Flattened rice with curd
Nothing is cooked for doi chira, which is why it has been the breakfast of farmers and fishermen in Barisal for generations: flattened rice is rinsed, softened in thick, slightly sour curd and sweetened with jaggery or sugar, then mashed together with a ripe banana. The texture is soft and creamy with a little chew from the rice flakes, and the taste is cool, sweet and tangy. It is eaten on hot summer mornings, at village fairs and as part of the Pohela Boishakh spread, and it is a favourite of children and of anyone fasting who wants something gentle. The usual misstep is soaking the chira for too long, which turns it to paste; a quick rinse is all it needs before the curd does the rest. Chef's tip: use thick-cut chira, not the thin kind for frying, so the flakes hold their shape.
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Roast leg of lamb is the Easter Sunday lunch of England, when spring lamb from the South Downs and the West Country comes in, served with roast potatoes, spring greens and a jug of mint sauce. The sauce is the English twist: chopped garden mint steeped in vinegar and a little sugar, sharp enough to cut the richness of the meat. Chef's tip: make the mint sauce an hour ahead so the vinegar mellows and the mint flavour comes out.
Beef Wellington is the grand centrepiece of British Christmas and celebration dinners, a whole beef fillet coated in finely chopped mushroom duxelles, wrapped in thin pancakes or ham and golden puff pastry, then sliced at the table to show a pink middle. It is linked, without much proof, to the Duke of Wellington. This version wraps the fillet in crêpes instead of the usual Parma ham. The duxelles is deglazed with a splash of white wine, which contains alcohol; use a little stock for an alcohol-free version. Chef's tip: chill the wrapped fillet before it goes in the pastry so everything stays tight and the base doesn't go soggy.
The Scotch egg was sold as a travelling snack by the London grocer Fortnum & Mason in the 1700s, and it is still the picnic and pub-counter favourite of England: a boiled egg wrapped in pork sausage meat, crumbed and fried. Modern pubs serve them with a runny yolk and a dollop of piccalilli or mustard. Chef's tip: boil the eggs for exactly 6½ minutes and plunge into iced water; that sets the white enough to peel but leaves the yolk soft.
Coronation chicken was invented for the banquet of Queen Elizabeth II's coronation in 1953 by the Cordon Bleu school in London, and it became the filling of choice for jacket potatoes, wedding buffets and garden party sandwiches across England. Poached chicken is folded through a creamy, mildly spiced sauce of mayonnaise, curry paste, apricot and yoghurt. Chef's tip: poach the chicken very gently and cool it in its liquid so it stays juicy.
Kedgeree came to Britain with families returning from colonial India, who adapted khichri into a breakfast of buttery curried rice, flaked smoked haddock and boiled eggs; it was served from silver dishes at Victorian country house breakfasts and is now a weekend brunch. It is gently spiced, smoky and soft. Chef's tip: poach the haddock in the milk you then use for nothing else, and cook the rice in the poaching water for more smoky flavour.
Fish pie is a Friday supper and a family favourite from the Kent coast to Devon, where fishmongers sell a ready-cut 'fish pie mix' for it. Chunks of white fish, smoked haddock and prawns are baked in a creamy parsley sauce under a thick crust of buttery mash, so it is mild, comforting and very filling. Chef's tip: don't pre-cook the fish; it finishes in the oven and stays in big, juicy flakes.
Gammon, egg and chips is the great English pub and transport-café dinner, on the menu from roadside diners on the A1 to Devon seaside pubs. A thick steak of cured pork gammon is grilled until the fat crisps, then topped with a fried egg or a ring of pineapple (or both), next to chunky chips and peas. Chef's tip: snip the fat around the edge every 2 cm before cooking so the steak stays flat.
