Butter-centred chicken cutlet
Torzhok, a coaching town on the road between Moscow and St Petersburg, was famous for the tavern of the Pozharsky family, and travellers spread the word of its tender cutlets of chopped chicken bound with milk-soaked bread and cream. They became a classic of grand Russian restaurants and later of Soviet menus. Each cutlet hides a cube of cold butter that melts into the meat, and the coating of tiny bread cubes fries into a crunchy, golden shell. Serve with mashed potatoes or buttered peas. The usual slip is overworking the mince in a processor, which makes it rubbery; chop it by hand or pulse briefly. Cook until the centre reads 74 °C. Chef's tip: freeze the butter cubes for 15 minutes so they stay inside rather than leaking out in the pan.
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Spotted dog, or 'spotted dick' and 'railway cake' in parts of Leinster, is white soda bread with a handful of raisins and a little sugar, the sweet loaf Irish grandmothers bake for the afternoon tea or Sunday visitors. It is soft, slightly cakey and best warm, split and buttered. Chef's tip: toss the dried fruit in the flour first so it stays spread through the loaf instead of sinking.
In the Spreewald, the forest and canal country south-east of Berlin, cucumbers have been fermented in barrels of dill brine for centuries, and in late summer the riverbanks are lined with stalls selling them by the jar. These salt-fermented gherkins are sour, garlicky and crunchy, eaten as a snack, alongside sandwiches or with jacket potatoes and quark. No vinegar is used: lactic fermentation does the souring. The most common mistake is letting cucumbers poke above the brine, where mould can start. Chef's tip: choose small, firm, freshly picked cucumbers and add a few vine or oak leaves; their tannins keep the gherkins crisp.
In Mainz and the wine villages of Rhine-Hesse, Spundekäs is what lands on the table at a wine festival or in a Straußwirtschaft, the pop-up taverns winemakers open in their courtyards in late summer. It is a light, airy whip of quark and cream cheese, sharpened with onion, garlic and plenty of sweet paprika, and it is scooped up with soft pretzels or Laugenbrezel. The name comes from the cone-shaped wooden 'Spund' it was once pressed into. A common mistake is using watery quark straight from the tub, which makes a runny dip; drain it first. Chef's tip: make it a couple of hours ahead so the onion softens into the cheese, then dust with fresh paprika just before serving.
Steckerlfisch, fish on a stick, is the smell of a Munich beer garden on a summer evening and of the Oktoberfest stalls: whole mackerel or lake whitefish threaded lengthways onto long wooden sticks, brushed with spiced oil and turned slowly in front of glowing charcoal. The skin turns crisp and golden and the flesh stays moist; it is eaten with fingers, a pretzel and a wedge of lemon. On a home barbecue the sticks are laid across the grill instead of stood around the fire. Chef's tip: grill over medium, not fierce, heat and be patient; the skin should blister slowly or it sticks and tears.
Eierspeis is the Austrian word for scrambled eggs, and in Styria they get a final drizzle of the region's dark green pumpkin seed oil. It is a farmhouse breakfast or a late-night snack after a long evening in a Graz wine bar, eaten straight from the small pan it was cooked in with a slice of rye bread. The eggs are soft and creamy in big folds, and the oil adds a toasted, nutty depth that tastes almost like brown butter. A common mistake is stirring too fast on a high heat, which gives small dry crumbs instead of soft curds. Chef's tip: salt the eggs a few minutes before cooking; it helps them set more tenderly.
When the pumpkin fields of Styria turn orange in October, every inn from Graz to the Slovenian border puts this soup on the board. It is velvety and gently sweet, with a little nutmeg and a dash of vinegar for lift, and comes to the table with a swirl of almost black pumpkin seed oil and a scattering of toasted seeds. Serve it as a starter before a Sunday roast or with crusty bread for supper. A common mistake is boiling the soup hard after the cream goes in, which can split it and dull the colour. Check the stock if you need it gluten free. Chef's tip: toast the seeds dry in a pan until they puff and pop; it takes 3 minutes and doubles the nutty flavour.
