Spiced fish jelly
Sanyakhuna is takha's fishy cousin, a Newari winter delicacy from the Kathmandu Valley made by cooking small fish with ginger, garlic, chilli and timur in a rich stock and leaving it to set into a cool, savoury jelly. In old Newar kitchens the set came from buffalo skin simmered in the stock; this home version uses fish heads and frames, which give flavour and a soft set, and a little agar so it sets reliably in the fridge. Squares are cut and eaten cold with beaten rice and a fiery achar during the cold months, especially around Yomari Punhi. The typical failure is a cloudy, bitter stock from boiling the fish too hard or too long; fish bones need only 30 minutes. Keep it in the fridge and eat within 2 days. Chef's tip: use small whole fried fish such as sprats or small trout fillets for the pieces in the jelly, as they hold their shape.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
From the silver carts on Midtown corners, often run by Egyptian and Afghan cooks, comes New York's favourite cheap late-night meal: chopped spiced chicken thighs on turmeric rice with shredded lettuce, a tangy white sauce and a fiery red chilli sauce. Office workers and taxi drivers queue for it at 2 a.m. Chef's tip: marinate the chicken in the fridge overnight; the lemon and spices soak right in.
Scrapple is the thrifty breakfast meat of Pennsylvania Dutch farm country and the Delaware Valley, made at pig-killing time from pork trimmings simmered and set with cornmeal and buckwheat into a loaf. Slices are fried until crisp and brown outside and soft within, and eaten with eggs, apple butter or maple syrup at Lancaster County diners. This home version uses pork shoulder and a little liver. Chef's tip: slice it 1 cm thick and leave it alone in the pan until a dark crust forms; it sticks if you move it early.
In Lancaster County a pot pie is not a pie at all: bott boi is a thick chicken stew with potatoes, celery and saffron in which big squares of rolled egg dough are boiled like noodles, served at firehouse suppers and Amish and Mennonite family dinners. It is soft, comforting and golden. Chef's tip: drop the dough squares in one at a time into a rolling boil so they don't stick together in a lump.
Country captain is the curried chicken of Savannah and coastal Georgia, said to have arrived with sea captains in the spice trade from India, and it is still served at Georgia Junior League luncheons and holiday buffets. Browned chicken is braised in a mild curry and tomato sauce with peppers, then finished with currants and toasted almonds, and served over white rice. Chef's tip: toast the curry powder in the fat for a full minute; raw curry powder tastes dusty.
The hot brown was invented in 1926 at the Brown Hotel in Louisville, Kentucky, as a late-night dish for dancers, and it is still ordered there and all over the city on Derby weekend. Thick slices of roast turkey on toast are covered in a rich Mornay sauce and grilled until bubbling, then topped with tomato and crisp smoked bacon (pork). Eat it with a knife and fork. Chef's tip: use leftover roast turkey breast carved thickly; thin deli slices dry out under the grill.
Many Philadelphians quietly prefer this to the cheesesteak: thinly sliced roast pork shoulder soaked in its garlic and herb juices, with bitter sautéed broccoli rabe and sharp provolone in a seeded Italian roll. It comes from the Italian markets of South Philly and the stalls of the Reading Terminal Market, where it is lunch for market workers. Chef's tip: slice the pork very thin and dunk it back in the hot juices; that soaking is what makes the sandwich.
Buffalo wings were first tossed in hot sauce and butter at a bar in Buffalo, New York, in 1964 and are now the snack of every American football Sunday. The wings are cooked until the skin is crisp, then coated in a glossy, vinegary chilli-butter sauce and served with celery sticks and a cooling blue cheese dip. This oven version skips the deep fryer. Chef's tip: dry the wings well and toss them with baking powder; it draws out moisture and blisters the skin almost like frying.
Ask in a Buffalo tavern and many people will say this, not the wing, is the city's real sandwich: thin slices of rare roast beef dipped in its juices, piled on a kummelweck roll crusted with coarse salt and caraway seeds, with sharp horseradish on the side. German bakers in western New York brought the roll in the nineteenth century. Chef's tip: dip the top of the roll in the beef juices just before serving, so it softens but the salt crust stays crunchy.
Étouffée means 'smothered', and in Breaux Bridge, which calls itself the crawfish capital of the world, this is what happens to the spring crawfish catch from February to May. Peeled tails are simmered in a butter-based light roux with the trinity, garlic and cayenne until the sauce is glossy and orange with crawfish fat. Serve over white rice. Peeled frozen crawfish tails or raw prawns work well outside Louisiana. Chef's tip: keep any yellow crawfish fat in the pack; it gives the sauce its richness and colour.
