Eel and potato paprika stew
In El Palmar and the other villages around the Albufera lagoon south of Valencia, the restaurants that are famous for paella serve something older first: all i pebre, "garlic and pepper", a brick-red stew of lagoon eel and potatoes thickened with a pounded almond and fried-bread picada. It is rich, garlicky and gently hot, eaten with bread to mop up the sauce. Ask your fishmonger to skin and cut the eel, and handle it with gloves: raw eel blood is irritating, though harmless once cooked. If you can't find eel, monkfish or hake works well. A common mistake is letting the paprika burn; it turns bitter in seconds, so add it off the heat. Chef's tip: break the potatoes with a knife instead of cutting cleanly; the rough edges release starch and thicken the sauce.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
Navajo tacos, also called Indian tacos, are what the queues are for at powwows, state fairs and roadside stands across the Navajo Nation and the Four Corners. A freshly fried, crisp-edged fry bread is piled with beef and pinto bean chili, shredded lettuce, tomato, onion and cheese, and eaten with a knife and fork. Chef's tip: make the chili first and fry the bread last, so it is still crisp when the toppings go on.
Every Moroccan home cook seems to have a meskouta recipe, the light, fluffy sponge that is baked in a ring tin and set out for afternoon tea, unexpected guests or a children's snack. This one is flavoured with fresh orange juice and zest; many families make a yogurt version instead, using the yogurt pot to measure everything, and that variation is in the steps. The crumb is airy and moist, not too sweet, and it pairs perfectly with mint tea or a glass of milk. No mixer is strictly needed, but it helps. Chef's tip: beat the eggs and sugar for a full 5 minutes until pale and tripled in volume; under-whipped eggs, the usual mistake, make a dense, flat meskouta.
Fishermen's wives in Portimão stretched a modest catch of squid by filling the bodies with chopped tentacles, rice and a little chouriço, then simmering them slowly in tomato sauce until meltingly tender. It is a Sunday dish in the western Algarve, served sliced into rounds with boiled potatoes or more rice. This contains pork (chouriço), and the sauce uses white wine; replace it with the same amount of fish or vegetable stock for an alcohol-free version. Chef's tip: fill the squid only two-thirds full, because the rice swells and can split them.
Psari plaki is how Greek island families cook the day's catch for a crowd: the fish laid on a bed of soft onions, garlic, tomatoes and parsley, drizzled with olive oil and baked until the sauce turns jammy. It is a traditional Friday and Palm Sunday dish, eaten with bread, horta and plenty of lemon. Use cod, hake, sea bream or grouper. Common mistake: putting the fish in with raw vegetables, which leaves them crunchy and watery when the fish is done; cook the base first. Chef's tip: squeeze lemon over the fish and let it sit while the base bakes; it firms the flesh and seasons it to the bone.
Red, white and green, the colours of the Basque flag, sit in one pan in piperade, the summer dish of Bayonne, Espelette and the villages of the French Basque Country. Green peppers, onions and ripe tomatoes are stewed in olive oil until soft and sweet, then warmed with the region's mild, fruity Espelette pepper. Basque families eat it at lunch with crusty bread, spooned beside rice, or with eggs softly scrambled into it; restaurants often add a slice of Bayonne ham, which this version leaves out. Chef's tip: cook it slowly and let the liquid reduce; a good piperade is jammy, not watery.
Haggis, neeps and tatties is the centre of every Burns Supper on 25 January, when the haggis is piped in, addressed with Robert Burns's poem and cut open with a flourish. Haggis is a peppery, oaty pudding of minced lamb's offal, onion and spice; nearly everyone in Scotland buys it from a butcher, then simply heats it and serves it with mashed swede (neeps) and potatoes (tatties). The cream sauce has a splash of whisky, which contains alcohol; leave it out and add a teaspoon of mustard for an alcohol-free sauce. Chef's tip: wrap the haggis tightly in foil before it goes in the water so the casing doesn't burst.
The Scotch pie is the straight-sided, double-crust mutton pie eaten at half time on football terraces and bought from butchers' counters in every Scottish town, with an open rim at the top for adding gravy, beans or mash. The pastry is a hot water crust made with lard (an animal fat) and the filling is peppery minced mutton or lamb. Chef's tip: shape the pastry while it is still warm; cold hot-water pastry cracks.
Lucanica, the coiled fennel-seed pork sausage of Basilicata, is so old that Roman writers named it after the region. At home it's often cooked the simplest way, braised with sweet peppers and a little tomato until the peppers turn silky and the sausage fat flavours everything. It's a pork dish for a weekday supper or a village festival, served with crusty bread or a pile of soft polenta. If you can't find lucanica, use any coarse Italian pork sausage with fennel. Chef's tip: prick the sausage only once or twice; too many holes let all the juices run out and the sausage dries.
Stovies, from the Scots word for stewing on the stove, is the Monday dish made from Sunday's roast all over Scotland, and the ceilidh and wedding supper served late in the evening with oatcakes and beetroot. Potatoes and onions are cooked slowly in beef dripping with the leftover meat and its jelly until some potatoes collapse into a thick, savoury mash and some stay in chunks. Chef's tip: don't stir too often; let the bottom catch a little, as those brown bits are the best part.
Mince and tatties is the weekday tea of Scottish homes and school canteens, so familiar that 'mince' is Scots slang for nonsense. Beef mince is browned and simmered with onion, carrot and a little oatmeal to thicken, then served with plain boiled or mashed potatoes and often peas. Chef's tip: brown the mince in batches until it crackles and turns properly brown; grey mince gives a flat flavour.
Puca means red in Quechua, and Ayacucho's puca picante is as red as a stew gets, thanks to ají panca and a little beetroot. Cubes of pork and potato simmer in a sauce thickened with ground toasted peanuts until creamy, nutty and mildly hot; it is served at Ayacucho's Sunday lunches and during Semana Santa with white rice, a fried pork chunk on top and a sharp salsa criolla. A frequent error is too much beetroot, which makes it earthy and sweet; you only need enough for the colour. Chef's tip: toast the peanuts in a dry pan before grinding them, and the sauce tastes twice as deep.
Faggots are the thrifty meatballs of the Black Country, the industrial towns west of Birmingham, sold by butchers and served at chip shops with mushy peas and gravy. They are made from pork liver, pork belly and onion with breadcrumbs, sage and mace, and baked in a deep onion gravy. This is a pork dish. Chef's tip: wrap each faggot in caul fat if your butcher has it; it bastes them and holds them together.
Boxty is the potato pancake of the north midlands, from Leitrim, Cavan and Fermanagh, remembered in the rhyme 'boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan'. Raw grated potato is mixed with mashed potato, flour and buttermilk, then fried, giving a cake that is crisp and lacy outside and soft and slightly chewy inside. Eat it for breakfast with eggs and tomatoes, or wrapped round a creamy mushroom filling. Chef's tip: squeeze the grated potato hard in a cloth; wet potato gives soggy, grey boxty.
