is torn and dipped into argan oil, amlou or olive oil, or eaten with tagines. You can come close at home with a tray of clean, smooth river pebbles or a baking stone in a very hot oven. Allow about 1 1/2 hours for the dough to rise. Use only smooth, dense pebbles, scrubbed and dried for an hour in a low oven first: stones with trapped water can crack in the heat. Chef's tip: let the pebbles heat for a full 40 minutes; lukewarm stones make a pale, flat loaf.
Early in the morning, in medina lanes from Fez to Casablanca, the sfenji pulls handfuls of sticky dough from a bowl, pokes a hole through each with his thumb and drops the rings into a big pan of oil, where they puff into crisp, golden, irregular doughnuts with a chewy, airy inside. Customers carry them away threaded on a strip of palm leaf, to eat hot with mint tea or coffee, plain, dusted with sugar or dipped in honey. The dough is just flour, yeast, salt and water, and deliberately very wet; that is what gives the open, holey crumb. Allow about 1 1/2 hours for it to rise. Where sfenj go wrong is a dough that is too stiff; it should be sticky and slack, or the rings come out bready instead of open and chewy. Chef's tip: keep a bowl of water beside you and wet your hands before every piece, so the sticky dough slides off your fingers instead of clinging to them.
On chilly evenings, street carts in the medinas steam a great pot of chickpeas and scoop them, piping hot, into paper cones with a shake of cumin, salt and sometimes a little chilli. It is one of the cheapest and most comforting snacks in the country, eaten while strolling, and the chickpeas should be tender and creamy but whole, never mushy. At home they make a lovely warm nibble, a lunchbox protein or something to pick at alongside soups. Dried chickpeas give the best texture and need an overnight soak; tinned ones work in a hurry, just warmed through in salted water. Chef's tip: toss the cumin and salt onto the chickpeas the moment they come out of the water, while they are still steaming and damp, so the seasoning clings.
Batbout, also called mkhamar, are small soft rounds of semolina and flour dough cooked on a dry griddle rather than in the oven, so they puff up like balloons and open into a pocket when split. Moroccan families make them for breakfast and teatime, and snack bars stuff them with all sorts of fillings; vegetarian favourites are zaalouk, egg and potato, soft cheese, or simply butter and honey or amlou. They are tender and slightly chewy, with a pale, freckled surface. The dough needs about an hour to rise and another short rest after shaping. A frequent slip is rolling the rounds too thin or cooking them on a fierce heat, so they scorch before they puff into pockets. Chef's tip: roll them no thinner than 5 mm and cook over a medium-low heat; thin rounds or a fierce pan scorch before they have a chance to puff.
From Twelfth Night on 6 January until Mardi Gras, every office, school and party in New Orleans has a king cake: a ring of soft, cinnamon-swirled brioche, glazed and covered in sugar in the Carnival colours of purple, green and gold. A small trinket or bean is hidden inside, and whoever finds it buys the next cake. Chef's tip: push the trinket in from underneath after baking, and warn your guests, so nobody bites on it.
Texas caviar is a bright, chunky salad of black-eyed peas, peppers, corn and jalapeño soaked in a sharp vinaigrette, created in Dallas in the 1940s and now a fixture at Texas tailgates, barbecues and New Year's Day parties, where black-eyed peas are eaten for luck. Scoop it with tortilla chips or serve as a side. Chef's tip: dress it at least an hour ahead; the peas soak up the dressing and get much tastier.
In southern Indiana, wild persimmons drop from the trees after the first frost, and the town of Mitchell holds a festival every September where this pudding is judged and sold. The pulp is baked with buttermilk and warm spices into something between a cake and a custard: dense, moist, dark orange-brown and tasting of dates and pumpkin. Use very ripe, jelly-soft Hachiya or wild persimmons. Chef's tip: serve it warm with whipped cream, as it firms up and darkens as it cools.
Sugar cream pie, Indiana's official state pie, came from Shaker and Amish farm kitchens that had cream and sugar in winter when there was no fruit. There are no eggs: cream, sugar and a little flour bake into a pale, silky, vanilla custard with a dusting of nutmeg, sold at diners and county fairs across the state. Chef's tip: stir the filling gently with your finger in the pastry case during the first 20 minutes of baking, as old Hoosier cooks do; it keeps the flour from settling.
Traverse City, on the shores of Lake Michigan, calls itself the cherry capital of the world and holds a National Cherry Festival every July, where this bright red, lattice-topped pie is everywhere. It uses Montmorency sour cherries, not sweet ones, so the filling is sharp and jammy with a hint of almond. Frozen or jarred pitted sour cherries work well. Chef's tip: cook the filling on the hob until it thickens before it goes in the pie, so the bottom crust doesn't drown.
