Chicken with black keluak nuts
Ask any Peranakan family in Singapore which dish defines the Nyonya table and most will name this one, cooked for Chinese New Year, ancestral offerings and big birthday lunches. Chicken is braised in a sour tamarind gravy built on a long-fried rempah of chillies, shallots, galangal, lemongrass and shrimp paste, together with buah keluak, the hard black nut of the kepayang tree, whose inky flesh tastes of dark chocolate, mushroom and olive. Diners dig the paste out with a teaspoon and stir it into rice. Raw keluak nuts contain hydrogen cyanide and are poisonous: use only cleaned, pre-soaked nuts sold ready to cook, and still soak them for several days, changing the water every day, as the seller's instructions say. The mistake people regret is skimping on that soak, which leaves the nuts bitter as well as unsafe. Chef's tip: cook it a day ahead; the gravy darkens and the flavours deepen overnight.
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Grillades and grits is the long-standing New Orleans brunch for Sunday mornings, Mardi Gras day and Jazz Fest weekends: thin medallions of beef pounded, browned and braised in a rich brown Creole gravy with tomato and the trinity, then spooned over buttery grits. Chef's tip: pound the meat thin and braise it low and slow until a fork slides in easily; rushing it leaves the beef chewy.
Walk up the stepped lanes of Darband in the north of Tehran on a summer night and the air is smoky with balal: corn cobs fanned over charcoal until blistered, then dunked straight into a bucket of salty water so they hiss and steam. The quick dip seasons every kernel and softens the charred skin, so the corn is smoky, juicy and salty all at once. It is eaten standing up, between a walk and a cup of tea. The mistake people make is grilling over flames rather than glowing coals, which blackens the outside before the kernels are cooked. Chef's tip: keep the salted water warm by the grill so the corn doesn't cool down when you dip it.
Collard greens simmered low and slow with smoked pork are at the heart of African American soul food and of Southern Sunday dinners and New Year's tables from Alabama to Virginia. The tough leaves melt into silky, savoury greens, and the cooking liquid, the 'pot likker', is so good it is sopped up with cornbread. Chef's tip: strip out the thick stems and wash the leaves in three changes of water; grit is the commonest complaint.
The name comes from Maya: xni' pek means 'dog's nose', because the salsa is hot enough to make your nose run and stay wet like a dog's. It is the raw table salsa of the Yucatán, made in minutes from tomato, red onion, coriander and plenty of habanero, all soaked in sour orange juice. In Mérida it is spooned over black-bean dishes, eggs and rice, and it brightens anything rich. It is best on the day it is made. Chef's tip: chop everything by hand into small, even dice; a blender makes it watery and the habanero turns bitter.
Any corrientazo (set-lunch place) in Medellín will have a sudado on the menu on weekdays, and it is just as common at home on a busy Tuesday: chicken pieces cooked in a closed pot with tomato, onion and potatoes until they release their own juices and turn into a thin, savoury, reddish sauce. No stock, no water to speak of, just patience and a tight lid. The meat goes tender and soaks up the cumin and garlic; the potatoes thicken the sauce at the end. It belongs next to white rice, a few slices of avocado and maybe a ripe plantain. The thing people get wrong is lifting the lid over and over: every look lets out the steam that does the cooking. Chef's tip: marinate the chicken with the garlic, cumin and salt in the fridge for 30 minutes to an hour first; the seasoning goes deeper and the sauce tastes richer.
No table in Mérida is complete without a bowl of these bright pink onions. They go on almost everything in the Yucatán, from panuchos and salbutes to bean tacos, eggs and grilled vegetables, and their sharp crunch is what cuts through rich, earthy food. The traditional pickle uses naranja agria, the sour Seville-type orange that grows all over the peninsula, with a little habanero and dried oregano. Chef's tip: pour boiling water over the sliced onions for 10 seconds first; it softens their raw bite and makes them turn pink much faster.
In Yucatec Maya, sikil means squash seed and p'aak means tomato, and that is almost all there is to this pale, coarse dip from the Yucatán Peninsula. Cooks in Mérida and the villages around it toast the seeds on a comal until they pop, grind them with charred tomato, chives and a little habanero, and serve the dip with tostadas or crisp tortilla chips before a meal. It tastes nutty, smoky and fresh at the same time, and is naturally vegan. Chef's tip: roast the habanero whole and add it a little at a time; you can always grind in more, but you can't take the heat back out.
