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Cottage cheese (hung yogurt)
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Cottage cheese (hung yogurt)

This is home-made yogurt hung in muslin until all the whey drips away, leaving a thick, spreadable cheese a little like labneh. Use it for dips, sandwich spreads, shrikhand and cheesecakes. Pressing it through a sieve before you use it makes it silky-smooth.

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Geraardsbergse mattentaart

The small town of Geraardsbergen in East Flanders is so proud of its mattentaart that the little round puff-pastry tart has protected (PGI) status in the EU, and only bakers in the area may sell it under that name. It is filled with matten, a fresh curd made by curdling hot milk with buttermilk, mixed with eggs, sugar and a hint of almond, and baked until puffed and golden. Locals eat it with coffee, especially in late February when the town holds its Krakelingen festival. You make the curd yourself the day before. Chef's tip: hang the curd for a full night; too much whey left in it makes the filling weep and the pastry soggy.

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Fondue moitié-moitié

Moitié-moitié means half and half, and in Fribourg it names the canton's own fondue: equal weights of nutty Gruyère and soft, buttery Vacherin fribourgeois melted with dry white wine in a glazed earthenware caquelon. Families light the burner in the middle of the table on cold evenings from October to March, and ski huts above Gruyères serve it after a day on the slopes. The Vacherin makes it silkier and milder than a Gruyère-only fondue, so it clings to the bread in a thick, glossy coat. Serve with day-old bread, a plate of cornichons and small boiled potatoes, and drink white wine or warm black tea with it; locals say cold water sits badly with all that cheese. Traditional Gruyère and Vacherin are made with animal rennet, so for a vegetarian table look for wheels labelled with microbial or vegetarian rennet, or ask a cheesemonger for a similar Alpine cheese that uses it. Chef's tip: grate the cheese rather than cubing it and let it come to room temperature for 30 minutes; it melts evenly and the fondue stays smooth.

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Raclette

In the Valais, the vineyard-and-glacier canton along the upper Rhône, raclette began as a herders' meal: half a wheel of cheese propped beside an open fire, the melting face scraped (racler) onto a plate of potatoes. Today Valais families and village festivals still serve it the slow way, one plate at a time, while at home most people use a tabletop grill with small pans. The cheese is soft and pungent from the wheel and turns sweet and nutty as it bubbles, set off by sharp cornichons and little pickled onions. A proper Valais raclette needs nothing else: no charcuterie, just potatoes, pickles, pepper and a glass of Fendant or hot tea. Raclette cheese is usually made with animal rennet; choose a wheel or slices labelled with microbial or vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: keep the potatoes hot in a covered basket wrapped in a cloth, so each scoop of cheese lands on a steaming potato and stays runny.

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Rösti

Rösti was once the farmer's breakfast in the canton of Bern, fried in the morning from potatoes boiled the night before, and it is still the plate Bernese families make on a Sunday or eat with a fried egg for supper. It is so tied to German-speaking Switzerland that the language border with the French-speaking west is jokingly called the Röstigraben, the rösti ditch. Coarsely grated, cold, parboiled potato is pressed into a hot pan of butter and left alone until the underside turns a deep, crunchy gold, while the inside stays soft. Serve it with fried eggs and a tomato salad, with melted cheese on top, or next to mushrooms in cream. Chef's tip: parboil the potatoes a day ahead and chill them overnight; cold, firm potato grates into clean strands that stay separate and crisp.

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Älplermagronen

Älplermagronen is what dairymen cooked in the summer huts of central Switzerland, from Uri to the Bernese Oberland, using what they carried up and what the cows gave: pasta, potatoes, cream and their own cheese. Today it is a fixture of mountain restaurants and a quick weeknight supper across German-speaking Switzerland, always eaten with a bowl of warm apple sauce (Apfelmus) on the side, the sweet-sour fruit cutting the rich cheese. Many versions scatter bacon over the top; this one leaves it out and leans on a heap of slow-browned onions for depth. Use cheese made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: cook the potatoes and pasta in the same pot, adding the macaroni once the potatoes are half done, so they finish together and the starchy water helps the sauce cling.

