A quick vegetable biryani made in a pressure cooker: peas, carrots, potatoes, beans and tomatoes cooked with fresh coconut, yogurt and gentle spices, then steamed with the rice until each grain is separate. Finish it with crisp potato chips and fried vegetables. Serve with masala yogurt.
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The Selkirk bannock is a round, glossy fruit bread from the Border town of Selkirk, first baked in the 1850s and famously eaten by Queen Victoria at Abbotsford. Unlike a plain oat bannock it is a rich yeast dough that is mostly sultanas, sliced and buttered with afternoon tea. Chef's tip: work the sultanas in only after the dough has risen once, or they tear the gluten and the loaf won't lift.
In Hidalgo, the pulque country north of Mexico City, the pulquerías serve curados: pulque blended with fruit, and the strawberry one is pink, thick and creamy. Home cooks and taquerías make this alcohol-free cousin for the whole family, a strawberry agua fresca blended with evaporated milk, so it is like a light milkshake that you drink with tacos on a hot afternoon. It contains no pulque or alcohol. Chef's tip: use the ripest, darkest strawberries you can find; pale ones give a thin, sour drink.
Sovar means to knead hard, and Azorean women once kneaded this rich bread dough for an hour by hand before Easter and the Holy Spirit feasts of early summer, when loaves are blessed and shared with the whole parish. The crumb is soft, golden and feathery, with a tight, dark shiny crust. Slices are eaten plain with coffee, toasted with butter, or used to soak up the juices of alcatra on Terceira. A common mistake is baking before the loaf has doubled, which gives a dense, cakey crumb. Chef's tip: give it a slow, full rise, which is what gives the bread its fine, cotton-soft crumb.
Every kebab house in Tehran puts a little bowl of mast-o musir on the table beside the chelow, and at home it sits next to Friday lunch the same way. Musir is a wild mountain shallot from the Zagros, sold dried in slices; once soaked it is mild, garlicky and faintly sweet, and it gives thick yogurt a sharp bite. The one mistake to avoid is skipping the long soak, which leaves the shallots tough and bitter. If you cannot find musir, see the swap in the steps. Chef's tip: make it a few hours ahead; the shallot flavour deepens as it sits in the fridge.
Sifnos is an island of potters, and its Easter dish is named after the deep clay pot it is cooked in: lamb or kid laid on a bed of vine prunings, splashed with red wine, scattered with dill and sealed in the baker's oven overnight. The meat steams in the wine and its own juices until it falls from the bone, smelling of dill and woodsmoke, and is served on Easter Sunday with potatoes and bread. This recipe uses red wine; for an alcohol-free version use red grape juice with 2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar. Common mistake: opening the pot to check, which lets the steam escape and dries the lamb. Chef's tip: if you can't get vine twigs, a few thick slices of onion or a small rack under the meat stops it sitting in the liquid.
Mecklenburger Rippenbraten is the Christmas and Sunday roast of Mecklenburg on the Baltic coast, a flat piece of pork belly spread with apple and prunes, rolled, tied and roasted until the skin crackles. The fruit melts into the meat and turns the pan juices into a sweet, dark gravy, served with red cabbage and boiled potatoes. The prunes are sometimes soaked in rum; here they are soaked in apple juice, so the dish is alcohol-free. Chef's tip: dry the scored skin uncovered in the fridge overnight; dry skin is what puffs into crackling.
The name is said to come from 'mate faim', 'kills hunger', and that is what this thick pancake did for farmers in the Savoie and Bauges mountains, who ate it for breakfast before a day in the fields or the high pastures. Every valley makes it differently; this version is a golden cake of grated potato, egg and a little milk, cooked slowly in butter and finished with Beaufort, served cut into wedges with a green salad or a fried egg. Beaufort is made with animal rennet; a vegetarian mountain-style cheese works too, or leave it out and serve the matafan with jam for a sweet version. Chef's tip: squeeze the grated potato really hard in a tea towel; the drier it is, the crisper the crust.