In the hills of south-east Styria, fat purple-speckled runner beans called Käferbohnen, 'beetle beans', are dried every autumn and turned into this simple salad. It is a fixture of the Buschenschank, the farm wine taverns where you sit outdoors with a board of bread, cheese and spreads. The beans are soft and creamy, the red onion and cider vinegar sharp, and the dark green pumpkin seed oil gives a deep, toasty, nutty flavour. A common mistake is dressing cold beans straight from the fridge; dress them lukewarm so they soak up the vinegar. Chef's tip: add the pumpkin seed oil last and do not heat it; it turns bitter when warm.
Wurzelfleisch, 'root meat', is a winter dish from the farms of Styria in south-east Austria, cooked in November and December when pigs were killed and the cellar was full of carrots, celeriac and parsley root. Pork shoulder is simmered in a lightly sour broth, then served in deep plates with thin strips of root vegetables, boiled potatoes and a snowfall of freshly grated horseradish. It is a gentle, clean-tasting dish, quite unlike a roast. Chef's tip: grate the horseradish at the table; it loses its bite within minutes.
Strascinati get their name from the way they are made: a piece of semolina dough is dragged (strascinato) across a wooden board under two or three fingers, so it curls into a wide, ridged shell. In the hill towns of Basilicata they are rolled on Sunday mornings and tossed with the simplest dressing of the poor kitchen, olive oil, garlic, breadcrumbs fried until crunchy and crushed peperoni cruschi, the sweet dried peppers of Senise. The crumbs stand in for cheese, which once was a luxury. Chef's tip: fry the breadcrumbs separately and add them at the table, so they are still crackling when you eat.
In Styria, the south-eastern corner of Austria where the hulless Styrian pumpkin is grown for its dark green seeds and oil, every bakery sells a loaf crowded with those seeds. Kürbiskernbrot is a light rye-wheat bread, nutty and slightly sweet, with toasted seeds through the crumb and pressed all over the crust. Locals eat it at a Buschenschank, the farmhouse wine tavern, with Liptauer, cured meats or a drizzle of pumpkin seed oil. A common mistake is adding the seeds raw: toasting them first gives the bread its deep, roasted flavour. Chef's tip: soak half the toasted seeds in hot water while you make the dough, so they stay tender inside the bread and don't pull moisture from the crumb.
Café tables in Buenos Aires have their own way with hot chocolate: the waiter brings a tall glass of frothy, steaming milk on a saucer with a slim bar of dark chocolate, and you drop the bar in yourself and watch it sink like a submarine. Stirred with a long spoon, it melts into a rich, not-too-sweet drink, and it is the classic order with medialunas on a cold winter afternoon or after school. At home it takes five minutes, and children love the moment of dropping the bar in. The common letdown is milk that is only warm: the chocolate sits in a lump at the bottom. Heat it until it is steaming and just starting to rise, but not boiling. Chef's tip: froth the hot milk with a whisk or milk frother before pouring; the foam on top is part of the café ritual and keeps the drink hot while the chocolate melts.
Backyard acerola bushes are everywhere in Pernambuco, Paraíba and the rest of the Northeast, and the small, glossy red cherries fruit several times a year. Blended with water and a little sugar, they make a vivid orange-red juice, tart and cherry-like with a slightly floral finish, famously one of the richest natural sources of vitamin C. Lanchonetes often mix it with orange juice; at home it is the drink kids are handed when they have a cold. Fresh acerolas spoil within days, so outside Brazil use frozen acerola pulp. Letting it stand is the common mistake, since the vitamin C and colour fade quickly once blended. Chef's tip: blend it just before serving, and add the sugar sparingly, about a tablespoon per two glasses, to keep it light.