Cali bakeries sell pandeyucas warm in paper bags from early morning, often in a horseshoe shape, to go with a glass of kumis yoghurt drink or a café con leche. Made only from cassava starch, cheese, egg and a little butter, they are gluten free, puff up in the oven and stay hollow and stretchy inside with a thin crisp skin. Unlike pandebono, there is no corn flour, so they are lighter and chewier. Use tapioca (cassava) starch, sold in Asian and Latin shops; the cheese is typically a salty queso costeño made with animal rennet, so mix a vegetarian feta-style cheese with vegetarian mozzarella. Dough that is too wet makes them spread flat; it should feel like soft play dough. Chef's tip: they are at their best within 30 minutes of baking, so shape them ahead and bake just before eating.
The New York bagel came with Jewish bakers from Poland to the Lower East Side, and it is still breakfast on the go across the five boroughs, split and spread thickly with cream cheese. The dough is stiff and rested overnight in the fridge, then each ring is boiled before baking, which gives the dense, chewy crumb and the glossy, crackly crust. Chef's tip: test one bagel before boiling them all; if it floats in a bowl of cold water, they are ready.
Angers and the Anjou countryside have served crémets since the 1800s: a mixture of fresh cheese, whipped cream and whisked egg white, drained in muslin until it holds its shape, then unwrapped onto a plate with berries or a red fruit coulis. It is soft, cool and barely sweet, and Angevin cheese shops sell it by the pot in spring and summer. This version swaps raw egg white for a little extra whipped cream, so it is safe for everyone. You need muslin or a clean J-cloth and small sieves or ramekins with holes. Chef's tip: give it a full 12 hours in the fridge; it firms up and turns light and mousse-like as the whey drips away.
As soon as Ramadan begins, bakeries in Damascus and Aleppo stack up golden loaves of ma'arouk, a soft, slightly sweet brioche-like bread that people buy on the way home to break the fast. The dough is perfumed with mahlab (ground cherry stones), topped with nigella and sesame seeds, and is often braided or filled with date paste. Eat it warm with tea, or toasted the next morning with white cheese. Common mistake: adding too much flour while kneading; the dough should stay soft and a little tacky for a tender crumb. Chef's tip: brush with sugar syrup as soon as the loaves leave the oven — it gives the classic shine and keeps the crust soft.
Tolosa, in the Oria valley, celebrates its dark purple-black beans every autumn, and the town's restaurants serve them in clay pots with the 'sacramentos' on the side: chorizo, morcilla and pork belly, plus cabbage and pickled guindillas. This contains pork (chorizo, morcilla and pork belly). The beans are cooked very slowly with only onion and oil until creamy and the broth is thick and dark. A common mistake is boiling the beans hard, which splits their skins; they should barely tremble. Chef's tip: add a splash of cold water three times while they cook ('scaring' the beans), which keeps the skins tender and whole.
A shiny red apple on a stick is the picture of a Brazilian festa junina stall, lined up in rows beside the quentão and pipoca. The 'love apple' is a small, tart apple dipped in hot sugar syrup that hardens into a thin, crackling, ruby-red shell; you bite through glass and hit crisp fruit. It is a good one to make at home for a June party because the syrup takes 15 minutes and the apples are ready as soon as the shell cools. Choose a plant-based red colouring to keep it vegan. Where it tends to fail: any water or wax on the apple skin stops the syrup sticking, so it slides off in a puddle. Chef's tip: dip the apples in boiling water for 10 seconds and dry them thoroughly to remove the wax before you start.
Northeastern Brazilians call cassava macaxeira, and fried sticks of it come out with carne de sol, with grilled cheese at beach shacks, and in a bowl beside a cold drink at any bar from Natal to Maceió. Boiling first makes the inside soft and floury; frying afterwards gives a thick, blistered crust that stays crunchy far longer than potato chips. They need only coarse salt, though a dip of vinagrete or garlic mayonnaise is common. Buy sweet cassava, cook it fully, and never eat it raw. The frequent mistake is boiling until the cassava falls apart, which makes sticks that break up in the oil; stop as soon as a knife slides in. Chef's tip: let the boiled sticks steam dry and cool completely, even chill them for an hour, before frying; the drier surface is what makes them crackle.
Monterrey and Sonora both claim machaca, the dried, pounded beef that once let ranchers carry meat across the desert. At breakfast it is fried with onion, tomato and green chilli, then scrambled with eggs and rolled into soft flour tortillas, and it turns up in every lonchería and roadside café in the north. The beef is savoury, salty and chewy against the soft egg. Proper machaca is hard to find outside Mexico; shredded leftover roast beef or brisket, dried out in the pan until crisp, makes a good substitute, as does unsweetened beef jerky pounded into shreds. Chef's tip: fry the machaca on its own first until the edges crackle, which brings back the toasty flavour before anything wet goes in.
On the waterfront in La Paz, Baja California Sur, machaca de pescado is the sea's answer to beef machaca: firm fish is poached, shredded and fried with onion, pepper, tomato and chilli until almost dry and full of flavour. Fishermen's families once made it with shark or smoked marlin, and today it fills breakfast burritos, tacos and tostadas in cafés along the malecón. Any firm white fish such as cod, hake or mahi-mahi works well. It is savoury, lightly spicy and tender. Serve it with corn tortillas, rice or refried beans. Chef's tip: squeeze the shredded fish in your hands to get rid of excess water before it hits the pan, so it fries rather than stews.
İzmir mornings begin at a boyoz stand in Alsancak or Kemeraltı: a small round pastry of paper-thin, oil-stretched dough, coiled into a snail and baked until the layers shatter, eaten beside a halved hard-boiled egg and a glass of tea. Sephardic Jews brought it to the city centuries ago, and İzmir has guarded it ever since. The dough itself is plain; the magic is in the long rest in oil and the stretching. Chef's tip: let the dough balls sit submerged in oil for a full two hours; they relax so completely that you can stretch them almost transparent without tearing.
Natchitoches, the oldest town in Louisiana, is famous for these crescent-shaped fried pies, sold at its Christmas Festival of Lights and from family pie shops on Front Street. The filling is minced beef and pork with onion, garlic and cayenne, wrapped in a short pastry and fried until blistered and crisp. It contains pork. Chef's tip: cool the filling completely before filling the pastry, or the dough softens and tears.