Chicken and dumplings is the Sunday dinner and sick-day comfort of Mississippi, Tennessee and the Carolinas: a whole bird simmered into broth, shredded, and cooked with thin, rolled strips of dough that thicken the pot as they simmer, so it ends up halfway between soup and stew. Chef's tip: roll the dumplings thin, about 3 mm; thick ones stay doughy in the middle.
At Eminönü, by the Galata Bridge, boats rocking at the quay grill mackerel fillets over charcoal and pass them up in half a loaf with raw onion, lettuce and a squeeze of lemon; you eat it on a low stool with a cup of pickle juice. It is the simplest fish sandwich imaginable and depends entirely on fresh, oily fish and a hot pan. Serve with turşu (pickles) and a salgam or ayran. Chef's tip: grill the fillets skin side down for most of the cooking time; the skin crisps and protects the soft flesh so it doesn't stick and tear.
When frost settles on the highlands of Paraná and Santa Catarina, every street fair and roadside stall in Curitiba, Lages and São Joaquim sells paper cones of hot pinhão. These are the seeds of the Araucaria pine, big as a thumb, with a leathery brown shell and a starchy, sweet centre that tastes somewhere between chestnut and boiled potato. Families boil a pot after supper and peel them around the wood stove, and the pinhão is also the star of the Festa do Pinhão in Lages each June. The season runs roughly April to July; outside the south, look for vacuum-packed or frozen pinhão in Brazilian shops, and if you cannot find any, fresh chestnuts cooked the same way are the closest stand-in. The common mistake is pulling them out too early: underdone pinhão is waxy, hard to peel and slightly bitter. Chef's tip: snip the pointed tip off each seed before boiling and the shell slips off in one piece once cooked.
Haneeneh is desert comfort food from the Bedouin tents of the Jordanian Badia: soft dates mashed into hot samneh with crumbs of yesterday's flatbread, scented with cardamom and pressed into a rich, fudgy sweet. It is made for guests, for new mothers and for cold mornings before herding, eaten by hand with black tea or Arabic coffee. It takes ten minutes and uses only store-cupboard things. The mistake to avoid is cooking the dates too long once they meet the ghee; they turn stiff and chewy instead of jammy. Chef's tip: toast the crumbs in the ghee first until nutty, then add the dates off the heat so the mixture stays soft.
The Hangtown fry is said to have been ordered by a miner who struck gold near Placerville, then nicknamed Hangtown, in 1849, asking for the dearest dish in the house: oysters shipped up from San Francisco Bay, bacon (pork) and eggs, which were rare and costly in the gold fields. Today it is brunch at old San Francisco grills. Crisp crumbed oysters and bacon are set in a soft omelette. Chef's tip: fry the oysters before they meet the egg so their coating stays crisp.
Moraba-ye havij is the bright orange jam on Iranian breakfast tables, spread on warm barbari or sangak with butter or a slice of white cheese, especially in winter when carrots are at their sweetest. Thin shreds of carrot are candied in a light syrup with cardamom and orange peel, then finished with rosewater and slivered almonds, so every spoonful is chewy, glossy and fragrant. It is made in every region, and families argue over how thick the syrup should be. Chef's tip: cut the carrots into fine matchsticks rather than grating them; grated carrot turns to mush and clouds the syrup.
Morgh-e torsh is everyday Sunday cooking in Rasht and the villages of Gilan, where gardens overflow with herbs and the cooking leans sour rather than sweet. Chicken pieces are browned, then braised with a mountain of chopped coriander, parsley, mint and garlic chives, ground walnuts and sour plums, finished with verjuice or lemon until the sauce turns a deep olive green. It is eaten with kateh, the simple Caspian rice. A common mistake is adding the herbs raw to the pot; fry them first until dark and fragrant, or the sauce tastes grassy. Chef's tip: a beaten egg stirred in at the very end is how many Gilani grandmothers thicken and enrich the sauce.