Everyone in Ceará and Rio Grande do Norte has a cashew tree nearby, and in the season, roughly September to December, the fleshy yellow and red cashew apples hang heavily above the nuts. Their juice is the region's everyday drink: pale, cloudy, sweet-tart and faintly astringent, it leaves a slight dryness in the mouth that people love with fried fish or a plate of baião de dois. Fresh cashew apples rarely travel, so outside Brazil use frozen cashew-apple pulp (polpa de caju) from Brazilian shops. This is the fruit, not the nut, but anyone with a cashew allergy should still avoid it. Over-sweetening to hide the astringency is a common mistake, as the juice turns syrupy. Chef's tip: a few drops of lime and plenty of ice soften the dryness far better than extra sugar.
Cupuaçu is a big, brown, furry-skinned fruit from the cacao family, and in Belém and Manaus its white pulp shows up in ice cream, sweets and above all juice, sold in every lanchonete and at the Ver-o-Peso market. The pulp is thick, creamy and intensely aromatic, with a flavour somewhere between pineapple, banana and chocolate, and very tart, so it is blended with water and sugar into a frothy, almost milkshake-like juice. Look for frozen cupuaçu pulp in Brazilian and Latin shops. Many cafés blend it with milk instead of water; that version is no longer vegan or dairy free. Too little blending is the usual problem, because the fibrous pulp stays stringy. Chef's tip: blend the pulp from frozen, in chunks, with the sugar and a little water first until smooth, then add the rest of the water.
Brazilian lunch counters, the pratos feitos joints known as PFs, list suco de maracujá on every chalkboard, and many people order it for its famously calming effect after a long morning. Yellow passion fruit is blended briefly with cold water, strained and sweetened, which gives a vivid, perfumed, very tart drink that goes with rice, beans and a grilled steak just as well as with a beach snack. Use wrinkled, heavy fruit for the most juice, or frozen unsweetened pulp from Latin shops. Over-blending is the slip people make: crushed seeds turn the juice gritty and bitter. Chef's tip: blend the pulp with only a little of the water first, in a couple of short pulses, strain, then add the rest of the water and the sugar.
No Turkish weekend breakfast spread feels complete without a sizzling sahan of sucuklu yumurta carried to the table: slices of garlicky, cumin-spiced beef sucuk fried in their own red fat, with eggs cracked over and cooked just until the whites set. Everyone tears bread and dips it straight into the pan, between bites of cheese, olives and tomato. Sucuk is a cured beef sausage; cook it thoroughly. Common mistake: frying the sucuk on high heat, which burns the spices and makes the slices curl and harden. Chef's tip: add a teaspoon of water to the pan once the sucuk has released its fat; it stops the slices burning and helps cook the egg tops.
Market stalls in Montería, Sincelejo and Valledupar sell suero costeño from big tubs, ladled into bags: a sour, salty, spoonable cream that goes onto bollos, arepas, boiled cassava, fried plantain and mote de queso. Traditionally it comes from raw milk left to sour in the heat. This home version keeps the flavour but uses pasteurised cream and milk with live yogurt as a starter, which is far safer. Plan for 12–24 hours of fermenting plus chilling. Hygiene matters: wash the jar and spoon in hot soapy water and scald them with boiling water, never use raw milk, and keep the jar at room temperature (20–25 °C, out of direct sun) for no more than 24 hours before it goes into the fridge. Throw it out if you see mould, pink or orange patches, or it smells putrid rather than pleasantly sour. Leaving it out too long is the big mistake: it goes bitter and separates. Chef's tip: salt only after fermenting, as salt slows the cultures.
Late-night sandwich counters in Bourj Hammoud, Beirut's Armenian quarter, fry sujuk on a flat-top until it crackles, toss in tomatoes and wrap the lot in thin bread with toum and pickles. Ready-made sujuk is usually dried and cured; this home version is a fresh, uncured beef sausage mix seasoned with garlic, cumin, sumac and Aleppo pepper and shaped into skinless fingers, so it cooks quickly and safely. It is just as good at breakfast with fried eggs. The common mistake is frying on a high heat from the start, which burns the spices before the meat cooks through. Chef's tip: chill the shaped sausages for 30 minutes first; they hold together and brown better.