Shrimp Creole is the tomato-red weeknight dish of New Orleans homes and old Creole lunch counters, quite different from the brown, roux-based Cajun stews of the countryside. Gulf prawns simmer briefly in a sauce of tomato, the trinity, garlic, bay and hot sauce, and the dish is spooned over fluffy rice. Chef's tip: simmer the sauce until it is thick before the prawns go in, because they release water as they cook.
Fajitas started with the vaqueros of the Rio Grande Valley, who were paid partly in the tough skirt steak, and they became a Tex-Mex restaurant hit in Houston and Austin in the 1970s, carried to the table on a hissing iron platter. The steak is marinated in lime, garlic and cumin, seared very hot and sliced thinly against the grain, then wrapped in flour tortillas with charred peppers and onions. Chef's tip: slice across the grain; with skirt steak that one detail decides whether it is tender or chewy.
Chicken-fried steak is Texas's unofficial state dish, served in truck stops, small-town cafés and Sunday after-church lunches across the Hill Country: a tenderised beef steak breaded and fried like fried chicken, smothered in white cream gravy with lots of black pepper, next to mashed potatoes. It came from German and Austrian settlers' schnitzel. Chef's tip: double-dip in seasoned flour, buttermilk and flour again for the craggy, crunchy crust.
Mutton stew is the everyday and ceremonial dish of the Navajo (Diné) Nation, where sheep have been raised on the high desert since the 1600s; it simmers on wood stoves in hogans and is served at the Navajo Nation Fair in Window Rock with fry bread or blue corn bread. It is a plain, honest stew of bone-in mutton, potatoes, corn, onion and a little green chile. Lamb shoulder can be used, and cooks a little faster. Chef's tip: keep it at a lazy simmer and skim the fat as it rises; mutton fat is strong-tasting.
Chili pie is Friday-night-lights food across Texas, sold at high-school football concession stands, rodeos and the State Fair in Dallas: a heap of crunchy corn chips smothered in hot beef chili, grated cheese and raw onion, sometimes served right in the split chip packet. Making the chili from scratch turns it into a proper meal. Chef's tip: add the chili just before eating, because the chips should still crunch under the sauce.
Plum bread is the dark, spiced fruit loaf of Lincolnshire bakeries, sold year round but especially at Christmas, sliced and spread with butter or eaten with a wedge of Lincolnshire Poacher cheese. There are no plums in it: 'plums' was the old word for dried fruit. The dough is enriched with butter, egg and mixed spice and packed with prunes, raisins and currants. Chef's tip: soak the fruit in hot tea for an hour so it stays juicy and doesn't steal moisture from the bread.
She-crab soup was first made in Charleston, South Carolina, in the early 1900s and is still ordered at the city's oldest dining rooms: a velvety cream soup full of sweet blue crabmeat, coloured orange with crab roe from the female crabs. A splash of dry sherry is stirred into each bowl at the table; the alcohol doesn't cook off, so leave it out for children or anyone avoiding alcohol and add a few drops of lemon juice instead. Chef's tip: never let the soup boil once the cream is in, or the crab turns stringy.
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.
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.
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.
In Cajun country, courtbouillon (say 'coo-boo-yon') is not the French poaching broth but a thick, spicy red stew of firm fish, made in the fishing communities of Vermilion Bay and the Atchafalaya Basin after a good day's catch of redfish or catfish. It is built on a roux and tomatoes and finished with lemon and spring onions, then served over rice. Chef's tip: lay the fish on top of the sauce and spoon it over rather than stirring, so the pieces stay whole.
Oysters Rockefeller were created at Antoine's in the French Quarter in 1889 and named after the richest man in America because the sauce was so rich; the restaurant has never shared its exact recipe. Live Gulf oysters on the half shell are covered with a bright green butter of herbs and greens and baked until bubbling, a classic starter at New Orleans celebration dinners. This version uses a dash of anise-flavoured liqueur, which is traditional; it can be replaced with a pinch of ground fennel seed for an alcohol-free version. Chef's tip: bed the shells on coarse salt so they sit level and the juices don't spill.
The muffuletta was first made by Sicilian grocers on Decatur Street in New Orleans in the early 1900s for dock workers' lunches, and it is still sold whole or in quarters to take to the levee or a Saints game. A big round sesame loaf is filled with layers of ham, salami, mortadella (all pork) and provolone and soaked with a chunky olive salad. Provolone is traditionally made with animal rennet. Chef's tip: press the sandwich under a weight for an hour so the oil soaks into the bread.