Weekend asados around Buenos Aires usually end with a show-off dish from the grill, and matambre a la pizza is the one that makes children cheer: a whole sheet of matambre (the thin flank cut that sits under the skin) cooked slowly until tender, flipped, then spread with tomato sauce, oregano and mozzarella and left on the grill until the cheese bubbles. Parrillas in the suburbs sell it cut into squares. Many cooks first simmer the meat in milk, which keeps the lean cut juicy and soft; that is the method here, finished under a hot grill or in the oven if you have no barbecue. Matambre is eaten well done and tender rather than pink. The usual mistake is grilling it straight away like a steak, which leaves it leathery: slow cooking first is what makes it tender. Chef's tip: score the membrane on the fatty side in a criss-cross before cooking, so the sheet stays flat instead of curling up when it hits the heat.
Christmas and New Year in Argentina fall in high summer, so the festive table is crowded with cold dishes, and matambre arrollado is the one that draws a crowd: a thin sheet of beef from between the ribs and skin (matambre, the rose or flank cut), spread with garlic and parsley, layered with hard-boiled egg, carrot and red pepper, rolled into a fat sausage, poached and pressed. Rotiserías in the Buenos Aires suburbs sell it by the slice, and each round shows a mosaic of colours. Served cold with Russian salad and a sharp chimichurri, it is tender and savoury. Because the outside of the meat ends up rolled inside, cook it to a core temperature of 71 °C, as for minced meat. The usual mistake is slicing it warm: it falls apart, so press it under a weight in the fridge overnight. If you can't find matambre, ask the butcher for a thin flank steak butterflied to 1 cm. Chef's tip: lay the meat with the grain running along the roll, so each slice cuts across the fibres and stays tender.
On Copacabana and Ipanema, vendors in orange uniforms trudge across the hot sand carrying two metal barrels, one of iced mate tea and one of limonada, shouting 'mate, limão!' and mixing the two in a plastic cup for each customer. The tea is chá mate tostado, roasted yerba mate leaves brewed like ordinary tea, with a smoky, toasty taste; with sweet lime lemonade it becomes the definitive carioca beach drink, cold, tangy and gently caffeinated. Toasted mate is sold loose or in tea bags in Brazilian shops; green yerba mate gives a grassier result. Squeezing the limes too hard, or blending them whole, is the usual pitfall, because the white pith turns the lemonade bitter. Chef's tip: brew the tea strong and chill it completely before mixing, so the ice does not dilute it.
Few plates say Puglia as plainly as this one: a pale, velvety purée of dried broad beans beside a tangle of boiled wild chicory, the two joined by a stream of green olive oil. Families from the Murgia to the Salento cook it on winter weekdays and through Lent, and Bari trattorias still put it on the menu as the true taste of cucina povera. The beans are sweet and earthy, the greens bitter, and every forkful should carry a little of both. Chef's tip: buy dried broad beans that are already skinned and split; they cook to a cream on their own, with no sieving.
Matjes nach Hausfrauenart, 'housewife's matjes', is the early-summer plate of northern Germany, eaten when the new season's young herring arrives in June, from Glückstadt on the Elbe to the cafés of Emden. Mild, buttery matjes fillets are covered in a cool sauce of sour cream and yoghurt with crisp apple, onion and gherkin, and served with hot boiled new potatoes in their skins and sometimes green beans. Matjes is cured raw herring, so buy commercially prepared, previously frozen fillets from the chilled counter and keep them cold; it is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. Chef's tip: make the sauce first and let it chill for 20 minutes so the apple and onion flavour it before the fish goes in.
Long before cake, there was mazamorra: dried white maize, soaked and simmered with water until the kernels burst, then finished with milk, sugar and cinnamon. In colonial Buenos Aires mazamorreras sold it from clay pots on the street, and it still turns up at school and town-hall celebrations every 25 May and on cold evenings in the interior, eaten warm or cold from a bowl. The kernels stay pleasantly chewy in a creamy, gently sweet milk, a bit like rice pudding with more bite. Look for maíz blanco pisado (cracked white hominy) in Latin American shops; dried white pozole corn is the closest substitute. Plan ahead: the corn needs soaking overnight. Adding the milk too early is the main mistake, because the corn will not soften in milk and the pot catches on the bottom, so cook it in water first. Chef's tip: stir in a little of the hot liquid with the sugar before you add the rest of the milk, and serve it with a dusting of cinnamon or a spoonful of honey.