Sumaghiyyeh is Gaza's festive dish, cooked in big pots for Eid al-Fitr and eaten cold the next days with bread: chunks of lamb and chickpeas in a thick, purple-brown sauce of sumac, chard, tahini, garlic, dill and chilli. It tastes sour, nutty and herby all at once and is served at room temperature, sealed under a film of olive oil. Common mistake: using ground sumac straight into the pot, which leaves it gritty; soak the sumac and use the strained liquid. Chef's tip: make it a day ahead; the sauce sets and the flavours deepen, just as Gazan families serve it.
Supangle is the chocolate pudding of Turkish pudding shops and school canteens, a favourite of children from Istanbul to Ankara: a thick, dark cocoa custard set in a bowl, traditionally with a piece of sponge cake or biscuit hidden at the bottom to soak up the edges. Served cold with grated chocolate or pistachios on top, it is rich but not heavy. Use proper dark chocolate as well as cocoa for depth. Common mistake: adding the chocolate before the pudding has thickened; it can seize and turn grainy. Chef's tip: whisk the butter in at the very end, off the heat, for a glossy, almost shiny surface.
Fishermen from Cadaqués, Palamós and the other Costa Brava ports made suquet on board with the fish that would not sell: rockfish, monkfish, hake, a few prawns, simmered with potatoes in a sofrito and thickened at the end with a picada of garlic, almonds, parsley and fried bread. Now it is a weekend lunch in harbour restaurants, served straight from the pan. The potatoes must release their starch so the broth turns into a light, silky sauce. Chef's tip: 'crack' the potatoes rather than slicing them: cut part way, then snap off the pieces; the rough edges give up more starch.
The surubí, a big spotted catfish of the Paraná, has firm, almost meaty white flesh with no fine bones, which is why riverside parrillas in Corrientes, Goya and Esquina cut it into thick steaks and throw it on the grill like beef. A short soak in lemon, garlic and oil, plenty of salt, and live coals are all it asks. Serve with boiled cassava or potatoes, salsa criolla and a cold lemonade. Outside Argentina, buy thick steaks of another firm catfish, or of monkfish or swordfish. The usual mistake is trying to flip the fish too soon: it tears and sticks until a crust has formed and it lets go of the grate by itself. Chef's tip: oil the fish rather than the grill, and rub the hot bars with half a lemon just before the steaks go on.
Tabakh roho means 'it cooks itself', and this Damascus summer stew does just that: chunks of lamb, aubergine, courgette, potatoes, peppers and tomatoes are layered in a pot with garlic and dried mint and left to simmer quietly until everything is soft and the juices have mingled. Home cooks make it in July and August when the vegetables are cheapest, and it is eaten with rice or bread. Common mistake: stirring it — the layers should stay intact so each vegetable keeps its shape. Chef's tip: put the potatoes at the bottom where the heat is strongest and the tomatoes on top so their juices baste everything below.
From about nine in the morning, bicycles with a wicker basket strapped behind the seat roll into Mexico City offices and street corners, and the cry of 'tacos de canasta' goes up. Inside the basket, wrapped in cloth and plastic, a hundred small tacos have steamed in their own heat for hours, so the tortillas turn soft, glossy and slightly sticky with chilli-red oil. They are cheap, sold by the handful, and eaten with green salsa from a jar on the bike. The usual fillings are potato, refried beans, adobo and chicharrón prensado (pressed pork rind); this recipe makes the two vegetarian ones and leaves out the pork. Chef's tip: an insulated cool box lined with a tea towel does the same job as the basket and keeps them hot for two hours.
Tafelspitz is Vienna's grand Sunday lunch, the dish the old Beisl taverns and the city's famous beef restaurants built their names on. A whole piece of beef top rump is barely simmered with root vegetables for hours, then served in three acts: first the clear golden broth, then the sliced beef with crisp roast potatoes, sharp Apfelkren (grated apple and horseradish) and a cool chive sauce. Keep any leftover broth for Grießnockerlsuppe or Frittatensuppe. Chef's tip: never let the pot bubble; a slow tremble keeps the meat juicy and the broth clear.