In early summer, families across Shiraz and the vineyards of Fars thin their vines and press the hard green grapes into abghooreh, a sharp, clean sour juice stored in bottles for the whole year. It sours khoresh, brightens salad shirazi and is splashed over kebabs and rice in place of lemon. The grapes must be truly unripe, hard and mouth-puckering; once they soften the juice turns sweet. A common mistake is skipping the boil and salt, which lets the juice ferment in the bottle. Chef's tip: let the boiled juice settle overnight and pour it off the sediment for a clear, bright abghooreh.
The fish finger sandwich is a beach-café and pub-lunch classic around the English coast from Whitstable to Brighton, and the ultimate home comfort food for anyone who grew up in Britain. Here the fingers are made from fresh cod in crunchy crumbs, piled into buttered white bread with tartare sauce and crisp lettuce. Chef's tip: cut the fish into even fingers so they all cook in the same time.
Chicken and leek pie is the Sunday-night and pub supper of southern England, made with leftover roast chicken or fresh thighs simmered in a creamy sauce with soft leeks and a little tarragon, then topped with buttery puff pastry. It is gentle, savoury and best with mash and greens. Chef's tip: let the filling cool before the pastry goes on, or the lid will sink and stay raw underneath.
In Newlyn, Padstow and St Ives, harbourside kiosks sell crab sandwiches made with the morning's catch: sweet white claw meat and rich brown body meat on buttered brown bread with a little lemony mayonnaise. It is a summer lunch for eating on the harbour wall. Buy fresh, cooked and picked crab from a fishmonger, keep it in the fridge and use it the same day. Chef's tip: keep the white and brown meat separate and use both; the brown meat gives the flavour.
Haggis, neeps and tatties is the centre of every Burns Supper on 25 January, when the haggis is piped in, addressed with Robert Burns's poem and cut open with a flourish. Haggis is a peppery, oaty pudding of minced lamb's offal, onion and spice; nearly everyone in Scotland buys it from a butcher, then simply heats it and serves it with mashed swede (neeps) and potatoes (tatties). The cream sauce has a splash of whisky, which contains alcohol; leave it out and add a teaspoon of mustard for an alcohol-free sauce. Chef's tip: wrap the haggis tightly in foil before it goes in the water so the casing doesn't burst.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
In April and May rhubarb crowns burst up in kitchen gardens all over Ireland, and the first of it goes into this plate tart, baked on an enamel plate in farmhouses from Cork to Donegal. The rhubarb is sweet-sour under a crisp, sugar-crusted lid of shortcrust. Serve warm with custard or a jug of cream. Chef's tip: sprinkle a spoonful of semolina or cornflour over the bottom pastry before adding the fruit; it soaks up the juice and stops a soggy base.
Irish coffee was first served in the 1940s at Foynes on the Shannon estuary, to cold passengers stepping off the flying boats from America, and it is now poured in hotel bars across Ireland after a long dinner. Hot black coffee is sweetened with brown sugar and laced with Irish whiskey, then topped with a layer of lightly whipped cream that you drink the coffee through. This drink contains alcohol; for an alcohol-free version, leave out the whiskey and add a few drops of vanilla. Chef's tip: whip the cream only until it just thickens, so it floats in a soft layer rather than sinking or sitting in stiff blobs.
Brown bread ice cream has been a country-house dessert in Ireland since Victorian times and still turns up on menus in Kenmare, Kinsale and Dublin restaurants. Crumbs of brown soda bread are toasted with brown sugar until crisp and toffee-like, then folded through a rich vanilla ice cream, so it tastes of caramel and malty, nutty bread. This no-churn version needs no machine. Chef's tip: let the caramelised crumbs cool and break up completely before folding them in, or they sink and clump.
Chicken and ham pie is the family supper of Irish homes from Westmeath to Wicklow, the way to stretch a roast chicken and a piece of cooked ham into another meal, and a staple of hotel carveries. The ham is pork. Both meats sit in a creamy leek and mushroom sauce under a puff pastry lid. Chef's tip: let the filling cool before putting on the pastry, or the butter in the puff melts and it won't rise.