Food trucks and street corners in Bogotá and Medellín sell mazorca desgranada in plastic tubs, late into the evening: sweet corn kernels cut off the cob, fried in butter and layered with shredded chicken, melted cheese, crunchy potato sticks, pineapple sauce and salsa rosada. Some stands add bacon, beef or quail eggs; this version keeps to chicken. It is sweet, salty and gooey, and a hit with teenagers. Using tinned corn without draining it well is a common error: the water dilutes the sauces and the tub gets soggy. Chef's tip: fry the corn until a few kernels brown and pop; that caramelised edge stands up to all the sweet sauces. For a vegetarian tub, skip the chicken and use a cheese made with microbial rennet.
When a baby is born in Lebanon, the family cooks a big pot of meghli and hands out bowls to every visitor who comes to congratulate them; it also appears at Christmas in Christian homes. Ground rice is simmered with sugar and warm spices — caraway, cinnamon and anise — until it sets into a smooth, cocoa-brown pudding with no milk or eggs at all. Each bowl is topped with desiccated coconut and a generous pile of soaked walnuts, almonds, pistachios and pine nuts. Common mistake: walking away from the pot; ground rice catches and lumps fast, so it needs steady stirring. Chef's tip: soak the nuts in cold water overnight and peel the almonds; they turn plump and crisp, which is the hallmark of a good meghli.
On the Atlantic coast around Puerto Madryn and the Golfo Nuevo, mussels from cold Patagonian waters are farmed and gathered in quantity, and seafood places along the rambla steam them a la provenzal, which in Argentina means lots of garlic and parsley. A splash of dry white wine goes into the pot; the alcohol mostly cooks off, but you can swap it for fish stock with a little lemon for an alcohol-free pot that tastes just as good. Serve with bread or chips to mop up the briny juices. Cooking mussels too long is the usual slip: they shrink and turn rubbery, so lift the lid as soon as most have opened. Before cooking, throw away any mussel with a broken shell or one that stays open when tapped; after cooking, discard any that stay shut. Chef's tip: keep the garlic in gently warm oil until it just smells sweet; brown garlic turns bitter and dominates the mussels.
Galicia's estuaries are lined with the wooden rafts (bateas) where mussels grow on ropes, and the region's canneries have long sold them in escabeche: steamed, shelled and kept in a warm-spiced marinade of oil, vinegar and paprika. Made at home, they're a tapa for an aperitif with crisps and cold drinks, and they keep for several days. Throw away any mussels with cracked shells, and any open ones that don't close when tapped, before cooking. A common mistake is pouring the marinade over cold mussels straight from the fridge: mix while both are warm so the flavours soak in, then chill. Chef's tip: they taste best after a full day in the fridge.
On the road up to Montserrat, farm women once sat at stalls selling fresh mató, a soft, mild, unsalted curd cheese, and the dessert of mató drizzled with honey became a fixture of Catalan restaurants. It is as simple as dessert gets, and best with the freshest cheese. Shop-bought mató and some ricottas are set with animal rennet; this home version is set with lemon juice instead, so it is vegetarian. If you buy cheese, check the label for a vegetarian or microbial rennet. Chef's tip: heat the milk gently and stop at 90 °C; boiling makes the curds tough and grainy.
Mulinciani chini, 'full aubergines' in Calabrian dialect, are what summer gardens across Calabria turn into in August: halved aubergines hollowed out, their pulp fried and mixed with soaked bread, pecorino, egg, garlic and basil, then piled back into the shells and baked in a light tomato sauce. They are made in big trays for family lunches and taken cold to the beach the next day. The filling turns soft and savoury, the shells silky. Chef's tip: they taste best after resting for an hour, so they are perfect to make ahead.