Winter Sundays in the towns of Buenos Aires Province mean a big pot of puchero bubbling from mid-morning: beef shin and brisket on the bone, a marrow bone, chickpeas, corn on the cob, squash, sweet potato, potato, carrots and cabbage, all simmered together. The meal comes in two courses, as in the Spanish cocido it descends from: first the golden broth, often with fine noodles or rice, then a platter of meat and vegetables doused with olive oil, salt and a spoon of salsa criolla. It is gentle and clean-tasting rather than rich. Many families add chorizo colorado or pancetta (pork); this version keeps to beef. Plan for the chickpeas to soak overnight. Boiling it hard is the classic mistake, which clouds the broth and toughens the meat; it should barely shiver. Chef's tip: add the vegetables in stages, longest-cooking first, so the cabbage and squash hold their shape instead of dissolving.
Bozghormeh is a dish of Kerman, the desert city in south-east Iran, cooked on winter weekends and for family gatherings. Lamb and chickpeas are simmered with turmeric until soft, then pounded together and finished with kashk (salty fermented whey), lots of fried onion and garlic and a dusting of dried mint; it is scooped up with flatbread rather than eaten with rice. The result is creamy, tangy and deeply savoury. A common mistake is boiling after the kashk goes in; it turns grainy, so add it at the end over a low heat. Chef's tip: if you can't find kashk, mix thick Greek yogurt with a pinch of salt and a squeeze of lemon; it's milder but close.
Puchero is the feast-day pot of the Canary Islands, simmered for hours on Sundays and at Christmas and on the night after pig-killing in the old days, big enough to feed a whole family twice. Beef, chicken and pork go in with chickpeas, then a long list of vegetables: pumpkin, sweet potato, corn, cabbage, carrots, green beans, chayote and even pears. This contains pork (pork ribs and chorizo). The broth is served first, sometimes thickened with gofio, then the meats and vegetables on a platter with mojo. Chef's tip: add the vegetables in stages by how long they take, so the pumpkin and pears hold their shape.
Pobra de Trives, a mountain town in Ourense, holds a festival every August in honour of its bica, a rich, close-textured cake made with fresh cream and butter from local dairies. It is baked in a rectangular tin, sold in paper and eaten in thick slices with coffee or a glass of milk. The sugar scattered on top bakes into a thin, crackly crust. A common mistake is overmixing once the flour goes in, which makes it tough; fold just until no streaks remain. Chef's tip: whip the egg whites separately and fold them in last for a lighter crumb.
Ktefa, also known as pastilla au lait, is the grand finale of many weddings and family feasts in Fez and Rabat: shattering layers of fried warqa piled up with a light orange-blossom milk custard and a sweet, cinnamon-scented crumble of toasted almonds, assembled at the very last moment so every bite crackles. It is served in wedges or straight from the platter. Filo fried in rounds makes an easy home version, and everything can be prepared ahead except the final assembly. The custard is cooked until it bubbles, so the eggs are fully cooked. Don't assemble ktefa ahead of time: once the custard sits on the crisp layers they go soggy within minutes. Chef's tip: assemble only when you are ready to serve; if it sits for more than 15 minutes, the custard softens the crisp layers, the most common way ktefa goes wrong.
Shepherds in Barbagia, the mountainous heart of Sardinia, took stacks of pane carasau with them for weeks on the high pastures, because this dry, glass-thin flatbread never goes stale. Each disc is baked until it balloons, split in two while hot, then baked again until crisp and golden; Italians call it carta da musica, music paper, for how thin and crackly it is. Sardinians eat it with olive oil and salt as a snack, break it into soups and layer it into pane frattau. Making it at home takes patience and a very hot oven. Chef's tip: split each puffed disc the moment it comes out of the oven; once it cools, the two layers fuse together.
Cali cooks treat a black-skinned plantain as a treat rather than a fruit past its best, and maduro con queso shows why. The plantain bakes in its own skin until the flesh turns sticky and caramel-sweet, then it is split lengthways and packed with soft white cheese that melts into the hot fruit. In the Valle del Cauca it turns up at home lunches beside rice, beans and a sudado, and at weekend corrientazo counters as the sweet note on a savoury plate. The cheese of choice is a mild, stretchy quesillo or queso campesino, both normally set with animal rennet, so pick a vegetarian mozzarella-style cheese if that matters to you. Where it goes wrong is the plantain: a yellow one with a few spots stays starchy and dry, so wait until the skin is almost completely black and the fruit gives when pressed. Chef's tip: bake the plantains on a tray lined with baking paper, because the sugars leak out of the skins and burn onto bare metal.
Jericalla belongs to Guadalajara: legend says a nun at the city's Hospicio Cabañas orphanage made it in the 19th century to feed the children something nourishing. It is a firm baked custard of milk, eggs, sugar, vanilla and cinnamon, between a flan and a crème brûlée, with no caramel underneath; the top is left in a hot oven until it blisters and darkens in patches. Tapatíos buy it in little glass pots from street carts and in the markets of Jalisco. Chef's tip: let the top darken properly under the grill at the end; those scorched spots are what makes it a jericalla rather than a plain custard.
Paisas finish lunch with a glass of mazamorra the way others take dessert: soft, swollen kernels of hulled white corn in their own starchy cooking liquid, topped up with cold milk and eaten with a piece of panela or guava paste to nibble between sips. In Medellín it is sold from carts as well as made in big pots at home for the week, and it is mild, milky and quietly filling. Look for dried hulled white corn (maíz pilado or peto) in Latin American shops. Soak it overnight first. A common mistake is serving it before the corn is fully soft; the kernels should split open and be tender to the bite. Chef's tip: save the thick cooking liquid; it gives the drink its silky body, and the corn keeps in it for 4 days in the fridge.
Matera's bread is a big golden loaf of durum-wheat semolina and sourdough, with a thick crackling crust and a crumb the colour of straw that stays moist for a week. It is shaped into a horned cornetto or a high-backed loaf, and until the 1950s families in the Sassi took their dough to the communal oven, each loaf marked with a carved wooden stamp so it came back to the right house. It is still eaten every day in the city, sliced thickly with olive oil and tomato or soaked in soups. Plan over two days, with a cold rise overnight. Chef's tip: feed your starter with semolina the day before, so its flavour matches the dough.
In Oaxaca's central valleys, the 'yellow' mole is the everyday one of the seven: lighter than mole negro, made on weekdays, sold at market fondas in Tlacolula and Ocotlán and folded into empanadas on the comal. Guajillo and costeño chillies give it a brick-orange colour, a few tomatillos make it tangy, and masa stirred in at the end thickens it to a soft, velvety sauce. Oaxacan cooks use chicken or beef broth; this version uses vegetable stock with chayote, green beans and potatoes, which is also how many homes make it during Lent. Serve it in deep bowls with corn tortillas. Chef's tip: the fresh hoja santa leaf (or a few fennel fronds) is what makes it taste Oaxacan, so add it for the last few minutes only.