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Malakoff

In the wine villages of La Côte above Lake Geneva, especially Vinzel, Bursins and Luins, a malakoff is a dome of Gruyère bound with egg and white wine, set on a round of bread and deep-fried until puffed and golden. The name is said to come from Swiss soldiers who fought at the siege of the Malakoff fort in the Crimean War and brought a taste for cheese fritters home. Locals eat them at village festivals and in pinte-style wine taverns with a glass of chilled Chasselas, cornichons and pickled onions. The crust shatters to a molten, gently stringy inside that tastes of wine and nutmeg. Use Gruyère made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: press the cheese mixture firmly into a tall dome over the bread and chill it for 20 minutes before frying; it holds its shape in the hot oil instead of spreading.

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Cholera

Cholera is a Valais pie from the upper Rhône valley, especially the Goms district, filled with layers of potato, leek, apple, pear and mountain cheese under a pastry lid. One story ties the name to the 1830s cholera outbreak, when people stayed home and baked whatever was in the cellar; another to the old Valais word for a coal stove, chola. It is eaten warm or cold, as a Sunday lunch, picnic food or a slice with a green salad, and the sweet fruit against salty cheese and soft leek is the whole point. Some Valais cooks add bacon; this vegetarian version doesn't need it. Use cheese made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: slice the potatoes, apples and pear thinly and evenly (3 mm) so everything cooks through in the time the pastry takes to brown.

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Bircher muesli

Around 1900 the Zürich doctor Maximilian Bircher-Benner served his sanatorium patients a small bowl of raw food before every meal, which he called d'Spys (the dish): a spoonful of soaked oats, plenty of grated apple, lemon juice, nuts and condensed milk. His original was mostly apple, not mostly oats, and that is what sets it apart from the dry muesli mix sold in packets. Swiss cafés and railway kiosks still serve Birchermüesli for breakfast or a light supper, creamy, sharp and fresh, now often with yogurt and berries. This version keeps his balance: oats soaked overnight, a whole apple grated in at the last moment, lemon, hazelnuts and a little honey and yogurt. Chef's tip: grate the apple straight into the lemon juice, skin and all, and stir at once; it stays pale and juicy instead of turning brown.

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Zopf

In German-speaking Switzerland the Sunday breakfast table is not complete without a Zopf (Züpfe in Bern): a shiny, plaited white loaf made with milk and plenty of butter, sliced thick and spread with more butter and jam or honey. Bakeries from Bern to St Gallen bake them on Saturday nights, and many families plait their own on Sunday morning. The crumb is soft, light and faintly sweet from the butter, not the sugar, and the egg-yolk glaze gives a deep brown, glossy crust. Leftovers make excellent French toast (Fotzelschnitte). Chef's tip: let the shaped plait rest in a cool place for 15 minutes before glazing and baking; the strands hold their shape and the pattern stays crisp.

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Basler Läckerli

Läckerli have been Basel's own biscuit for more than 600 years, once baked by the city's spice merchants and gifted at Christmas and New Year; Basel shops still pack them in tins all year round. They are small, chewy rectangles of honey, almonds, candied orange and lemon peel and warm spices, with a thin, crackly sugar glaze. Unlike soft German gingerbread they are firm and dense when they are fresh and soften with time in a tin. Eat them with coffee or tea, or keep a box for visitors. Chef's tip: cut the slab into rectangles while it is still hot and glaze it at once; once cool it sets too hard to cut cleanly.

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Engadiner Nusstorte

The Engadiner Nusstorte comes from the high Engadine valley in Graubünden, where pastry cooks who had emigrated to Italian and French cities brought home their skills in the 1800s, and walnuts arrived from Italy over the passes. It is a shallow, closed tart of rich butter pastry filled with chopped walnuts set in thick, golden cream caramel. Bakeries all over Switzerland sell it, and it keeps for weeks, so families give it as a gift and take it on hikes. Cut it into thin wedges: it is very rich, chewy, crunchy and buttery all at once. Chef's tip: let the caramel reach a deep amber before you pour in the cream; pale caramel tastes only of sugar, dark amber gives the toffee note the tart is known for.