Pulling melcocha is a spectacle at roadside stalls in panela country, around Villeta in Cundinamarca and the Santander highlands. A syrup of panela is boiled until thick, cooled just enough to handle, then stretched, folded and stretched again until it turns from dark brown to a pale, satiny gold and becomes chewy. It is twisted into ropes and cut into pieces that taste of caramel and molasses. Kids and adults both buy it in little bags, and it makes a fun kitchen project for a group. Getting the timing wrong is the usual mistake: too hot and it burns your hands and sticks, too cold and it snaps instead of stretching. Work when it feels like warm putty. The syrup is dangerously hot, so keep children well back until it has cooled. Chef's tip: a sugar thermometer takes the guesswork out; take the syrup off at 125 °C for a chewy result.
Santorini's Easter sweet is melitinia: small, thin pastry cups pinched around a soft filling of fresh cheese, sugar and mastic, baked until the tops crack and turn golden. Islanders bake trays of them on Holy Saturday and offer them on Easter Sunday with coffee, and their resinous, piney mastic perfume sets them apart from cheese pastries elsewhere in Greece. Fresh mizithra is the island cheese; ricotta, usually rennet-free, is a good substitute. Common mistake: grinding mastic on its own, which makes it gum up; always crush it with a spoon of sugar. Chef's tip: roll the pastry very thin, about 2 mm, so it bakes crisp around the creamy filling.
Every Greek taverna puts melitzanosalata on the meze table, especially in summer when aubergines are charred over the same coals as the souvlaki. Unlike Levantine dips it has no tahini: the smoky flesh is chopped with a knife, not puréed, and sharpened with red wine vinegar, raw garlic, parsley and plenty of fruity olive oil, so it stays rough-textured and bright. Serve with warm pitta, grilled bread or alongside fried fish. Common mistake: leaving the bitter juices in; drain the cooked flesh in a sieve for 10 minutes. Chef's tip: char the aubergines directly on a gas flame or barbecue until they collapse; the oven alone will not give the smoky taste.
From early December, bakeries and kitchens all over Greece fill tins with melomakarona, the oval cookies that sit beside kourabiedes on every Christmas table and get handed to visitors with coffee. The dough is made with olive oil and orange juice rather than butter, scented with cinnamon and clove, then baked and plunged into warm honey syrup so the inside turns soft and sticky while the edges stay crisp. Common mistake: dipping hot cookies into hot syrup, which turns them to mush; one of the two must be cool. Chef's tip: mix the dough only until it comes together; overworking it squeezes out the oil and the cookies bake hard and greasy.
On Sifnos, the Easter table always has a melopita, a crustless pie of fresh cheese, eggs and thyme honey baked until just set and dusted heavily with cinnamon. It is lighter than a cheesecake, gently sweet and floral from the honey, and tastes best a day after baking, cut into squares with coffee. The island cheese is fresh mizithra; ricotta works well and is usually made without animal rennet. Common mistake: baking it too hot, which makes it puff up and crack, then sink and weep. Chef's tip: let it cool slowly in the switched-off oven with the door ajar for a smooth, silky set.
In Tudela, at the southern tip of Navarre, the market gardens along the Ebro send out artichokes, peas, broad beans and asparagus all at once in April and May, and the town celebrates with its Jornadas de Exaltación de la Verdura. Menestra is how those vegetables reach the table: every one is cooked on its own, the artichokes and chard stalks are dipped in flour and egg and fried, and everything is brought together at the end in a little garlic and onion sauce. Local cooks often add cured ham; this version leaves it out and is fully vegetarian. Chef's tip: save a cupful of the water the vegetables were boiled in, because it gives the final sauce far more flavour than plain water or stock.
Think of the Italian minestrone after a century of Lima kitchens: menestrón is thicker, heartier and greener, a weekday soup that families and menú restaurants make in huge pots. Beef shin simmers into a rich broth with potatoes, squash, corn, cabbage, green beans and white beans, then short pasta goes in, and finally a purée of basil, spinach, garlic and fresh cheese turns the whole pot pale green and fragrant. It is a meal in a bowl, best with bread and a squeeze of lime or a spoon of ají. People tend to add the basil purée too early; boiled, it loses its colour and its scent, so stir it in off the heat. Chef's tip: for a vegetarian menestrón, skip the beef and use vegetable stock, with a cheese made with microbial (vegetarian) rennet.