Maftoul means 'rolled', and in Palestinian villages women still sit together in autumn rolling bulgur and flour by hand into pea-sized pearls, drying them in the sun to last the winter. For a family gathering, the maftoul is steamed over a pot of chicken simmering with onions, chickpeas and caraway, then served on a big platter with the chicken on top and the broth in bowls alongside. Bought maftoul or giant couscous is fine. Common mistake: boiling the maftoul like pasta, which makes it gluey; steam it, then moisten with broth. Chef's tip: toss the dry maftoul with oil and spices before steaming so every grain stays separate.
High in the Vosges above Munster, the farm-inns called fermes-auberges serve their pungent washed-rind cheese in the simplest way: a wedge laid over hot potatoes in their skins, with a little dish of cumin seeds for sprinkling. Alsatians eat it as a winter supper or as the cheese course after a walk in the hills, with a green salad and a glass of something cold. The cheese smells strong but tastes mild and milky once warm, and cumin is its traditional partner. Most Munster is made with animal rennet; for a vegetarian meal choose a vegetarian washed-rind cheese, or a ripe vegetarian brie or reblochon-style cheese. Chef's tip: toast the cumin seeds in a dry pan for a minute before serving; they go from dusty to nutty and lift the whole plate.
Each June farmers around Gaziantep cut wheat while it is still green and burn off the husks in the field, which gives firik its gentle campfire smell. Cooked as a pilaf with onion, pepper paste and a handful of chickpeas, it has a chewy, nutty bite that sits well beside grilled kebabs or simply a bowl of ayran and a tomato salad. It is the everyday grain of the region's home kitchens, cheaper than rice and more filling. Rinse the grains well: grit and bits of chaff are common in firik. Chef's tip: let it rest under a tea towel for ten minutes after cooking; the steam finishes the grains and they separate beautifully.
Seadas (or sebadas) are Sardinia's festive dessert: large discs of thin pastry wrapped around fresh, tangy cheese and lemon zest, fried until blistered and golden, then drizzled with warm honey, ideally the bitter strawberry-tree honey of the island's hills. The cheese melts into soft, stretchy strings, so they are a sweet-salty, crisp-gooey surprise. Shepherd families once made them at the end of a festa or for Carnival; today every Sardinian restaurant offers them. The pastry is traditionally made with lard, and here it is butter. Chef's tip: melt the cheese into discs first, so it sets flat and is easy to seal inside the pastry.
Pane frattau turns dry pane carasau into a hearty plate in twenty minutes: sheets of the crisp bread are dipped in hot broth until just supple, layered with tomato sauce and grated pecorino, and topped with a poached egg whose yolk runs into everything. It is said to have been first served in Orgosolo or Nuoro for a royal visit, and it is now a staple of Barbagia agriturismi and family suppers. Traditionally the broth is made from mutton or meat; this version uses vegetable stock, which works beautifully. Chef's tip: dip each sheet for no more than 2–3 seconds; it keeps softening on the plate.
Gaziantep's baklava shops lay out trays of şöbiyet beside the classic squares: buttery filo triangles hiding a soft semolina cream and a thick seam of pistachio, soaked in cool syrup. Families buy them by the kilo for bayram visits and engagement days, and they are best eaten the day they are made, while the top layers still crackle. Home versions use shop filo and a quick milk cream instead of the clotted cream the masters fold in. Pour cold syrup over hot pastry, never hot over hot, or the layers turn soggy. Chef's tip: chill the cream until it is firm enough to slice; a soft filling oozes out as you fold the triangles.
Pane e panelle is Palermo's breakfast on the run: wafer-thin squares of chickpea batter fried until puffed and crisp at the edges, stuffed five or six at a time into a soft sesame roll and squeezed with lemon. Friggitorie at the Vucciria and Ballarò markets sell them from early morning, often alongside potato crocchè, and the city eats them standing at the counter. The panelle are creamy inside and nutty with a little parsley. Chef's tip: whisk the chickpea flour into cold water, never hot, and you will have no lumps.
In Lebanese villages from the Chouf to the Bekaa, maghmour turns up on the table during the long Lenten fasts and through the summer, when aubergines are piled high at every greengrocer. Chunks of fried or roasted aubergine collapse into a sweet, garlicky tomato sauce with chickpeas and plenty of olive oil, so the dish is soft and silky rather than chunky. Lebanese cooks serve it at room temperature with flatbread, pickles and a bowl of olives, and it tastes even better on the second day. Roasting the aubergine instead of deep-frying keeps it lighter without losing the melting texture. Common mistake: stirring hard once the aubergine is in; fold gently or it turns to mush. Chef's tip: add a final drizzle of good olive oil and a pinch of dried mint just before serving to lift the deep, sweet flavours.
Teruel is famous for its cured hams, and magras con tomate is how Aragonese home cooks have long turned a few thick slices into supper: the ham is fried briefly, then simmered in a homemade tomato sauce and served with fried eggs and bread for dipping. It is a typical dinner in the Bajo Aragón and at bar counters in Zaragoza's old Tubo district. This contains pork (cured ham). A common mistake is frying the ham too long; it hardens and turns very salty, so give it barely a minute a side. Use hand-cut slices about 5 mm thick if you can. If you serve the eggs with runny yolks, they are not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system; fry them until the yolks are firm for those diners. Chef's tip: don't salt the sauce until the ham has been in it for a few minutes.
Ramadan evenings, weddings and Eid all call for a tray of sticky almond briouats: small triangles of warqa or filo wrapped around almond paste scented with orange-flower water and cinnamon, fried until golden and then plunged into warm honey. They are crisp at first bite, then soft and chewy as the honey seeps in, finished with a few sesame seeds. Served with mint tea, they sit happily next to chebakia and sellou on the iftar table. Filo works well in place of warqa. Chef's tip: dip the briouats in honey that is warm but not boiling, for about 2 minutes; leave them longer, the common mistake, and they turn soggy.
Devilled kidneys were a Victorian gentlemen's club breakfast in London and on country house sideboards, and they have come back on the menus of British chop houses as a brunch dish. Lamb's kidneys are dusted with flour, mustard powder and cayenne, fried quickly and finished in a peppery sauce, then piled on hot buttered toast. Chef's tip: snip out the white core from each kidney; it is tough and has a strong taste.
Its name blends 'majado' (mashed plantain) and 'marisco' (seafood), and along the coast of Piura and Tumbes, near the Ecuadorian border, it's what cevicherías and beach restaurants serve when you want something hot and filling. Mashed green plantain is folded into a sauce of garlic, onion, ají and seafood juices, with prawns, squid and mussels running through it, so every forkful is creamy, garlicky and briny. Serve it with lime and salsa criolla. Mussels must be alive: tap any open ones and discard those that don't close, and discard any that stay shut after cooking. Overcooking the seafood is the most frequent mistake; it goes in at the end, just until pink and opaque. Chef's tip: keep the mussel cooking liquid and use it to loosen the mash; it's pure seafood flavour.