The Dutch baby was first served in the early 1900s at a family café in Seattle, whose owner's daughter supposedly mispronounced 'Deutsch' and gave it the name. A thin batter poured into a sizzling buttered pan balloons in the oven into a crisp-edged, custardy bowl. It is a Pacific Northwest brunch dish, eaten straight from the pan with lemon juice and icing sugar or summer berries. Chef's tip: blend the batter until frothy and have the pan really hot; that is what makes it climb the sides.
The marionberry was bred at Oregon State University and named after Marion County in the Willamette Valley, and in July it fills farm stands and pie shops from Portland to Salem. It is a blackberry with a deeper, wine-like flavour and more juice. Elsewhere, use blackberries mixed with a few raspberries. Chef's tip: let the sugared berries sit for 15 minutes and add only half the juice they release, or the pie will be runny.
In August, families in northern Idaho, Montana and the Washington Cascades hike to mountain slopes to pick wild huckleberries, which have never been farmed and taste like a sharper, more perfumed blueberry. Lodges and diners from Sandpoint to Glacier National Park serve them in fluffy buttermilk pancakes. Wild blueberries are the best substitute. Chef's tip: drop the berries onto each pancake in the pan instead of stirring them into the batter, so the batter doesn't turn purple and the berries don't sink.
Lowcountry boil, also called Frogmore stew after a village on St Helena Island, South Carolina, is the one-pot party of the Carolina and Georgia coast: new potatoes, corn cobs, smoked pork sausage and fresh shrimp boiled in spiced water, drained and tipped straight onto a newspaper-covered table for everyone to dig in. It is summer food for beach houses, church picnics and Fourth of July. Chef's tip: add everything in stages, timed so the shrimp go in last for only a few minutes.
Farm wives across Minnesota, Iowa and the Dakotas called rhubarb 'pie plant', because the first stalks in May went straight into this pie after a long winter without fresh fruit. Chopped rhubarb is baked in a sweet egg custard, so each slice is soft, creamy and tart at the same time. It turns up at Memorial Day picnics and church bake sales. Chef's tip: toss the rhubarb with the sugar and flour and let it sit 10 minutes before adding the eggs; it starts drawing out juice and the custard sets more evenly.
In Iowa, scalloped corn is the dish everyone brings to the Thanksgiving table, the church potluck and the Sunday dinner after a funeral. Sweetcorn kernels and creamed corn are baked with milk, eggs and buttery crushed crackers into a soft, spoonable pudding with a golden, crunchy top. Chef's tip: save a third of the crackers for the top and mix them with melted butter so they crisp instead of going soggy.
The Shaker communities of Ohio and Kentucky wasted nothing, so they sliced whole lemons, peel and all, and left them overnight in sugar until the rind turned soft and syrupy. Baked with eggs between two crusts, the filling is like a bright, chunky marmalade custard, sweet, sour and faintly bitter. Shaker villages and Ohio bakeries still make it for spring. Chef's tip: slice the lemons paper-thin, ideally on a mandoline; thick slices stay chewy and bitter.
Malasadas came to Hawaii with Portuguese workers from Madeira and the Azores in the 1870s, and on Malasada Day, the Tuesday before Lent, bakeries in Honolulu have queues round the block. They are eggy, airy yeast doughnuts with no hole, fried golden and rolled in sugar while hot; some are filled with haupia or custard. Chef's tip: the dough is very soft and sticky, so oil your hands rather than adding more flour, or the malasadas turn heavy.
Butter mochi is the sweet of Hawaii's potlucks, school fundraisers and family parties, a local mix of Japanese mochi and the islands' coconut. Glutinous rice flour is baked with coconut milk, evaporated milk, butter and eggs into a golden, chewy cake with crisp edges and a soft, bouncy middle. Chef's tip: cut it with a plastic knife once fully cooled; a metal knife drags and sticks.
Shave ice came to Hawaii with Japanese plantation workers, and on hot afternoons on Oahu's North Shore families still queue at roadside stands for a towering, soft cone of ice soaked in rainbow syrups. The ice is shaved so fine it is like fresh snow and soaks up the syrup instead of letting it run to the bottom. Without a shaver, freeze ice in a block and scrape it with a fork. Chef's tip: let the ice block sit out for 5 minutes before shaving; slightly tempered ice gives fluffier flakes.
Every Hawaiian plate lunch, from drive-ins in Hilo to the lunch wagons of Honolulu, comes with two scoops of rice and one of this soft, creamy macaroni salad. It is simpler than American pasta salads: overcooked elbow macaroni soaked in vinegar while hot, then folded with lots of mayonnaise, a little milk and grated carrot. Chef's tip: cook the pasta past al dente, a few minutes longer than the packet says; plate-lunch mac is meant to be soft so it soaks up the dressing.
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