In July and August shoals of mackerel come close to the piers from Kilmore Quay to Killybegs, and children catch them on hand lines for the evening pan. The old Irish partner for the oily fish is a sharp sauce of the gooseberries ripening in the garden at the same time, which cuts through the richness. Serve with new potatoes. Chef's tip: cook the fillets skin-side down almost all the way, so the skin crisps and the delicate flesh stays moist.
A side of poached salmon is the centrepiece of Irish wedding buffets, First Communion lunches and summer gatherings along the Moy and the Blackwater, where wild salmon once ran thick. Poached gently in a court bouillon, it stays silky and moist, and here it is served warm with a simple chive and lemon butter sauce, new potatoes and peas. Chef's tip: never let the poaching liquid boil; it should barely shiver, or the salmon tightens and leaks white curds.
The breakfast roll is the hot deli sandwich of Irish petrol stations and corner shops, eaten from its paper bag by builders, commuters and students all over the country from early morning. A long, crusty baguette-style roll is packed with what is in a fry: pork sausages, rashers, black and white pudding and a fried egg, with butter and brown sauce or ketchup. Chef's tip: warm the roll in the oven so it is crisp outside and soft within before you load it.
Limerick was once famous across Europe for its hams, cured in the city's bacon factories, and a glazed ham is still the centrepiece of the Irish Christmas table next to the turkey. This is a gammon joint, which is pork: simmered gently in cider with an onion and spices, then studded with cloves and glazed in a hot oven until sticky and dark. Serve hot with mash and parsley sauce, or cold for St Stephen's Day sandwiches. The cider contains alcohol, which mostly cooks off; for an alcohol-free version use cloudy apple juice. Chef's tip: score the fat in a neat diamond pattern only through the fat, not the meat, so the glaze grips without the meat drying.
White pudding is the pale partner to black pudding on the Irish breakfast plate, made in butchers' shops from West Cork to Sligo with pork, pork fat, oatmeal, onion and a secret blend of spices. Making it at home in casings is fiddly, so this version shapes the same mix into patties to fry for the full Irish or a breakfast roll. Chef's tip: toast the oats in a dry pan first; it gives the nutty flavour that good shop-bought white pudding has.
The village of Lighvan, on the slopes of Mount Sahand south of Tabriz, gives its name to Iran's most loved breakfast cheese: a white, holey, tangy sheep's milk cheese matured in brine, traditionally in goatskins or tins in mountain caves. Across Azerbaijan province it is eaten every morning with warm bread, walnuts, fresh herbs and sweet tea. This home version uses pasteurised sheep's milk (or a mix with goat's milk) so it is safe to make in your kitchen. Village Lighvan is set with animal rennet; use a vegetarian (microbial) rennet to keep it vegetarian. The commonest mistake is cutting the curd before it gives a clean break, which loses yield and makes a crumbly cheese. Chef's tip: let the cheese firm in the fridge for a full week in the brine; it develops its classic tang and little holes as it matures.
Every May the valleys around Kashan and Qamsar fill with pickers gathering Damask roses at dawn for golabgiri, the rose-water festival, when copper stills bubble in village courtyards. Golab is the backbone of Persian sweets, sharbat and rice, and a small batch can be made at home with a stockpot, an upturned lid and a bowl of ice. You need fragrant roses that have never been sprayed: florist roses are not safe to use in food. A common mistake is boiling hard, which cooks the petals and gives a grassy, dull water; the pot should only simmer. Chef's tip: pick the roses early in the morning, when their scent is strongest, and distil the same day.
Cupuaçu, a cousin of cacao with a velvety white pulp, smells of pineapple, banana and chocolate at once and is one of the great flavours of Pará. Belém's ice-cream parlours and lunch restaurants turn it into this light, sharp-sweet mousse, and home cooks make it the night before a birthday or Sunday lunch because it is just whipped and chilled. Condensed milk and cream soften the fruit's sourness; a spoon of cupuaçu syrup on top adds colour and bite. Outside Brazil, buy frozen unsweetened cupuaçu pulp from Brazilian or Latin shops. Many cooks blend the cream with everything else, which leaves the mousse runny; whip it separately and fold it in. Chef's tip: thaw the pulp in the fridge rather than in hot water, so it keeps its perfume, and chill the mousse for at least 4 hours.