Bilbao families have cooked merluza en salsa verde in a shallow clay cazuela for generations, and it still turns up at Sunday lunch and on Christmas Eve. The sauce is just olive oil, garlic, parsley and the fish's own juices, thickened by gently shaking the dish so the gelatine from the hake binds it, much like a pil-pil. Clams open on top at the end. A common mistake is stirring with a spoon, which breaks the fish; swirl the dish instead. Chef's tip: keep the heat low once the hake goes in, because the sauce only comes together when it barely simmers.
No women's afternoon gathering in Ankara or Kayseri is complete without a platter of mercimek köftesi: little finger-pressed ovals of red lentils and fine bulgur, rich with onion, pepper paste, cumin and a big handful of spring onion and parsley. They're eaten cold, tucked into lettuce leaves with a squeeze of lemon, and they keep well for picnics and lunch boxes. Common mistake: draining the lentils; the bulgur needs all that hot liquid to swell, so cook the lentils until the water is just absorbed. Chef's tip: knead the mixture with wet hands for a few minutes after the bulgur softens; the more you knead, the smoother and less crumbly the köfte.
Weekend drives out of Bogotá often end at a roadside sweet shop with a slice of merengón: two discs of crisp, chalky meringue sandwiched and piled with whipped cream and fruit. Strawberry is the classic in the highlands, while on the Caribbean coast soursop (guanábana) is just as popular. Think of it as Colombia's answer to pavlova, crunchier and sweeter, assembled shortly before eating so the meringue cracks under the spoon. The meringue needs a long, slow bake and a slow cool in the oven, so plan ahead. Humidity and undissolved sugar are the main enemies: if the sugar is not fully beaten in, the meringue weeps sticky syrup, so rub a little between your fingers and keep whisking until it feels smooth. For a soursop version, swap the strawberries for 300 g thawed soursop pulp, folded into half the cream. Chef's tip: assemble no more than an hour before serving, or the cream softens the meringue.
This is the Friday supper of Galician homes and the plain, honest plate you find in harbour restaurants from A Coruña to Vigo: thick hake steaks poached with potatoes, onion and bay, then drizzled with ajada, hot olive oil with garlic and paprika. It relies on very fresh fish and good oil. A common mistake is boiling the hake hard, which breaks it apart; it should poach gently in water that barely shivers. Chef's tip: lift out the fish with a slotted spatula and let it drain well, so the ajada sits on top instead of sliding into a watery puddle.
Michirones are dried broad beans slowly simmered with pork, bay and hot chilli until soft and spicy, and in Murcia they are the tapa of cold months, ladled into small bowls in the city's bars with a spoon stuck in. The beans need a long soak and a long cook, so bars make a big pot in the morning that lasts all day. This contains pork (chorizo, panceta and a cured ham bone). Chef's tip: wait until the end to add salt, because the ham bone and chorizo season the broth as they cook.
Midopilafo is what Thessaloniki fishermen's families make on a fasting Friday or a cheap midweek night, when a bag of mussels from the Thermaic Gulf can feed a crowd. The mussels are steamed first and their briny liquor becomes the stock for the rice, which simmers with onion, a little tomato and dill until tender and a touch soupy. The shelled mussels go back in at the end so they stay plump. Some cooks add white wine; this version uses lemon and the mussel juice only, so it is alcohol-free. Common mistake: cooking the shelled mussels with the rice the whole time — they shrink to rubber. Chef's tip: strain the mussel liquor through a fine sieve lined with kitchen paper to catch any grit.
Late at night along Istanbul's Beşiktaş and Kadıköy streets, vendors walk with trays of shiny black mussels stuffed with fragrant rice, cracking one open, squeezing lemon on it and handing it over until you say stop. The rice is cooked with onion, tomato paste, cinnamon, allspice, currants and pine nuts, then steamed back inside the shells. Make them at home for a meze table and they are safer and fresher than any street tray. Chef's tip: soak the closed mussels in cold salted water first; the shells relax slightly and are much easier to prise open with a small knife.