M'hancha means 'the snake', and that is exactly what this festive Fez pastry looks like: a long tube of paper-thin warqa or filo filled with orange-blossom almond paste and coiled into a spiral, then baked until golden and brushed with warm honey. It is brought out whole for guests and family celebrations and cut into wedges at the table with mint tea. The pastry shatters, the filling is soft and fragrant with cinnamon, and the honey glaze makes it shine. Filo stands in well for warqa; most shop filo is made without butter, but check the label. Most people go wrong by letting the filo dry out while they roll; keep the sheets under a damp cloth so the long rolls don't crack when coiled. Chef's tip: roll the filling loosely in the pastry and coil it gently; packed too tightly, the snake cracks as you curl it.
Nothing went to waste in old Minho farmhouses, and yesterday's bread became this: a dense, sliceable pudding soaked in sweet milk, scented with lemon and cinnamon and turned out under a dark caramel. You will find it on the dessert trolley of family restaurants in Braga and Guimarães, especially at Sunday lunch. It is firmer than a crème caramel, with a fine, cake-like texture. A common mistake is baking it in an oven that is too hot, which makes the custard bubble and turn spongy instead of silky. Chef's tip: chill it overnight before turning it out, so it slices cleanly and the caramel turns to a pourable sauce.
When the grape harvest starts in Baden and the Württemberg vineyards in September, bakeries pull out trays of Zwiebelkuchen: a thin yeast base piled with slowly softened onions under a sour-cream and egg custard, sprinkled with caraway. It is traditionally eaten warm with Neuer Wein or Federweißer, the young, still-fermenting wine; that is alcoholic, so pour cloudy fresh grape juice or apple juice instead, which tastes just as right. Many bakers add bacon; this version is vegetarian. A common mistake is rushing the onions on a high heat: they need 25 minutes on low until soft and sweet but still pale. Chef's tip: cool the onions before adding the custard, or the eggs start setting in the bowl.
Sancocho is the Canary Islands' Good Friday dish and a Sunday favourite in Gran Canaria, where whole families sit down to a platter of desalted cherne (wreckfish), boiled potatoes and sweet potatoes, red mojo poured over the top and a ball of pella de gofio on the side. Salted cherne is soaked for a day or two in the fridge to draw out the salt, then poached gently. If you cannot find cherne, salt cod or fresh hake works well. Chef's tip: before cooking, poach a small flake in boiling water for a minute and taste it; it should be pleasantly seasoned, like well-salted fresh fish, and if it is still briny, soak a few hours more.
Beurre blanc was first whisked up on the banks of the Loire near Nantes, and riverside restaurants from Anjou to the Muscadet vineyards still serve it with sandre, the firm, mild pike-perch of the river. The sauce is nothing but shallots reduced in white wine and vinegar, then mounted with cold butter into a pale, foamy emulsion that tastes sharp and creamy at once. The crisp-skinned fish sits on top, with steamed potatoes or leeks alongside. The reduction uses dry white wine; an alcohol-free option is in the notes. If you can't find pike-perch, sea bass or hake fillets are good substitutes. Chef's tip: keep the butter fridge-cold and add it a few cubes at a time, and the sauce will never split.
Tourists queue for it at the Mercado Municipal in São Paulo, where the sandwich counters on the mezzanine fold slice after slice of mortadella onto a hot griddle until the stack is taller than the bread. Mortadella is a cooked pork sausage, and warming it this way crisps the edges, softens the fat and makes it taste sweeter and more peppery; a layer of melted provolone or mild cheese glues it together inside a crusty French roll. It is gloriously over the top, best eaten with both hands and a paper napkin. The mistake most people make is stacking cold mortadella flat, which stays rubbery; fold the slices loosely so the heat gets between them. Chef's tip: ask for the mortadella sliced very thin, almost see-through; thin slices ruffle up and give the sandwich its height and tenderness.
When the late-summer Zwetschgen (small, oval damson-type plums) arrive at the markets of Augsburg and Munich, every Bavarian and Swabian kitchen bakes a Datschi on the biggest tray it owns. A thin, soft yeast dough is covered edge to edge with plum halves stood upright in tight, overlapping rows, so the juices run and caramelise as it bakes. It is eaten in the afternoon, cut in squares, with a big spoon of whipped cream. A common mistake is using large round plums, which flood the dough with juice and leave it soggy; the firm, oval Zwetschgen hold their shape. Chef's tip: scatter a thin layer of fine breadcrumbs or ground almonds over the dough before the plums go on to catch the juice.
A pitu de caleya is a cockerel raised free in the lanes, or caleyas, of rural Asturias; its firm, flavourful meat needs long stewing, and families around Villaviciosa and Grado still cook it for feast days. The stew is often finished as a soupy rice, so the deep chicken juices go into every grain. Use the best free-range chicken you can find. The braise includes dry white wine; replace it with extra stock and a squeeze of lemon if you want it alcohol-free. Chef's tip: brown the chicken slowly and deeply; that colour is where the flavour of the whole pot comes from.
Order 'um pingado' at the balcão of any São Paulo padaria at 7 in the morning and the attendant pours hot milk into a ridged glass tumbler (the copo americano) and 'drips' in a splash of strong coffee, hence the name. It is milkier and gentler than a média (half coffee, half milk), creamy and lightly sweet, usually drunk standing up with a pão na chapa, a toasted buttered roll. At home you need strong filter coffee and milk heated until steaming. Scalding the milk is the frequent mistake, as boiled milk tastes flat and forms a skin. Chef's tip: froth the hot milk for a few seconds with a whisk or by pouring it back and forth between two jugs before adding the coffee, as padaria machines do.
Every juice bar in Tehran, from Tajrish Square to the stalls of Valiasr Street, sells ab havij bastani: a tall glass of fresh, ice-cold carrot juice with a scoop of saffron ice cream floating on top. People eat it with a long spoon in summer, stirring the melting ice cream into the juice until it turns creamy and pale orange. It is sweet, earthy and cooling, and kids treat it as a dessert. Chef's tip: chill the carrots well before juicing; warm juice melts the ice cream at once and loses its fresh taste.
Adasi is the winter breakfast of Iran's cafés and university canteens, ladled out early in the morning in Tehran, Tabriz and Mashhad from big pots that have bubbled since dawn. Whole brown lentils are cooked soft with turmeric and onion until thick and spoonable, then finished with cumin, a little golpar (ground angelica seed), black pepper and lemon. It is eaten with warm barbari or sangak and sweet tea. The common mistake is cooking it at a hard boil, which leaves the skins split and the soup grainy rather than velvety. Chef's tip: mash a ladleful of lentils against the side of the pot at the end; it thickens the adasi without any flour.