Poke, from the Hawaiian word for cut into pieces, began as fishermen's snack of raw reef fish with sea salt, seaweed and roasted kukui nut, and is now sold by the pound from the deli counters of every Hawaiian supermarket, eaten over rice as a quick lunch or with drinks after work. This shoyu ahi style dresses cubes of yellowfin tuna in soy sauce, sesame oil, sweet onion and chilli. Traditional poke is raw fish, which is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system, so this version quickly sears the cubes until cooked through. Chef's tip: dress the tuna just before eating; the soy sauce draws out moisture and turns it soft if it sits for hours.
Shoyu chicken is the home-cooked comfort of Hawaii's plantation families, a Japanese-influenced braise of chicken thighs in soy sauce (shoyu), sugar, ginger and garlic, and a staple of the plate lunch: two scoops of rice, a scoop of macaroni salad and chicken with plenty of sauce. Chef's tip: simmer uncovered at the end and spoon the sauce over until it turns glossy and coats the chicken.
On winter evenings in Tehran, the smell of jegaraki stalls, small grill shops selling skewers of lamb liver, heart and kidney, drifts across the streets, and people queue for a few skewers wrapped in warm lavash with raw onion and basil. This home version uses lamb liver cut into cubes and grilled fast over very hot coals so it stays soft and juicy, then seasoned only with salt, pepper and a squeeze of lemon at the end. A common mistake is salting the liver before grilling; it draws out moisture and makes it tough, so salt it as it comes off the heat. Chef's tip: ask the butcher for very fresh liver and peel off the thin outer membrane before cutting; it makes the cubes tender.
Borojó is the pride of the Chocó: a heavy brown fruit with a dense, sticky pulp and a sour, almost tamarind-like flavour. In Quibdó it is sold as pulp at the market and blended into thick shakes at juice stalls, and it carries a folk reputation as a restorative, sometimes jokingly called juice of love. Blended with cold milk and sugar it becomes creamy, tangy and filling, more a small meal than a drink. Outside Colombia, look for frozen borojó pulp in Latin American shops; there is no real substitute, though a mix of tamarind paste and banana gives a rough idea. Using too much pulp is easy to do, and the shake turns into a paste that will not go through a straw, so start with the amount below and thicken to taste. Chef's tip: blend the pulp with a little milk first to loosen it, then add the rest; borojó is so dense it can stall a blender.
Corozo is a tiny, glossy red-black palm fruit that grows wild across Colombia's Caribbean lowlands, and in Sincelejo, Montería and Cartagena it is boiled into a deep wine-red juice that is tart, slightly bitter and very refreshing. It is sold in bags from street coolers and served with lunch at home, especially in the dry season when the fruit is plentiful. The fruit is mostly stone and skin, so it is boiled to release the colour and flavour, then mashed and strained. Blending the whole fruit is the trap here: the hard stones can break a blender and add bitterness, so only mash them. Frozen corozo pulp is sold in some Latin shops; there is no true substitute, but tart cherry juice with a squeeze of lime gives a similar colour and sourness. Chef's tip: dissolve the sugar while the juice is still warm, then chill well; it tastes sharper and brighter cold.
Passion fruit grows easily in the warm valleys of Colombia, and maracuyá juice is the default glass at many lunch tables, from Huila to the coast. It is intensely aromatic and sharp, so it needs plenty of water and sugar, and it is served over ice; a milk version is made too, but the water one is the more refreshing. Street juice stands blend it fresh all day, and it pairs especially well with fried fish, rice and patacones, or any spicy dish. People tend to over-blend it, crushing the black seeds into gritty, bitter bits; just pulse until the pulp lets go of the seeds, then strain. Frozen passion fruit pulp from Latin shops is a good, cheaper option and needs no straining. Chef's tip: scoop the pulp from wrinkled, heavy fruit; the more wrinkled the skin, the sweeter and more fragrant the fruit inside.
Order a juice anywhere in Colombia and the waiter will ask: en agua o en leche? With mora, the tart Andean blackberry, the milk version is the treat: a thick, dusky-purple shake with a sour-sweet berry flavour, served with lunch at corrientazo restaurants and in tall glasses at bakeries. Mora de Castilla is longer and sharper than European blackberries and is sold frozen in Latin shops; ordinary blackberries with a squeeze of lime make a good stand-in. Straining is what makes it smooth, since the seeds are gritty. The mistake many people make is blending the berries with the milk and leaving it to stand: the fruit acid slowly curdles the milk, so blend the fruit with water first, strain, then add cold milk and serve straight away. Chef's tip: very cold milk and a few ice cubes keep the drink thick and frothy.