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Basler Mehlsuppe

Basel's Fasnacht starts at 4 a.m. on the Monday after Ash Wednesday with Morgestraich, when the city's lights go out and the cliques march with lanterns, piccolos and drums. Afterwards everyone crowds into the old-town restaurants for a bowl of Mehlsuppe: flour toasted in butter until it is the colour of hazelnuts, simmered into a smooth, savoury, deep-brown soup and finished with grated cheese. It warms you on a freezing February morning and is usually eaten with Zwiebelwähe (onion tart). The traditional soup is made with beef stock; this vegetarian version uses a strong vegetable stock with a little red wine and onion to give the same depth. Chef's tip: toast the flour slowly and stir all the time; the colour should be even chestnut brown, and the smell like toasted nuts.

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Mămăligă

Mămăligă is the golden cornmeal staple of the Romanian countryside, from the hill villages of Oltenia to the farms of Maramureș, where it was once eaten more often than bread. It is cooked in water until thick enough to hold a spoon upright, turned out onto a wooden board and cut with a thread, then eaten hot with crumbled salty brânză and a cold spoon of smântână (soured cream). Unlike Ukrainian banosh, which is cooked in sour cream, mămăligă is plain cornmeal and water; the richness goes on top. It sits beside stews such as tocăniță or under a fried egg for supper. Chef's tip: rain the cornmeal in through your fingers while whisking, and keep stirring from the bottom; dumping it in at once is the classic mistake that leaves raw, gritty lumps.

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Zacuscă

Zacuscă is the autumn preserve of Moldavia and Transylvania: in Iași and the villages around it, families spend a September weekend charring aubergines and red peppers over a grill and slowly frying them down with onion and tomato into a thick, chunky spread. The jars go into the cellar and come out all winter, spread on bread or eaten with mămăligă during the Orthodox fasts. It is coarser and more oniony than smooth Balkan ajvar, with bay and a long, jammy cook. Chef's tip: let the onions go fully soft and sweet before adding anything else; rushing them leaves a sharp, raw edge that the long cook never removes.

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Salată de vinete

Salată de vinete is on every Romanian table from Bucharest to Brașov in late summer, when market stalls are piled with aubergines and every balcony grill is busy charring them. The smoky flesh is chopped with a wooden knife and beaten with sunflower oil into a pale, fluffy spread, almost like a mayonnaise, then finished with sharp raw onion. There is no tahini or yogurt, which sets it apart from baba ganoush. It is eaten on toasted bread with sliced tomatoes for supper or as a meze before grilled vegetables. Chef's tip: drain the cooked aubergine well; leaving in the brown juices is the usual mistake and makes the salad bitter and watery.

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Ciorbă de legume

Ciorbă is the sour soup that opens a Romanian lunch, from canteens in Cluj to Sunday tables in Moldavia, and the vegetable version is cooked all through the fasting weeks before Easter and Christmas. Root vegetables, beans and peppers simmer in a light broth that is soured at the end with borș, the fermented wheat-bran liquid sold in bottles at Romanian shops, or with lemon juice. Fresh lovage (leuștean) gives its unmistakable celery-like perfume. It is eaten piping hot with bread and a fresh green chilli on the side. Chef's tip: add the borș only at the end and let it come back just to a simmer; boiling it hard dulls the sour tang.

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Fasole bătută

Fasole bătută, 'beaten beans', is the fasting-day spread of Romania: on Christmas Eve and through Lent, plates of it appear in homes from Bucharest to the monasteries of Bucovina. Soft white beans are mashed smooth with garlic and oil, then crowned with a tangle of slow-fried onions stained red with paprika. It is spread thickly on bread, or served beside pickles and mămăligă. Chef's tip: beat the beans while they are still warm; cold beans turn stiff and pasty, and a common mistake is adding too little liquid, so loosen with a splash of cooking water until the purée is light and fluffy.