Along the Caspian shore from Bandar Anzali to Babolsar, the silvery kutum (mahi sefid) arrives in late winter, and families fry thick steaks of it for weekday lunches and for the Nowruz table. The coating is nothing more than flour, turmeric, salt and pepper, so the sweet, firm flesh does the talking; it comes to the table with wedges of bitter orange (narenj), rice and a plate of fresh herbs. Any firm white fish with skin works if you can't find kutum: sea bass, hake or cod steaks. A common mistake is crowding the pan, which drops the oil temperature and leaves the crust pale and greasy. Chef's tip: dry the fish properly and flour it only at the last moment, so the turmeric crust fries to a crisp golden shell instead of turning pasty.
Each spring the shad (sobour) swims up the Karun and Arvand rivers, and in Ahvaz and Khorramshahr the season is marked by whole fish split open, packed with a sour paste of herbs, garlic and tamarind and cooked over coals or in a hot oven. The rich, oily flesh is a perfect match for the sharp filling. Shad is very bony, so most home cooks outside Khuzestan use sea bass, sea bream or mackerel, which take the same filling beautifully. A common mistake is overfilling the fish so it bursts open and the stuffing burns; pack it firmly but leave a finger's width at the edges. Chef's tip: cut three shallow slashes in each side and rub a little filling into them, so the sourness reaches the whole fish.
In Bandar Abbas, Lar and the villages of Hormozgan, mahyaveh is a dark, pungent sauce made by leaving tiny fish with salt, mustard seed and spices to ferment in the sun for weeks; it is smeared on hot flatbread for breakfast or with eggs. That open-air fermentation is hard to control safely at home, so this version gets the same deep, salty flavour from ready-cured anchovy fillets blended with toasted mustard seed, cumin, coriander seed, fennel and a little vinegar, and it lives in the fridge from the start. It is still a cured-fish product: not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. A common mistake is spreading it thickly like a pâté; it is a seasoning, so a thin smear is enough. Chef's tip: toast the spices until the mustard seeds just start to pop, which takes the raw bitterness out and gives the spread its roasted edge.
On the first day of the Persian new year, from Rasht to Tehran, the classic lunch is sabzi polo, a green herb rice, with fish, and on the Caspian side that fish is often golden hot-smoked white fish (mahi doodi). Fresh herbs stand for spring and the fish for life, so the plate is full of meaning as well as flavour. Most cooks buy the smoked fish ready made and simply warm it with a little garlic and saffron butter, which is what this recipe does; the rice is steamed with dill, parsley, coriander and chives until it forms a crisp tahdig. Hot-smoked fish is already cooked; heat it until piping hot, at least 70 °C in the middle. A common mistake is warming the fish dry in a hot oven, which makes it tough and salty; wrap it with a splash of water so it steams. Chef's tip: soak the smoked fish in warm water for 10 minutes first to draw out some of the salt.
This dense, dark chocolate torte is Vienna's most famous cake, eaten in coffee houses all over the city with a cup of Melange and, always, a cloud of unsweetened whipped cream on the side. The sponge is made with melted chocolate and whisked egg whites, so it is fine-crumbed and slightly dry by design; a thin layer of sharp apricot jam runs through the middle and over the top, under a shiny, snappy chocolate glaze. A common mistake is pouring the glaze too hot or too cold; too hot and it runs off thin, too cold and it sets dull and lumpy. It is a cake for birthdays and Sunday visits, and it keeps well for days. Chef's tip: bake it the day before and let it rest overnight wrapped; it cuts far more neatly and the crumb softens.