While the meat rests on the cooler side of the parrilla, many asadores put halved red peppers cut side up over the coals, let them soften and char, then crack an egg into each one with a piece of cheese and a pinch of oregano. The pepper becomes a little dish: sweet, smoky and juicy, with a just-set egg and molten cheese in the middle. It is one of the classic starters at an Argentine asado, eaten with bread before the steak arrives, and it makes a good vegetarian main for anyone who skips the meat. The mistake is cracking the egg into a raw pepper: the egg overcooks before the pepper softens, so grill the shells first. Cook until the white is completely set. Queso cremoso or mozzarella is usually made with animal rennet; pick a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: cover the peppers with a foil tent or a lid once the egg goes in; the trapped heat sets the top of the egg without burning the base.
Three ingredients, a blender and a fridge: Brazilian home cooks from Recife to Curitiba lean on mousse de maracujá for Sunday lunch dessert because it takes ten minutes and nobody ever refuses it. The acid in passion-fruit juice thickens condensed milk and cream almost instantly, so it sets into a light, tangy, pale yellow mousse without gelatin, topped with the glossy black seeds and pulp. Sharp and sweet at once, it is perfect after a feijoada or a barbecue. Buy wrinkly, heavy passion fruit, which are the ripest and juiciest; frozen unsweetened pulp works too. The trap is diluting the juice: any added water stops the mousse setting, so use pure strained juice. Chef's tip: keep back the pulp of one fruit, warm it for a minute with a spoonful of sugar, and pour it over the mousse just before serving for shine.
Hummus shops in Jerusalem's Old City and in Nablus open before dawn, and alongside the smooth hummus they ladle out msabbaha: whole, just-cooked chickpeas bathed in a loose, garlicky tahini and lemon sauce, still warm. It is a working breakfast, eaten with raw onion wedges, green chilli and plenty of bread, and it is just as popular in south Lebanon. The texture is the point, soft chickpeas in a creamy pool rather than a purée. The common mistake is making the tahini sauce too thick; it should pour like double cream so it seeps around every chickpea. Chef's tip: crush a handful of the hot chickpeas into the sauce before you spoon it over; it makes the msabbaha richer and creamier.
Beirut's modern mezze bars made mtabbal shamandar a fixture next to hummus and moutabal: roasted beetroot blended with tahini, garlic, lemon and a little yoghurt into a magenta dip that is earthy, nutty and bright. It is quick to make and keeps well, so it is good for a weekend spread with warm flatbread, crisp cucumbers and radishes. Common mistake: boiling the beetroot, which waters it down; roasting in foil concentrates the sweetness. Chef's tip: add the lemon a little at a time and taste — beetroot varies a lot in sweetness, and the dip should taste lively, not sugary. Use plant yoghurt to make it vegan.
Huamantla, in Tlaxcala, is known for its August fair, when the streets are carpeted with coloured sawdust and flowers, and for muéganos: little cubes of fried dough glued together with dark piloncillo syrup into a sticky cluster, often pressed onto a round wafer. Visitors buy them in stacks from sweet shops around the main square. The dough is crisp and light, the syrup spiced with cinnamon and clove. Chef's tip: cut the dough into small, even cubes so they all fry golden at the same time.
Up in the yayla summer pastures above Trabzon and Rize, breakfast often arrives as one blackened pan set in the middle of the table, with everyone tearing bread and dragging it through. Muhlama is butter, coarse cornmeal and a young stringy cheese stirred together until the cheese melts into long, glossy threads and a pool of golden butter rises to the top. Eat it straight from the pan with cornbread or crusty bread, black tea and a plate of tomatoes and cucumbers. Common mistake: adding the cheese before the cornmeal has toasted in the butter, which leaves a raw, gritty taste and stops the oil separating. The Black Sea cheese (Trabzon or Kolot) and kaşar are usually made with animal rennet; a vegetarian mozzarella-style cheese works well. Chef's tip: don't stir once the cheese has gone in until it has fully melted, then stir in one direction only; that is what gives the long, elastic strands.
A Van breakfast is famously huge, with herb cheese, honey, kaymak and olives, and in winter it often includes a pan of murtuğa: flour slowly toasted in plenty of butter until golden, then scrambled together with eggs into rich, crumbly nuggets. It's a dish from cold mountain homes where a filling breakfast had to last until evening, eaten hot with bread or on its own with tea. Common mistake: rushing the flour on a high heat so it scorches before it cooks through; keep it low and keep stirring. Chef's tip: beat the eggs with a splash of water before adding them; they spread through the flour more evenly and stay softer.