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Tocăniță de ciuperci

Tocăniță is the everyday stew of Romanian home cooking, and the mushroom version is a fixture of the Orthodox fasting days, when Transylvanian cooks use forest mushrooms gathered in the Apuseni hills and city cooks use button mushrooms from the market. Onions, garlic, tomato, white wine and thyme cook down into a thick, glossy sauce, without the sour cream and paprika of a Hungarian paprikás. It is always eaten with hot mămăligă and a spoon of the sauce over the top. Chef's tip: brown the mushrooms in batches in a hot pan; crowding them is the usual mistake, and they then stew grey in their own water instead of turning golden.

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Papanași

Papanași are the dessert Romanians order after almost any restaurant meal, from the old town of Bucharest to the mountain chalets of Sinaia and Bran. A soft dough of fresh cheese, egg and semolina is shaped into a ring with a little ball on top, fried until puffed and golden, then crowned with cold smântână and sour cherry or blueberry jam. Warm, tangy and very rich, one is a full dessert. Chef's tip: use dry, crumbly cheese and drain it if it's wet; a common mistake is a sloppy dough that soaks up oil and falls apart, so add flour only until it just stops sticking.

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Mish-mash

Mish-mash is the quick summer supper of Bulgaria, cooked in every home from Sofia flats to Black Sea holiday villas once the peppers and tomatoes are cheap and ripe. Roasted peppers, onion and tomato are fried down, then sirene and beaten eggs are stirred through until soft and creamy, finished with parsley. The crumbled white brined cheese melting into the eggs is what makes it Bulgarian rather than Turkish menemen. It is eaten straight from the pan with fresh bread, often with a glass of cold beer. Chef's tip: cook the eggs gently and take them off while still a little wet; overcooking is the common mistake, and they turn rubbery and weep water.

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Cozonac

Cozonac is the festive loaf every Romanian family bakes for Easter and Christmas, filling kitchens from Craiova to Suceava with the smell of butter, rum, lemon and orange zest. The rich yeast dough is rolled around a walnut and cocoa filling studded with pieces of rahat (Turkish delight), then braided and baked in a tall loaf tin so each slice shows a dark swirl. Unlike Slovenian potica, which is rolled into a thin spiral ring, cozonac is a braided loaf. It is eaten in thick slices with coffee on the feast mornings. Chef's tip: knead until the dough is silky and comes away from the bowl, then be patient with the rises; under-proving is the classic mistake and gives a dense, heavy loaf.

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Plăcintă cu brânză

In Moldavia, on both sides of the Prut, plăcintă means a flat round pie fried or baked on a griddle, and the cheese and dill one is what grandmothers in Iași and Chișinău make for weekend breakfasts and for guests at the door. A soft, stretchy dough is pulled thin, wrapped around salty cheese with fresh dill and egg, coiled into a snail and flattened, then cooked in a pan until blistered and crisp. They are eaten hot with a glass of sour milk or tea. Chef's tip: rest the oiled dough properly so it stretches without tearing; skipping the rest is the common mistake and you'll be fighting a springy dough that leaks its filling.

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Cornulețe

Cornulețe are the little crescent cookies that fill tins in Romanian kitchens before Christmas and New Year, and that grandmothers in Sibiu and Timișoara bake by the hundred for weddings and name days. This version uses a tender yeasted dough made with butter and yogurt, wrapped around a spoonful of thick plum jam (magiun) or rose rahat and rolled into horns. They bake pale and soft, not flaky, and are rolled in vanilla sugar while warm (the recipe makes 32, two per serving), which sets them apart from the cream-cheese rugelach of Jewish baking. Chef's tip: use thick jam and pinch the ends shut; runny jam is the usual mistake and bubbles out and burns on the tray.