Accras are the first thing on the table at a Sunday lunch, a christening or a Christmas réveillon in Martinique and Guadeloupe, and they are sold by the paper bag from roadside stalls and beach shacks. The best-known version is made with salt cod; this is the vegetable one, with grated carrot and courgette, spring onion, garlic, parsley and a little Scotch bonnet in a light batter. They puff up in the oil and should be crisp outside and soft inside. Serve them hot with sauce chien and lime. Chef's tip: rest the batter for half an hour; it thickens and the fritters puff up much better.
Before any tapa reaches the bar in Seville, a little dish of aliñadas usually does: cracked green manzanilla or gordal olives steeped in brine with garlic, wild thyme, fennel and a strip of orange peel. Markets like Triana sell them by the scoop, but they are simple to dress at home from plain olives in brine. Give them two days; the herbs need time to get into the flesh. A common mistake is serving them after a day; they need at least two days in the brine for the garlic and herbs to reach the stone. Chef's tip: crack each olive with the flat of a knife until it just splits; a crushed olive goes soft and cloudy in the jar.
Every simit seller's glass cart in Istanbul has a softer cousin stacked beside the sesame rings: açma, a pillowy, slightly sweet ring of enriched dough that commuters tear apart on the ferry with a glass of tea and a wedge of white cheese. The crumb is close to brioche but lighter, with a shiny golden crust and black nigella seeds on top. Plain ones are best warm; some bakers fold olives or cheese into them. Chef's tip: rest the rolled ropes for ten minutes before shaping, so the gluten relaxes and the rings keep their shape instead of shrinking back.
Adas bi hamod — 'lentils with sourness' — is a Lenten staple in Lebanese Christian homes and a thrifty weeknight pot everywhere else, especially in the south. Brown lentils simmer with chard, potato and a fried paste of garlic and coriander until the broth turns thick, then a generous amount of lemon makes it tangy and refreshing. It is somewhere between a soup and a stew and is just as good warm or at room temperature with bread. Common mistake: adding the lemon at the start; the acid stops the lentils softening, so add it at the end. Chef's tip: mash a ladleful of lentils against the side of the pot to give the broth body without any flour.
On Sunday mornings in Arequipa, families head to picanterías in Cayma and Yanahuara for a steaming bowl of adobo, chunks of pork that have marinated overnight in chicha de jora (fermented maize beer), ají panca, garlic and cumin, then cooked slowly in a clay pot with thick wedges of red onion. The sauce is dark red, tangy and garlicky rather than hot, and you mop it up with pan de tres puntas, the city's triangular bread; a mug of anise tea follows. Chicha de jora contains alcohol; for an alcohol-free adobo, use the vinegar and water swap in the ingredient list, which gives the same sour edge. Boiling it hard is the classic error, as it toughens the pork; it should barely tremble under the lid. Chef's tip: marinate the pork the evening before, always in the fridge, and cook it the next morning in its marinade.
Nobody agrees why Lima's chifas call it 'airport', though the favourite story is that everything 'lands' on one plate: arroz chaufa and fried noodles stir-fried together in a smoking wok with roast pork, bean sprouts, snow peas and spring onion, then crowned with a thin egg omelette, sometimes with a few fried wontons alongside. It is hearty, smoky and salty from soy and oyster sauce, a late-night and lunchtime favourite to share. The main mistake is using freshly cooked rice, which goes mushy; use rice cooked the day before and kept in the fridge. Chef's tip: for a veg version, swap the pork for firm tofu and extra vegetables, and use a mushroom-based 'oyster' sauce.
In the Langhe and Monferrato hills of Piedmont, agnolotti del plin are the Sunday and feast-day pasta, made from whatever roast was left from the day before and pinched shut with a quick twist of the fingers (plin means pinch in dialect). Each parcel is barely a mouthful of thin egg pasta around a savoury filling of roast veal, pork shoulder and beef with a little cabbage, egg and parmigiano, so this is a pork dish as well as a veal one. In the trattorie of Alba they arrive either glossed with butter and sage or simply dressed in the reduced roasting juices, sometimes with no plate at all, served in a napkin. They want nothing alongside except a green salad afterwards. Chef's tip: keep the filling quite firm and the blobs small, no bigger than a hazelnut, or the pasta will not seal tightly around them.
Along the Sinaloa coast, from Mazatlán to Culiacán, aguachile is the cold plate that starts a long seafood lunch at the beachside palapas, eaten straight from a stone molcajete with tostadas and a cold drink. The classic version is raw prawns cured only in lime, and that raw version is the risky one: lime juice does not kill bacteria or parasites the way heat does. This safer version poaches the prawns for a minute or two until just pink and opaque, chills them and then dresses them, so you keep the snap and the fierce, grassy chilli heat. Even so, treat any cold seafood dish with care: the raw classic is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. Serve with crisp corn tostadas and slices of avocado. Chef's tip: blend the chilli water with ice-cold water and pour it on at the last minute, so it stays vivid green and the prawns stay crisp.
Aguaje is the scaly, chestnut-red fruit of the moriche palm that grows in the flooded forests around Iquitos, and its orange flesh ends up in ice lollies, ice cream and, above all, aguajina, the cold drink sold in plastic cups at every corner and in Belén market. The taste is unusual and loved locally: tangy, a little like apricot and carrot, with a rich, slightly oily body. Fresh aguaje must be softened in warm water for an hour before its thin layer of pulp can be scraped off; outside Peru, frozen aguaje pulp from Latin American shops is the realistic choice and gives a good result. A common slip is adding all the sugar before tasting: the pulp's sourness varies from pack to pack, so sweeten at the end. Serve very cold with lunch or on a hot afternoon. Chef's tip: blend the pulp with only part of the water first, so it breaks down fully, then stir in the rest.
On Chaharshanbe Suri, the bonfire night on the last Tuesday evening before Nowruz, families across Iran jump over small fires in the street and then share a big bowl of ajil-e moshkel gosha, the 'nuts that untie problems', making a wish as they eat. The same mix comes out again on Yalda, the longest night of the year in December. It mixes salted roasted pistachios and almonds with roasted chickpeas, sweet dried figs, white mulberries, raisins and sugared almonds, so every handful is sweet, salty and crunchy. The common mistake is using raw nuts; the toasting is what makes it taste like the bazaar version. Chef's tip: toss the warm nuts with a little salted water and let them dry in the oven for a light salty coating that sticks.
The muleteers who carried goods over the mountain roads into Pamplona, the arrieros, lived on salt cod because it kept for weeks, and the garlicky way they cooked it took their name. Today ajoarriero is ordered in the bars around Pamplona's Plaza del Castillo, especially during San Fermín, and served in small earthenware dishes with bread. The Navarrese version is red with peppers, tomato and dried choricero pepper, and many cooks stir in egg at the end. Chef's tip: taste the cod after soaking and only salt the dish at the very end, if at all.