Shepherds in the Aragonese uplands made migas from yesterday's bread, a little water, garlic and whatever pork was hanging in the larder, and it is still a cold-weather breakfast, a hunters' lunch and a fiesta dish in villages from the Pyrenees to the Maestrazgo. Fried slowly in a wide pan, the dampened crumbs turn golden and crisp on the outside and stay soft inside, flecked with fried longaniza and bacon. Fresh green grapes or a fried egg on the side are the classic way to serve them. This contains pork (longaniza sausage and bacon). A common mistake is soaking the bread: sprinkle the water on and leave it overnight, or the migas turn to paste. Chef's tip: keep turning the crumbs with the edge of a spatula, chopping as you go; it is the long, patient stirring that makes them loose and crisp.
Migas were the breakfast of Extremaduran shepherds, made from the hard bread they carried, and they are still what families cook on a rainy winter day or at a village fiesta, often in a huge pan stirred with a long spoon. The bread is cut tiny, dampened and left overnight, then fried slowly in garlicky oil with panceta and chorizo until loose, golden and crunchy at the edges. They are served with grapes or melon on the side, and sometimes a fried egg. This contains pork (panceta and chorizo). Chef's tip: keep turning the crumbs with a spatula the whole time; this constant movement is what makes them loose.
Order espetada in any Madeiran restaurant and a basket of these golden cubes comes with it: polenta-style cornmeal cooked with shredded kale and garlic, set in a tray, then cut and fried until crunchy outside and soft and creamy within. They are also cooked at home on Sundays alongside grilled fish. Chef's tip: make the cornmeal the day before, as a well-chilled block cuts cleanly and doesn't fall apart in the oil.
Before the buses fill up, mingau sellers set out tall aluminium pots on Salvador's street corners and ladle out tapioca porridge into plastic cups for workers on the way in. It is thick, spoon-coating and gently sweet, made with granulated tapioca or small pearls cooked in milk and coconut milk with cinnamon and clove, and finished with a dusting of cinnamon. At home it is a quick breakfast, a soothing supper for children and the classic thing to give someone who is unwell. Many vendors also sell mingau de milho and de puba from neighbouring pots. Where people go wrong is adding the tapioca to boiling milk without soaking it first; it clumps and stays chalky in the middle. Chef's tip: take the pan off the heat while it still looks a little loose, because the tapioca keeps drinking up liquid and the porridge sets thicker within minutes.
In the courtyard houses of Mardin and the guest rooms of Şanlıurfa, mırra is poured from a long-spouted pot into tiny handleless cups, just a mouthful each, as a sign of welcome. It is made by boiling dark-roasted coffee for a long time until it becomes thick, bitter and concentrated, then boiling it again and again. Tradition says you never put the cup down empty unless you mean to marry the host's family, so hand it back with a small shake. It is never sweetened: serve it with dates or a sweet. Common mistake: using finely ground Turkish coffee; it turns muddy, so use medium-ground dark roast. Chef's tip: the second boil is where the flavour comes from, so don't rush it.
Mixiotes belong to the high plains of Hidalgo and Tlaxcala, where they are a Sunday and fiesta dish sold from steaming pots at weekly markets. Chunks of lamb (or chicken) are soaked in a dark, aromatic paste of guajillo and ancho chillies with garlic, cumin and cloves, wrapped in parcels and steamed until the meat collapses into its own rich red juices. The traditional wrapper is mixiote, the thin skin peeled from maguey leaves, which is now protected and hard to buy, so this recipe uses baking parchment tied with string. The lamb marinates in the fridge for at least 4 hours or overnight. Open the parcels at the table and serve with corn tortillas, salsa verde and avocado. Chef's tip: twist and tie the parcels tightly so no steam gets in; a sealed parcel keeps the sauce thick and concentrated.