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Shopska salad

Shopska salata is named after the Shopi people of the Sofia region and has become Bulgaria's national salad, the first thing ordered at any mehana (tavern) with a cold glass of rakia. Ripe tomatoes, cucumber, onion and soft roasted peppers are dressed simply with sunflower oil and vinegar, then buried under finely grated sirene, the Bulgarian white brined cheese, so the top looks like fresh snow. Unlike a Greek village salad, there are no olives and the cheese is grated, not in a slab. Chef's tip: salt and dress the vegetables before the cheese goes on; dressing over the cheese is the common mistake and turns the white snow soggy.

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Tarator

Tarator is what Bulgarians eat on hot July days, from the Black Sea resorts of Varna and Burgas to Sofia lunch counters: a cold, thin soup of tangy yogurt and water with grated cucumber, garlic, dill and crushed walnuts, a drizzle of sunflower oil on top and sometimes an ice cube floating in the bowl. It is served as a starter or drunk from a glass beside a plate of grilled vegetables. Chef's tip: use full-fat, sour, set yogurt and thin it to the consistency of single cream; making it too thick is the usual mistake, and it should be sippable.

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Banitsa

Banitsa is the Bulgarian breakfast pie, bought warm in paper from corner bakeries in Sofia and Plovdiv with a bottle of ayran or boza, and baked at home on New Year's Eve with lucky charms (kasmeti) tucked inside. Crumpled sheets of filo are layered with crumbled sirene and a custard of yogurt and eggs, then baked until the top is shatteringly crisp and the inside soft and tangy. It is not boiled like Turkish su böreği: the yogurt custard is what makes it Bulgarian. Chef's tip: crumple the filo loosely rather than laying it flat; flat, tightly packed sheets are the usual mistake and give a dense, doughy pie.

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Lyutenitsa

Lyutenitsa is Bulgaria's pantry relish, cooked in huge pans in courtyards around Plovdiv and the Thracian plain every September, when the red peppers are at their sweetest. Roasted peppers, tomatoes and a little aubergine and carrot are ground smooth and simmered for hours into a thick, brick-red spread, warm with garlic and a little hot pepper. It is smoother and more tomato-rich than ajvar or zacuscă. Children grow up on it spread on bread with grated sirene (filiyka), and it goes with everything from eggs to beans. Chef's tip: stir from the bottom often as it thickens; walking away is the common mistake, and a scorched base will taint the whole pot.

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Chushki byurek

Chushki byurek are one of the great autumn dishes of Bulgaria: in September, when the long red peppers ripen around Plovdiv and Pazardzhik, they are roasted, peeled, filled with sirene and egg, then dipped in flour, egg and breadcrumbs and fried. The outside crunches, the pepper is silky and sweet, and the salty cheese melts inside. They are served hot as a main course with a tomato salad, or cold the next day. Chef's tip: dry the peeled peppers well before filling; a wet pepper is the usual mistake, and the batter slides off and the oil spits.

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Gyuvech

Gyuvech takes its name from the glazed clay pot it is baked in, and in late summer in the villages of the Rhodopes and the Thracian plain it is slid into the bread oven packed with peppers, aubergine, okra, green beans, potatoes and tomato, seasoned with paprika and the herb chubritsa (summer savory). In the last minutes, eggs are often cracked over the top and baked until just set. It is served straight from the pot with bread to scoop up the juices. Unlike Greek briam, the vegetables stew in a paprika broth under a lid rather than roasting in oil. Chef's tip: put a clay pot into a cold oven; heating it first is the usual mistake and can crack it.

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Ajvar

Every September the smell of charring peppers drifts over courtyards from Leskovac in southern Serbia to Strumica in North Macedonia, as families roast crates of long red babura peppers on wood stoves and spend a whole Sunday stirring the pulp into ajvar for the winter shelves. A little roasted aubergine softens the flavour, and long cooking with sunflower oil turns it into a glossy, sweet-smoky spread that is eaten on bread with white cheese, beside beans or potatoes, and with almost every winter meal. This is a home-sized batch for two medium jars rather than a cellar full. Chef's tip: do not rinse the roasted peppers under the tap to get the skins off; it washes away the smoky juices that make ajvar taste of autumn, so peel them with oiled fingers and a paper towel instead.