The town of Akçaabat, just west of Trabzon, is lined with köfte houses whose grills turn out small, oblong, firm meatballs that taste strongly of garlic. Made from beef mince bound with soaked stale bread, they are seared fast so the outside chars while the inside stays juicy, then served with grilled peppers, a pile of onion and parsley, and a white bean salad. Common mistake: overworking the meat with wet hands after the bread has gone in, which turns them dense; knead hard before adding bread, then mix gently. Cook until the centre reaches 71 °C. Chef's tip: rest the shaped köfte in the fridge overnight; they hold their shape on the grill and the garlic mellows into the meat.
In early summer the markets of Tehran fill with dark sour cherries, and many families cook a pot of albaloo polo the same week, also bringing it out for weddings and Yalda night because the red-and-gold rice looks so festive. The cherries are simmered into a glossy syrup, then layered through basmati with marble-sized lamb meatballs (some cooks use shredded chicken instead), and the whole pot is steamed until the rice turns pink and fragrant. The taste is sweet, sharp and savoury at once. A common mistake is pouring in all the syrup; it makes the rice soggy, so keep some back to drizzle at the table. Chef's tip: frozen or jarred pitted sour cherries in light syrup work well out of season; drain them and use half the sugar.
Alboronía is one of the oldest dishes in Andalusia; its name comes from the Arabic of al-Andalus, and cooks in Córdoba, Jaén and the villages of the Sierra Morena still make it in late summer, when aubergines, peppers and the first pumpkins share the market stalls. The vegetables cook down slowly with cumin, paprika and a little vinegar until they melt together into something between a stew and a jam-like sauté. Eat it warm with bread, or cold the next day as a tapa. A common mistake is stirring the pumpkin too often, which mashes it into the sauce instead of leaving soft chunks. Chef's tip: let the pumpkin go in only after the onion and peppers are soft, so it holds a few pieces among the purée instead of disappearing.
Montilla, south of Córdoba, makes a pale, dry wine from sun-dried Pedro Ximénez grapes, and in late winter and spring its kitchens braise young artichokes in it with a little saffron and fresh mint. Many cooks add cubes of cured ham; this version leaves it out and lets the artichokes, wine and mint carry the dish. It uses wine; the alcohol-free option is in the ingredient list. Serve it as a starter, or as a main with bread and a fried egg. A common mistake is trimming the artichokes without dropping them straight into lemon water, so they turn black before they reach the pan. Chef's tip: drop each trimmed artichoke straight into lemon water, because cut artichokes blacken within a minute in the air.
Alcatra is the feast dish of Terceira, cooked for the Holy Spirit festivals of spring and summer in unglazed clay pots that go into the bread oven after the loaves come out. Big pieces of beef braise for hours in wine with onions, bacon, allspice and bay, until the meat falls apart and the sauce turns dark and spiced. It is served with slices of massa sovada to soak up every drop. This contains pork (streaky bacon) and uses red wine; for an alcohol-free version, use the same amount of beef stock with 2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar. Chef's tip: crush the allspice just before using; whole berries give the sauce its warm, clove-like scent.
Shepherd families in the stone villages of Zagori, north of Ioannina, made alevropita when there was no time to roll pastry: a runny flour batter poured over sizzling oil in a very hot tin, dotted with feta and baked until crisp and lacy at the edges. It's now on every taverna table in Epirus, cut into rough squares and eaten warm with a bowl of thick yoghurt or a tomato salad. Feta is usually made with animal rennet; use a vegetarian feta-style cheese if you need to. Common mistake: pouring the batter into a cold tin — the oil must be smoking-hot, or the pie turns heavy instead of crunchy. Chef's tip: use a wide, shallow metal tray so the batter is only about 5 mm deep.
Córdoba's version of the alfajor is the soft one: two tender, slightly spongy honey-scented rounds sandwiched with fruit jam, usually quince or mixed fruit, and coated in a thin sugar glaze that dries to a crackly white shell. They are sold by the dozen in the sierras towns of Villa General Belgrano, La Falda and Capilla del Monte, where tourists buy boxes on the way home from holidays. Expect a gentle crunch, a cakey bite and a tart-sweet centre, best with a cup of coffee or mate. Overworking the dough is where they usually go wrong: knead it like bread and the rounds bake tough and flat, so mix only until it comes together. Quince paste (dulce de membrillo) loosened with water works well if you can't find a soft quince jam. Chef's tip: dry the glazed alfajores for 5 minutes in a barely warm oven; the glaze sets glassy and crackles when you bite.
Santa Fe's alfajor is a different animal from the soft cornflour kind sold everywhere else: three wafer-thin, crackly discs of yolk-rich pastry, stacked with dulce de leche, then dipped in a cooked sugar glaze that sets hard, white and shiny. Bakeries in Santa Fe city and along the Paraná river ship them all over the country in boxes, and travellers bring them home as the regional present. Bite through and the glaze shatters, the pastry flakes and the dulce de leche holds it all together. Thick pastry is the mistake that ruins the texture; it has to be rolled until you can almost see the worktop through it, or the alfajor turns bready. Some old recipes add a splash of cane spirit to the dough; this version uses only water and is alcohol-free. Use a thick, pastry-chef's dulce de leche (repostero) so it doesn't ooze. Chef's tip: bake the discs in batches and keep the rest of the dough covered; it dries out fast and then cracks when rolled.
Mirandela, on the Tua river in Trás-os-Montes, is the home of alheira, a garlicky smoked sausage of bread and poultry, said to have been invented by Jewish families who needed something that looked like pork sausage. Today most alheiras contain pork, so this dish contains pork; look for the rare poultry-only kind if you avoid it. In every northern café it comes the same way: roasted until the skin crackles, with a fried egg, chips and sautéed greens. A common mistake is frying the alheira over a high heat, so the skin bursts and burns before the inside is hot. Chef's tip: prick the skin a few times and roast it in the oven rather than frying, so it stays whole and crisp.
Gaziantep cooks char aubergines over coals until they collapse, mash the flesh with garlicky yoghurt and spoon pan-fried lamb with tomatoes and peppers on top: that is ali nazik, a lunchtime favourite in the city's lokantas. The cool, smoky base and the hot, buttery meat are the whole point, so assemble it just as you serve. A gas flame or a very hot grill gives the same smoky flesh at home. The usual mistake is not draining the aubergine, which makes the yoghurt runny and grey. Chef's tip: stir the yoghurt into the aubergine off the heat with a spoonful of butter; warm, not hot, keeps it from splitting.