Tah-chin is the showpiece of a Tehran dinner party: a round cake of saffron rice set with yogurt and egg, turned out of its dish so the thick golden crust sits on top like a lid, with a layer of tender chicken hidden inside. Families make it for birthdays, Nowruz visits and any day guests are coming, and the barberries scattered over the top add tart red jewels. The crust should crack like a crisp biscuit while the rice inside stays soft. A common mistake is skimping on the resting time after baking; turned out too early, the cake slumps and the crust sticks. Chef's tip: marinate the cooked chicken in a spoon of the yogurt mixture while the rice boils, so the filling is as well seasoned as the rice.
Tahin pekmez is the simplest thing on a Turkish breakfast table and one of the most loved: tahini and dark grape molasses (pekmez) swirled together on a plate and mopped up with bread. In Central Anatolia and the Aegean, where grapes are boiled down each autumn, grandparents swear by it as a warming winter food. Stirred thoroughly, it becomes a thick, glossy spread that tastes of caramel and sesame. Common mistake: using tahini straight from the bottom of the jar; stir it well first or it is stiff and bitter. Chef's tip: add a few drops of lemon juice and keep stirring; the mixture suddenly thickens and lightens like a nut butter.
Peru's answer to pesto came from Italian-Ligurian families who settled in Lima and Callao, and it was quickly rebuilt with what Peruvian kitchens had: spinach to stretch the basil, queso fresco instead of hard cheese, and a can of evaporated milk to make it creamy. Menú restaurants in Lima serve it on weekdays, often with a breaded steak or a fried egg beside it, and the sauce turns out milder, softer and greener than the Genoese original. This version stays vegetarian: serve it with a tomato and onion salad, or crown each plate with a fried egg if you eat them. The classic mistake is boiling the leaves too long, which turns the sauce khaki and dull; they need only 20 seconds in hot water. Note that queso fresco is usually made with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian (microbial-rennet) fresh cheese if that matters to you. Chef's tip: blend the sauce with the evaporated milk while the leaves are still cold from their ice bath and it will stay bright for the whole meal.
At Bilbao's and San Sebastián's Santo Tomás fair each 21 December, queues form at stalls where cooks pat out talos and slap them onto hot iron plates. The dough is nothing more than finely ground maize flour, warm water and salt, and the flatbreads were once the everyday bread of Basque farms. This vegetarian version is folded around melting cheese; Idiazabal, the classic choice, is made with animal rennet, so pick a vegetarian sheep's cheese if you need to. A common mistake is a dough that is too dry, which cracks at the edges when you press it out. Chef's tip: keep your hands wet while shaping, and the discs will come out smooth and round.
Chipilín is a small-leaved wild legume that grows along the fields of Chiapas and Tabasco, and its grassy, faintly bitter leaves turn up in soups, rice and, most of all, these tamales. In Tuxtla Gutiérrez and San Cristóbal they are sold from steaming pots in the early evening and taken home for supper with hot chocolate or atole: soft, pale green-speckled masa wrapped around a cube of fresh cheese, often with a spoon of tomato salsa. Cooks there beat the masa with lard; vegetable shortening gives the same light texture. Frozen chipilín is sold at Central American grocers; spinach with a few watercress leaves is a fair stand-in. Chef's tip: strip the leaves from the stems by pinching and pulling down; stems make the masa stringy.