Linz, the Danube city in Upper Austria, has baked this tart for centuries, and it still fills bakery windows there all year, with extra demand in Advent. It is closer to a soft, crumbly nut biscuit than a pastry: ground hazelnuts, butter, cinnamon and cloves are pressed into the tin, filled with tart redcurrant jam and topped with a lattice. Serve a thin slice with coffee or tea. A common mistake is eating it on the day it is baked; it is much better after two or three days, when the jam soaks into the crumb. Chef's tip: chill the lattice strips on a tray before lifting them on, and they will not tear.
Real pumpernickel comes from Westphalia, where bakers in towns like Soest once left loaves in the cooling bread oven overnight, and it is still sliced paper-thin for breakfast with butter, quark and radishes or with a sharp cheese. There is no colouring and no molasses here: the near-black colour and the malty sweetness come only from cracked rye cooked for many hours in steam at a low heat. The crumb is moist, dense and slightly sticky, and the loaf keeps for over a week wrapped in cloth. A common mistake is slicing it on the day it comes out of the tin; it needs a full day to settle or it tears into gummy crumbs. Chef's tip: wrap the tin tightly in two layers of foil and stand it in a roasting tray of hot water, because a dry loaf turns hard instead of dark and sweet.
When the pumpkin harvest peaks in October, from the Rhineland to Saxony, German kitchens turn the firm orange flesh into Süß-sauer eingelegter Kürbis, golden cubes preserved in sweet spiced vinegar. Through the winter they come out of the cellar to sit beside roast dinners, game, cheese boards and cold cuts, or a simple plate of potatoes and quark. Cinnamon, cloves, ginger and a little lemon peel make them taste of Christmas. The mistake is using a watery carving pumpkin, which falls apart; choose a dense one such as Hokkaido or butternut. Chef's tip: steep the raw cubes in the cold vinegar overnight before cooking; it firms them so they stay in neat, glassy cubes.
Eisbein is old Berlin pub food, the cured pork knuckle served in Kneipen across the city with a mound of yellow pease pudding (Erbspüree) and sauerkraut, and it is especially popular in the cold months. Unlike the Bavarian roast Haxe, this pork knuckle is pickled in brine by the butcher and then simmered slowly, so the meat turns pink, tender and gently salty and the rind stays soft. Order a cured ("gepökelt") knuckle from a German or Polish butcher. Chef's tip: soak the knuckle in cold water for a few hours first if your butcher's cure is strong; taste a little of the simmering water after 30 minutes and change it if it is very salty.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tucumán takes its empanadas so seriously that the town of Famaillá holds a national empanada festival every September, and judges count the pleats. The local style is small and juicy, filled with beef cut by hand with a knife (never minced), lots of white onion and spring onion, cumin, paprika and hard-boiled egg, and the dough is made with beef fat. They are baked very hot, traditionally in a clay oven, until blistered, and eaten standing up at peñas, football matches or family lunches, a drop of lemon squeezed in. The beef filling must reach 71 °C; it cooks first in the pan and again in the oven. A dry filling is the mistake to avoid: cook the onion slowly and let the filling cool so the fat sets, which turns to juice in the oven. Chef's tip: chill the filling overnight if you can; cold filling is easier to spoon and the empanadas come out juicier.
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.
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.
Every juice bar in Tehran, from Tajrish Square to the stalls of Valiasr Street, sells ab havij bastani: a tall glass of fresh, ice-cold carrot juice with a scoop of saffron ice cream floating on top. People eat it with a long spoon in summer, stirring the melting ice cream into the juice until it turns creamy and pale orange. It is sweet, earthy and cooling, and kids treat it as a dessert. Chef's tip: chill the carrots well before juicing; warm juice melts the ice cream at once and loses its fresh taste.