Glass counters in the souks of Nablus and Damascus are stacked with mushabbak, crisp latticed spirals of fried batter dunked in syrup until they glisten. They are bought by the bag for Christian and Muslim feast days, for Ramadan evenings and for no reason at all, and are best eaten within hours while the shells still crack. A lightly fermented batter piped into hot oil gives the hollow, crunchy rings. The mistake to avoid is oil that is not hot enough: the batter soaks up fat and the spirals turn heavy and limp. Chef's tip: the syrup must be cold and the mushabbak hot; dip, count to three and lift, and they stay crisp for hours.
Bucaramanga's Mercado Central and the Sunday family tables of Santander serve mute, a big, thick soup that takes most of a day: hominy corn, honeycomb beef tripe and pork ribs, plus red beans, potatoes, pumpkin, cabbage and a handful of short pasta, all simmered until thick, rich and savoury. It is filling enough to be lunch on its own, eaten with avocado, ají and a piece of arepa. The tripe must be bought cleaned and bleached from the butcher and then simmered for two hours until tender; undercooked tripe is the most common complaint, as it stays chewy and tastes strong. This version uses cooked or tinned hominy and beans to save the overnight soaking. Chef's tip: rub the tripe with lime and salt and rinse it twice before cooking; it removes any farmyard smell and keeps the broth clean-tasting.
Mutzbraten is the fairground roast of eastern Thuringia, from Schmölln and the Altenburg area, where big chunks of pork shoulder are rubbed with salt, pepper and lots of marjoram, threaded on skewers and hung in an iron cage over a birch-wood fire. It is sold sliced with sauerkraut and a slice of rye bread at markets and village festivals. At home a lidded kettle barbecue with birch or other mild wood chips gives a close result; an oven version is in the steps. Chef's tip: marinate overnight, as the marjoram needs time to work its way into the meat.
Golden saffron nabat on a stick is the souvenir pilgrims bring back from Mashhad, and across Iran a stick of it is stirred into hot tea for an upset stomach, after a fright or simply instead of a sugar cube. The crystals grow slowly on cotton strings in a saturated syrup over two or three days, and making it at home is a pleasant, slow kitchen project. A common mistake is moving or knocking the jar: every jolt sets off fine sugar grit instead of big crystals. Chef's tip: roll the wet strings in a little sugar and let them dry before hanging them; the seed crystals give the new ones something to grow on.
Barbari is Tehran and Tabriz's breakfast bread: a long, thick oval with deep lengthwise grooves, its top glazed golden-brown and scattered with sesame and nigella. Bakeries sell it hot from early morning, and it goes home to be torn and eaten with feta, walnuts, herbs, butter and jam or a glass of sweet tea. Its secret is the roomal, a quick paste of flour, baking soda and water brushed on before baking, which gives the shiny, crackly crust. The usual mistake is pressing the grooves too shallow, so they puff out in the oven and the bread loses its shape. Chef's tip: press your fingertips right down to the work surface when making the grooves, and don't worry if it looks too flat; it rises in the oven.
Kermanshah in western Iran is famous for its nan-e berenji, and in the weeks before Nowruz bakeries there pack them by the boxful for guests who come visiting through the holiday. Made with rice flour, they are pale, crumbly and melt on the tongue, scented with cardamom and rosewater and sprinkled with a few poppy seeds. Many families make the dough a day ahead. The common mistake is letting them colour in the oven; they should come out white with only the faintest gold underneath. Chef's tip: rest the dough in the fridge for at least an hour so the rice flour hydrates; otherwise the cookies crack and spread.
In the run-up to Nowruz, when Tabriz, Tehran and Qazvin families are spring-cleaning and baking for the round of holiday visits, nan-e gerdooyi are among the first cookies to go into the tin. They are made with chopped walnuts held together by egg yolks and sugar, no flour at all, so they bake crisp at the edge and soft and chewy in the middle. A common mistake is grinding the walnuts to a paste; they should be chopped into small pieces so the cookies have texture and don't turn oily. Chef's tip: leave a good gap between them on the tray; they spread to about twice their size.