High on the Aubrac plateau, where Aveyron, Cantal and Lozère meet, aligot was once the meal monks gave to pilgrims on the road to Santiago. Today it is beaten in huge copper pans at village fêtes and buron farm restaurants around Laguiole, then lifted high on a wooden spoon in long, glossy ribbons before it is served beside sausages or, for a vegetarian table, a big green salad and roasted mushrooms. It is a mash of floury potato, butter, cream and garlic, worked with young tomme fraîche until it stretches like mozzarella. Tomme fraîche is made with animal rennet; a mix of vegetarian mozzarella and a vegetarian mild cheddar gives a similar stretch. Chef's tip: keep beating in a figure of eight once the cheese goes in; the stretch only comes with steady work.
Krautkrapfen come from the Allgäu and the Swabian Alb, where farm cooks rolled noodle dough paper-thin, spread it with sauerkraut and fried onion, rolled it up like a strudel and sliced it into snails. The slices are packed upright in a buttered pan, fried until the bottoms crisp, then half-covered in stock and braised until the dough is tender. They are a Friday or winter supper with a green salad. A common mistake is pouring in too much stock: it should come only a third of the way up, or the crisp base turns soggy. Chef's tip: let the dough rest a full 30 minutes; relaxed dough rolls out thin without shrinking back.
True Catalan allioli is just garlic, salt and oil, all ('garlic') i oli ('and oil'), worked slowly in a mortar until it becomes a stiff, pale emulsion with a fierce bite. Families serve it with grilled lamb, rice dishes, boiled potatoes and snails, and making it by hand is a small point of pride. It takes patience and steady arms, but no egg is needed. Chef's tip: if it splits, start a new paste with one crushed clove and a few drops of water, then work the broken sauce back in a spoonful at a time.
Carril, a fishing village on the Arousa estuary, is famous across Spain for its clams, and Galician bars serve them á mariñeira in small clay dishes with bread for the sauce. They are cooked with onion, garlic and a little paprika, and the sauce is lightly thickened with flour and loosened with white wine. This recipe contains alcohol (white wine); for an alcohol-free version, use fish stock with a squeeze of lemon. Throw away any clams with cracked shells, and any open ones that don't close when tapped, before cooking. A common mistake is overcooking: clams toughen once they open, so take them off the heat as soon as most are open. Chef's tip: soak the clams in salted water in the fridge for an hour so they spit out their sand.
Loreto, on the Gulf of California side of Baja, is famous for its almejas chocolatas: large clams named for their glossy brown shells, sold by local divers and cooked at seafood stands along the bay. One popular way is to open them, top the meat with butter, garlic, chilli and melting cheese, and bake them until bubbling. Chocolate clams are rarely found elsewhere, so use the largest hard-shell clams you can buy, such as quahogs or cherrystones. Serve them hot as a starter with lime and cold drinks. Chef's tip: chop the clam meat before returning it to the shell, so every bite gets butter and cheese instead of one chewy mouthful.
On La Gomera, the small, steep island west of Tenerife, almogrote is the sharp, punchy paste you find spread on toast in every bar in San Sebastián and Valle Gran Rey, often with a glass of the island's wine. It was a thrifty way to use up hard, aged goat's cheese: grated, pounded with garlic, hot red pepper and a little tomato, and bound with olive oil. The result is salty, spicy and pungent. Traditional Gomeran cheese is made with animal rennet; use a vegetarian aged goat's or hard cheese if that matters to you. Chef's tip: grate the cheese very finely first, so it pounds smooth instead of staying gritty.
In Aragonese bakeries, almojábanas are the rings stacked by the till at Easter and for local fiestas: rings of choux-like dough that puff up hollow and airy in the oven and are then brushed with a white sugar glaze that cracks as you bite. The name comes from Arabic, and versions are found from Teruel to the Ribagorza, some flavoured with lemon and others with anise. They are best the day they are made, with a coffee or a glass of cold milk. A common mistake is opening the oven early: choux collapses if the steam escapes before the shells have set. Chef's tip: beat the eggs in one at a time and stop when the paste falls from the spoon in a thick, glossy V; you may not need the last egg.
Few Bogotá breakfasts beat a warm almojábana torn open next to a cup of hot chocolate. Bakeries across Cundinamarca and Boyacá, and especially roadside stops near Chía and Sopó, bake these pale, puffy rolls from fresh cuajada and fine corn meal, so they are springy, moist and salty-sweet inside with a thin, lightly browned crust. They are gluten free by nature. Cuajada is curd set with rennet, usually animal-derived; use vegetarian curd or ricotta drained very well. Too much corn meal is the mistake most people make: the almojábanas come out dry and heavy. The dough should feel soft and slightly tacky. Chef's tip: they are best within an hour of baking; reheat leftovers briefly in a hot oven, never the microwave, which makes them rubbery.
Found in glass jars at farm-shop counters in Minas Gerais and on the dessert tables of gaúcho family lunches, ambrosia is an old Portuguese-rooted sweet that turns milk, eggs and sugar into soft, golden curds bathed in a caramel-coloured syrup. The eggs are poured into the sweet milk and then left to set and simmer for an hour with clove and cinnamon, so the curds form large and tender rather than scrambled. Cold from the fridge it is creamy, eggy and fragrant, rather like a rustic crème caramel broken into pieces. Serve small bowls with a slice of fresh cheese or nothing at all. Where most people go wrong is stirring as soon as the eggs go in; that breaks the curd into grainy crumbs, so wait until it has set before moving it gently. Chef's tip: a squeeze of lemon juice into the milk before the eggs helps the curds form quickly and keeps them in large, tender clouds.
A Lisbon seafood beer hall wouldn't be one without a steaming bowl of these on every other table, with bread for the juices that pool in the bottom. The dish is named after the nineteenth-century poet Raimundo Bulhão Pato, a keen cook and hunter who is said to have loved it. It is only clams, olive oil, a lot of garlic, fresh coriander and lemon, so the shellfish must be lively and well cleaned. Many cooks add a splash of white wine, which contains alcohol; water or a little extra lemon juice works fine. Chef's tip: add the coriander at the very end, off the heat, so it stays bright and fragrant.
Steaming paper bags of boiled peanuts are sold in São João squares from Campina Grande to the interior of São Paulo, and families cook pots of them at home when the fresh peanut harvest comes in around June. Boiled in the shell in well-salted water, the peanuts turn soft, juicy and almost bean-like, with a savoury, slightly sweet taste quite different from roasted peanuts. You crack them open with your fingers and slurp the salty water out with the nut. You need raw peanuts in the shell, either fresh (green) or dried; roasted ones never soften. Under-salting is the beginner's slip: the shell blocks a lot of salt, so the water should taste like the sea. Chef's tip: let the peanuts sit in their cooking water for 30 minutes off the heat before draining, so the salt soaks through to the nut.
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