Despite its name, which nods to North Africa, moghrabieh is thoroughly Lebanese: big, chewy pearls of hand-rolled semolina cooked with chicken, baby onions and chickpeas in a broth scented with caraway and cinnamon. Families in Beirut and the mountains make it for Sunday lunch and especially on Christmas Eve in some villages. The pearls are served in a mound with the chicken and onions on top and a jug of broth to moisten each plate. Common mistake: boiling the pearls in the broth from the start; they turn gluey, so parboil them in water first. Chef's tip: toss the drained pearls in a little butter and caraway before mixing them with the onions — they stay separate and glossy.
The Waldviertel, the cool, forested uplands of Lower Austria, is poppy country: in July its fields bloom white, pink and violet, and the grey poppy seed grown there has a protected name. Mohnnudeln are its favourite sweet dish, served as a main meal on meatless days or as dessert. Soft potato dough is rolled into little tapered noodles, boiled, then tossed in foaming butter with a generous amount of freshly ground poppy seed and icing sugar, so they taste nutty, buttery and gently sweet. A common mistake is using whole or stale poppy seeds; whole seeds give no flavour and old ground ones taste bitter. Chef's tip: grind the poppy seed yourself in a spice grinder just before using, in short bursts so it doesn't turn to paste.
On the beaches of Bocagrande and in the open-air kitchens of La Boquilla outside Cartagena, the lunch plate is a whole mojarra (tilapia) fried until its fins crackle, served with coconut rice, smashed green plantain patacones and a tomato and onion salad with lime. The skin goes shatteringly crisp, the flesh stays sweet and moist, and you eat it with your fingers, pulling meat off the bone. Scoring the sides lets the heat and seasoning reach the thick part near the spine. The mistake to avoid is putting a wet fish into the oil, which spits dangerously and leaves the skin soggy: pat it very dry and dust it lightly. Chef's tip: fry one fish at a time in plenty of oil and don't move it for the first 4 minutes, so the skin sets before you turn it. Serve with arroz con coco for the full Caribbean plate.
Thick, golden and soothing, mojica is the stew Cuiabá cooks with pintado, the big spotted catfish of the Pantanal rivers. Cassava simmers in a tomato and onion broth until it starts to break and thicken it, then cubes of firm fish poach gently on top, and the whole pot is finished with cheiro-verde and a squeeze of lime. It is eaten at family lunches and riverside restaurants in Mato Grosso, with white rice and a hot pepper sauce, and is known as a cure for a tired body. Outside Brazil, use catfish, monkfish or thick cod loin. People often stir the fish into the pot like a curry, which breaks it into shreds; lay it on top and let it steam. Cassava must always be cooked right through. Chef's tip: mash a few pieces of the cooked cassava against the side of the pot before adding the fish; it thickens the broth without any flour.
Green mojo is the cooler partner to red mojo picón on every Canarian table, the sauce that goes with grilled fish at harbour restaurants in Puerto de Mogán and La Restinga, with papas arrugadas, and with fried goat cheese. Fresh coriander and green pepper are pounded with garlic and cumin, then sharpened with vinegar and loosened with olive oil into a bright, grassy sauce. Some islands use parsley instead of coriander. It keeps for three or four days in the fridge. Chef's tip: add the oil slowly while you stir, so the sauce emulsifies into a thick, creamy green rather than splitting into herbs floating in oil.
Of Oaxaca's seven moles, mole negro is the one brought out for weddings, christenings and the Day of the Dead, when families cook it in huge clay pots and send guests home with containers of it. Its near-black colour comes from chillies toasted very dark and from seeds and tortilla charred on purpose, balanced by fried plantain, raisins, sesame and a little Mexican chocolate, so the sauce tastes smoky, bittersweet and deeply savoury rather than sweet. The true base is the Oaxacan chilhuacle negro, which is hard to find outside the region; this version uses a practical mix of pasilla, mulato, ancho and guajillo, which gets very close. Serve it over the poached chicken with white rice and warm corn tortillas. Oaxacan cooks often fry the sauce in pork lard; vegetable oil works just as well and keeps the dish pork-free. Chef's tip: make the sauce a day ahead; like most moles it rounds out and deepens overnight in the fridge.
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