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Tebasaki (Nagoya fried chicken wings)

In Nagoya's izakaya, chicken wings come whole, with the mid-joint and tip still joined in a V, and they arrive in piles beside cold drinks. Tebasaki are fried without batter until the skin turns crisp and thin, then brushed with a sweet soy glaze and dusted heavily with pepper and sesame. The spice is the point: they should taste peppery, salty and sticky at once. Eat them with your hands, twisting the two bones apart to pull the meat off. Chef's tip: brush on the glaze the moment the wings leave the oil; hot, crisp skin soaks it up and stays crunchy, while cooled wings just turn sticky.

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Akashiyaki (Akashi egg and octopus dumplings)

Ask for tamagoyaki in Akashi, a fishing town on the coast of Hyogo, and you will be served these dumplings rather than a rolled omelette: that is what locals call them. Small shops near the Uonotana fish market sell them on tilted wooden boards, with a bowl of warm dashi for dipping. Compared with Osaka takoyaki, the batter is mostly egg and stock, so the balls are soft and trembling inside, and they come without sauce or mayonnaise. Akashi is famous for its octopus, and a piece sits in every ball. Chef's tip: oil the pan generously and fill each hollow right to the brim; the soft batter needs the extra to make a round, puffy ball.

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Wagyu steak, Kobe style

Kobe's steakhouses cook beef on a hot iron plate in front of the diners, cut it into bite-size pieces and serve it with little more than salt, wasabi and golden garlic chips. Genuine Kobe beef is a protected name: it can only come from certified Tajima cattle born and raised in Hyogo prefecture that meet strict grading rules, and it is rare and costly outside Japan. This recipe is cooked in the same style, with any good wagyu, or a well-marbled sirloin or ribeye if you cannot get wagyu. Because the fat is so rich, a modest portion goes a long way. Chef's tip: cut a small piece of fat from the edge of the steak and melt it in the pan instead of oil; it greases the pan and adds a lovely beefy aroma.

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Onomichi ramen

Onomichi is a hilly port town in Hiroshima prefecture on the Seto Inland Sea, and the start of the Shimanami Kaido cycle route across the islands to Shikoku. Its ramen shops serve a dark soy-seasoned broth made from chicken and small dried fish, with flat, slightly wavy noodles. The signature is a scattering of soft pork back-fat pieces that float on top and melt into each mouthful. Many visitors eat a bowl before or after the bike ride. Chef's tip: pull the heads and dark bellies off the dried sardines before using them; that is where the bitterness lives, and the cleaned fish give a sweet, clean sea flavour.

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Okayama barazushi

Okayama families make a big shallow platter of barazushi for the autumn shrine festivals, Girls' Day in March and other celebrations, and it is sold in station lunch boxes all year. A local story says it began when a lord ordered people to eat only one side dish, so cooks hid everything in the rice instead. The seasoned rice is mixed with simmered vegetables and topped with seafood from the Seto Inland Sea. This version uses cooked prawns, gently simmered squid and egg threads, plus ready-made vinegared mackerel, which is cured but not cooked. Use very fresh, sushi-grade fish from a trusted fishmonger; not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. Leave the mackerel out, or add extra prawns, to make it fully cooked. Chef's tip: fold the vinegar into the rice while it is hot and fan it as you go; the rice soaks up the seasoning and turns glossy instead of wet.

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Hiroshima oyster nabe (kaki nabe)

Hiroshima Bay is lined with oyster rafts, and from late autumn to early spring the city's restaurants put kaki nabe on the menu. In the version called dote nabe, a thick band of sweetened miso is smeared around the inside of the pot like a riverbank, then melts into the broth bit by bit as you eat. Cabbage, tofu, leek and mushrooms go in first; the oysters only need a few minutes at the end. It is cooked at the table on a portable burner, so everyone eats it as it is ready. Chef's tip: rinse the shucked oysters in a bowl with potato starch and a little salt, then in clean water; the grey starch pulls out grit and slime and leaves them clean-tasting.

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