Families in Salta and Jujuy make tamales by the hundred, usually for the national holidays or for the winter fiestas in the Quebrada, with everyone at the table spreading dough onto husks, spooning in filling and tying parcels. The northern Argentine tamal is different from the Mexican one: the dough is made from finely ground white or yellow maize cooked with squash and beef fat, and the filling is a red, peppery mix of beef (traditionally from the head or charqui, dried beef) with onion, ají molido and cumin. Each parcel is folded and tied with a strip of husk into a little bundle, then boiled. Expect a long, hard afternoon, but they freeze well. Look for dried corn husks and fine maize flour in Latin American shops; masa harina also works. The filling must reach 71 °C, as for any mince, before it goes into the husks. Dough that is too dry is the usual mistake and cracks as it cooks; it should feel like soft polenta. Chef's tip: soak the husks in hot water for 30 minutes so they fold without splitting.
In Oaxaca, tamales are wrapped in banana leaves rather than corn husks, which makes them flat, square and very moist, with a faint grassy scent from the leaf. These are the classic version filled with mole negro and shredded chicken, sold from steaming pots at morning markets and made by the dozen for Christmas, Candlemas on 2 February and the Day of the Dead. The masa is beaten with pork lard, which gives the traditional light, rich texture; vegetable shortening works if you avoid pork. Use leftover mole negro, or a simplified mole made from good ready-made paste thinned with broth. Eat them with hot chocolate or atole. Chef's tip: keep a coin in the bottom of the steamer; when it stops rattling, the water has run low and needs topping up.
Bright green from a whole bunch of coriander, tamalitos verdes are the morning snack of Chiclayo and Trujillo, sold warm at market stalls and bakeries and unwrapped at the table with a heap of salsa criolla on top. Fresh corn is ground with coriander, onion and ají amarillo into a soft dough, wrapped around a strip of fresh cheese in corn husks and steamed. They should be tender, moist and herby, with a slightly sweet corn flavour and a salty melting middle. Traditional ones are made with lard; this version uses vegetable oil to stay vegetarian. The classic problem is a dough that's too wet, which makes the tamales fall apart; the starchy Peruvian choclo is ideal, and if you use sweet corn, add the cornmeal to firm it up. Queso fresco is usually made with animal rennet, so look for a vegetarian fresh cheese. Chef's tip: keep the steamer water at a steady simmer and top it up with boiling water, never cold, so the steam never stops.
During Ramadan in Damascus, street sellers in bright waistcoats pour tamar hindi from tall brass jugs on their backs, clinking cups to call buyers before iftar. The drink is a deep brown infusion of tamarind, sweetened and sharpened with lemon and a touch of rose or orange blossom, served ice cold to quench a day's thirst. It is fruity, tangy and refreshing, and made in a big batch to keep in the fridge. Common mistake: boiling the tamarind hard — gentle soaking gives a clean taste, while boiling makes it muddy. Chef's tip: strain twice, the second time through a cloth, for a clear, glossy drink.
Quibdó's riverside kitchens and the villages along the Atrato and Baudó rivers make tapao, which simply means 'covered': fish and chunks of green plantain cooked in a little water and a refrito of onion, tomato and herbs, with the pot sealed under a plantain leaf and a lid so it all cooks in its own steam. There's no coconut, unlike the Pacific's encocados, so it tastes clean and brothy, of fish and herbs, with the plantain soaking up the juices and thickening them slightly. It's a weekday dish, often made with bocachico or other river fish, and eaten from deep plates with a spoon and fingers. Adding the fish with the plantain from the start is a common slip; the plantain needs a head start or the fish falls apart before the plantain is tender. Chef's tip: if you can find bocachico or another river fish, use it; otherwise sea bream or tilapia steaks with the bone in give the broth the best flavour.
The name gives the game away: tapeno is the Provençal word for capers, and a Marseille chef is said to have first pounded them with black olives in the 1880s. Across Provence, from the markets of Nyons to the cafés of Aix, tapenade comes out with the apéritif before a long summer dinner, spread thickly on toasted baguette. The classic recipe adds a few anchovy fillets; this version leaves them out and leans on extra capers and lemon for the salty, savoury edge, so it is vegan. Chef's tip: buy olives with stones and pit them yourself; ready-pitted black olives are often the dyed, bland kind and give a flat, inky spread.
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