Adasi is the winter breakfast of Iran's cafés and university canteens, ladled out early in the morning in Tehran, Tabriz and Mashhad from big pots that have bubbled since dawn. Whole brown lentils are cooked soft with turmeric and onion until thick and spoonable, then finished with cumin, a little golpar (ground angelica seed), black pepper and lemon. It is eaten with warm barbari or sangak and sweet tea. The common mistake is cooking it at a hard boil, which leaves the skins split and the soup grainy rather than velvety. Chef's tip: mash a ladleful of lentils against the side of the pot at the end; it thickens the adasi without any flour.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
In early summer the markets of Tehran fill with dark sour cherries, and many families cook a pot of albaloo polo the same week, also bringing it out for weddings and Yalda night because the red-and-gold rice looks so festive. The cherries are simmered into a glossy syrup, then layered through basmati with marble-sized lamb meatballs (some cooks use shredded chicken instead), and the whole pot is steamed until the rice turns pink and fragrant. The taste is sweet, sharp and savoury at once. A common mistake is pouring in all the syrup; it makes the rice soggy, so keep some back to drizzle at the table. Chef's tip: frozen or jarred pitted sour cherries in light syrup work well out of season; drain them and use half the sugar.
Alboronía is one of the oldest dishes in Andalusia; its name comes from the Arabic of al-Andalus, and cooks in Córdoba, Jaén and the villages of the Sierra Morena still make it in late summer, when aubergines, peppers and the first pumpkins share the market stalls. The vegetables cook down slowly with cumin, paprika and a little vinegar until they melt together into something between a stew and a jam-like sauté. Eat it warm with bread, or cold the next day as a tapa. A common mistake is stirring the pumpkin too often, which mashes it into the sauce instead of leaving soft chunks. Chef's tip: let the pumpkin go in only after the onion and peppers are soft, so it holds a few pieces among the purée instead of disappearing.
Montilla, south of Córdoba, makes a pale, dry wine from sun-dried Pedro Ximénez grapes, and in late winter and spring its kitchens braise young artichokes in it with a little saffron and fresh mint. Many cooks add cubes of cured ham; this version leaves it out and lets the artichokes, wine and mint carry the dish. It uses wine; the alcohol-free option is in the ingredient list. Serve it as a starter, or as a main with bread and a fried egg. A common mistake is trimming the artichokes without dropping them straight into lemon water, so they turn black before they reach the pan. Chef's tip: drop each trimmed artichoke straight into lemon water, because cut artichokes blacken within a minute in the air.
Alcatra is the feast dish of Terceira, cooked for the Holy Spirit festivals of spring and summer in unglazed clay pots that go into the bread oven after the loaves come out. Big pieces of beef braise for hours in wine with onions, bacon, allspice and bay, until the meat falls apart and the sauce turns dark and spiced. It is served with slices of massa sovada to soak up every drop. This contains pork (streaky bacon) and uses red wine; for an alcohol-free version, use the same amount of beef stock with 2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar. Chef's tip: crush the allspice just before using; whole berries give the sauce its warm, clove-like scent.
Shepherd families in the stone villages of Zagori, north of Ioannina, made alevropita when there was no time to roll pastry: a runny flour batter poured over sizzling oil in a very hot tin, dotted with feta and baked until crisp and lacy at the edges. It's now on every taverna table in Epirus, cut into rough squares and eaten warm with a bowl of thick yoghurt or a tomato salad. Feta is usually made with animal rennet; use a vegetarian feta-style cheese if you need to. Common mistake: pouring the batter into a cold tin — the oil must be smoking-hot, or the pie turns heavy instead of crunchy. Chef's tip: use a wide, shallow metal tray so the batter is only about 5 mm deep.
Córdoba's version of the alfajor is the soft one: two tender, slightly spongy honey-scented rounds sandwiched with fruit jam, usually quince or mixed fruit, and coated in a thin sugar glaze that dries to a crackly white shell. They are sold by the dozen in the sierras towns of Villa General Belgrano, La Falda and Capilla del Monte, where tourists buy boxes on the way home from holidays. Expect a gentle crunch, a cakey bite and a tart-sweet centre, best with a cup of coffee or mate. Overworking the dough is where they usually go wrong: knead it like bread and the rounds bake tough and flat, so mix only until it comes together. Quince paste (dulce de membrillo) loosened with water works well if you can't find a soft quince jam. Chef's tip: dry the glazed alfajores for 5 minutes in a barely warm oven; the glaze sets glassy and crackles when you bite.