In Khorasan and Kerman, nan-e komaj is the bread of guests and holidays: thick, soft, golden with turmeric, scented with cumin and layered with a ribbon of date paste and cinnamon. In villages around Mashhad it is baked in big rounds for Nowruz and religious feasts and cut into wedges with tea. It is sweet but not cake-like, sitting somewhere between bread and pastry. A common mistake is spreading the date paste right to the edge, which lets it leak and burn on the tray. Chef's tip: soften the dates with a spoon of hot water and a little butter before spreading; stiff date paste tears the dough.
No Nowruz tea tray in Tehran or Qazvin looks complete without a pile of tiny four-leafed nan-e nokhodchi, each topped with a sliver of pistachio. They are made from flour of roasted chickpeas, so they taste nutty and slightly savoury under the sugar, and they dissolve almost instantly on the tongue. Bakers make them by the thousand in March, but they are simple at home with a small clover cutter. The common mistake is using raw gram flour, which tastes beany and bitter; the flour must be from roasted chickpeas, or toasted first. Chef's tip: knead the dough longer than you think, 8–10 minutes, until it turns smooth and pale; that is what gives the melting texture.
Nan-e panjereh, 'window bread', is the most delicate pastry on a Nowruz table, and in Tehran and Isfahan it is usually made at home with a flower-shaped iron passed down through the family. A thin batter of egg, milk and flour flavoured with rosewater clings to the hot iron, then drops off into the oil as a crisp, lacy rosette that shatters at the first bite. The usual mistake is dipping the iron too deep; the batter must come only to the top edge, or the rosette won't release. Chef's tip: dip the iron back into the hot oil for 30 seconds before every rosette so the batter sets the moment it touches the metal.
Sangak means 'little stone': at bakeries in Tehran the dough is stretched onto a sloping bed of hot river pebbles inside a domed oven, and customers queue at dawn to carry home metre-long sheets folded over their arms, picking off the stones still stuck to the bread. It is a dimpled, chewy whole-wheat flatbread with a slight sourness and a toasted, blistered crust, eaten with cheese and herbs for breakfast or alongside kebabs. At home a tray of clean pebbles or a baking steel does the job. The common mistake is a stiff dough; sangak dough is very soft, almost a thick batter, which is what gives it its holes. Chef's tip: wet your hands well when stretching the dough onto the stones so it slides into a thin sheet without tearing.
Taftoon is the everyday bread of many Iranian towns, from Qazvin to Kerman: thin, soft and slightly bubbly, slapped onto the hot clay wall of a tanoor and peeled off a minute later, then piled on the sofreh at lunch to wrap herbs and cheese or to scoop up stews. It is softer and thinner than barbari but less papery than lavash. A heavy pan or upturned wok on the hob gives very good results at home. The common mistake is rolling it unevenly; thin patches burn while thick ones stay doughy. Chef's tip: stack the breads in a tea towel as they come off the heat; the trapped steam keeps them soft and foldable.
In the Zagros mountains of Lorestan and among the Bakhtiari nomads, women roll out nan-e tiri with a long, thin rod (the tir) until the dough is almost see-through, then flip it onto a domed iron saj over a wood fire. It cooks in seconds and is stacked high, and because it dries so thin it keeps for weeks and is softened with a sprinkle of water before eating. It needs only flour, water and salt. The usual mistake is resting the dough too little; it fights back and shrinks when rolled. Chef's tip: wind the dough around a long thin rolling pin as you roll and unroll it, as the Lori bakers do; it stretches the dough evenly without tearing.
Nan-e Yazdi, often called Yazdi cakes, are the small domed cupcakes every Iranian bakery sells for breakfast and afternoon tea, first made in Yazd and now loved in Tehran and far beyond. The crumb is soft and a little dense, perfumed with cardamom and rosewater, and the tops are scattered with pistachio or sesame before baking. Children eat them dunked in milk. A common mistake is overbeating after the flour goes in, which makes the cakes tough and peaked; fold just until smooth. Chef's tip: rest the batter in the fridge for an hour before baking for a taller, crackled dome.
Razor clams are pulled from the sandy beds of the Galician rías, and in the seafood bars of Vigo and A Coruña they arrive straight from the griddle, opened up and glistening with garlic oil. They take two minutes to cook and are eaten with the fingers. Live razor clams twitch or pull in when touched: throw away any with cracked or broken shells, or that don't react at all. A common mistake is leaving them on the heat after they open, which turns the meat rubbery. Chef's tip: lay them all hinge side down in the same direction so they open evenly and the juices stay in the shells.
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