Santa Fe's alfajor is a different animal from the soft cornflour kind sold everywhere else: three wafer-thin, crackly discs of yolk-rich pastry, stacked with dulce de leche, then dipped in a cooked sugar glaze that sets hard, white and shiny. Bakeries in Santa Fe city and along the Paraná river ship them all over the country in boxes, and travellers bring them home as the regional present. Bite through and the glaze shatters, the pastry flakes and the dulce de leche holds it all together. Thick pastry is the mistake that ruins the texture; it has to be rolled until you can almost see the worktop through it, or the alfajor turns bready. Some old recipes add a splash of cane spirit to the dough; this version uses only water and is alcohol-free. Use a thick, pastry-chef's dulce de leche (repostero) so it doesn't ooze. Chef's tip: bake the discs in batches and keep the rest of the dough covered; it dries out fast and then cracks when rolled.
Mirandela, on the Tua river in Trás-os-Montes, is the home of alheira, a garlicky smoked sausage of bread and poultry, said to have been invented by Jewish families who needed something that looked like pork sausage. Today most alheiras contain pork, so this dish contains pork; look for the rare poultry-only kind if you avoid it. In every northern café it comes the same way: roasted until the skin crackles, with a fried egg, chips and sautéed greens. A common mistake is frying the alheira over a high heat, so the skin bursts and burns before the inside is hot. Chef's tip: prick the skin a few times and roast it in the oven rather than frying, so it stays whole and crisp.
Gaziantep cooks char aubergines over coals until they collapse, mash the flesh with garlicky yoghurt and spoon pan-fried lamb with tomatoes and peppers on top: that is ali nazik, a lunchtime favourite in the city's lokantas. The cool, smoky base and the hot, buttery meat are the whole point, so assemble it just as you serve. A gas flame or a very hot grill gives the same smoky flesh at home. The usual mistake is not draining the aubergine, which makes the yoghurt runny and grey. Chef's tip: stir the yoghurt into the aubergine off the heat with a spoonful of butter; warm, not hot, keeps it from splitting.
High on the Aubrac plateau, where Aveyron, Cantal and Lozère meet, aligot was once the meal monks gave to pilgrims on the road to Santiago. Today it is beaten in huge copper pans at village fêtes and buron farm restaurants around Laguiole, then lifted high on a wooden spoon in long, glossy ribbons before it is served beside sausages or, for a vegetarian table, a big green salad and roasted mushrooms. It is a mash of floury potato, butter, cream and garlic, worked with young tomme fraîche until it stretches like mozzarella. Tomme fraîche is made with animal rennet; a mix of vegetarian mozzarella and a vegetarian mild cheddar gives a similar stretch. Chef's tip: keep beating in a figure of eight once the cheese goes in; the stretch only comes with steady work.
Krautkrapfen come from the Allgäu and the Swabian Alb, where farm cooks rolled noodle dough paper-thin, spread it with sauerkraut and fried onion, rolled it up like a strudel and sliced it into snails. The slices are packed upright in a buttered pan, fried until the bottoms crisp, then half-covered in stock and braised until the dough is tender. They are a Friday or winter supper with a green salad. A common mistake is pouring in too much stock: it should come only a third of the way up, or the crisp base turns soggy. Chef's tip: let the dough rest a full 30 minutes; relaxed dough rolls out thin without shrinking back.
True Catalan allioli is just garlic, salt and oil, all ('garlic') i oli ('and oil'), worked slowly in a mortar until it becomes a stiff, pale emulsion with a fierce bite. Families serve it with grilled lamb, rice dishes, boiled potatoes and snails, and making it by hand is a small point of pride. It takes patience and steady arms, but no egg is needed. Chef's tip: if it splits, start a new paste with one crushed clove and a few drops of water, then work the broken sauce back in a spoonful at a time.
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