Tomate de árbol, the tree tomato or tamarillo, is everywhere in Andean Colombia: in market piles, in ají and above all in juice. Blended with water and sugar, it makes a tangy, deep orange drink with a flavour between passion fruit, tomato and apricot, and it turns up at lunch counters and family tables with almost every meal. Many people blend it with milk instead of water for a creamier glass; this version keeps it vegan. Blending the fruit with its skin is the most common misstep, as the peel is bitter and astringent; a quick blanch makes it slip off easily. Look for tamarillos in good greengrocers, or frozen pulp in Latin shops. Chef's tip: blend only briefly so you do not crush the small seeds, then strain; it stays bright and clean-tasting.
In the last nights of Ramadan, Jordanian kitchens turn into small bakeries, and trays of ka'ak bi ajwa go into neighbourhood ovens ready for Eid morning. A crumbly semolina pastry scented with anise and mahlab is wrapped round a rope of date paste, closed into rings and baked pale gold, then offered to every visitor with bitter Arabic coffee. Children usually do the rolling. The common mistake is overworking the dough after the butter goes in, which makes the cookies hard rather than sandy. Chef's tip: rest the semolina and butter mixture overnight before adding the liquid; the grains drink the fat and the ka'ak melt in the mouth.
Lebanese families bake ka'ak bi haleeb by the tray before Eid and Easter alike, stamping each round with a carved wooden mould so it comes out patterned like a little rosette. They are soft rather than crisp, gently sweet, perfumed with mahlab (ground cherry kernels), anise and orange blossom water, and dusted with sesame or left plain. Children dunk them in milk, grown-ups in tea. The common mistake is adding too much flour to make the dough easier to handle, which gives dry, bready cookies. Chef's tip: let the shaped cookies rise for 30 minutes before baking; the yeast makes them pillowy and keeps the stamped pattern sharp.
Ekmek kadayıfı is a big disc of dried, airy bread that pudding shops in Istanbul and Afyon soak in syrup until it turns dark, sticky and soft, then top with a thick slab of buffalo-milk kaymak. The contrast is the point: cold, rich cream against the warm, almost caramel-flavoured, juicy bread. At home you can use slices of stale brioche-style bread if you can't buy the ready-made disc. Chef's tip: pour hot syrup over completely dry bread, a little at a time, and wait between pours so every crumb drinks it up evenly.
Kabab barg is the prized kebab of Tehran's old chelow-kababi restaurants, ordered for celebrations and served on a mound of buttery-looking saffron rice with grilled tomatoes and a raw egg yolk for those who like it. The name means 'leaf kebab': lamb loin or beef fillet is pounded into thin sheets, marinated overnight in onion juice and saffron, then threaded flat on wide sword skewers and grilled fast over hot charcoal. It is tender enough to cut with the edge of a spoon. A common mistake is leaving onion pieces in the marinade; they burn on the grill, so use only the juice. Chef's tip: score the meat lightly in a criss-cross with the back of a knife; it stops the strips curling and lets the marinade in.
Kabab torsh, the 'sour kebab', comes from the green, rainy province of Gilan on the Caspian, where roadside grills around Rasht and Fuman sell it with smoky kateh rice and fresh herbs. Cubes of beef are rubbed with a thick paste of ground walnuts, pomegranate molasses, garlic and crushed dried mint or wild herbs, left overnight, then grilled until the paste turns into a dark, sticky crust. It is tangy, nutty and quite unlike the saffron kebabs of Tehran. A common mistake is grilling over fierce flames; the walnut paste scorches before the meat is done, so use steady medium coals. Chef's tip: keep back a few spoons of the paste and brush it on in the last minute for a fresh, glossy finish.
In the Aegean villages around Ödemiş and Bodrum, women gather courgette flowers at dawn while they are still open, and by lunchtime they have been stuffed with a fragrant rice of tomato, mint, dill and pine nuts and gently simmered in olive oil. Served at room temperature as part of a summer meze spread, they are delicate and almost sweet. Pick (or buy) the male flowers on long stems, and use them the same day. Chef's tip: twist the petal tips closed rather than folding them; a gentle twist holds the filling better in the pot.
Mücver are the courgette fritters fried in every Aegean summer kitchen, from Foça to Datça, when courgettes pile up faster than anyone can eat them. Grated courgette is squeezed dry and bound with egg, a little flour, crumbled white cheese and a fistful of dill, mint and spring onion, then fried until lacy and golden. Serve them hot or warm with garlic yoghurt as a meze or a light supper. Beyaz peynir and feta are often made with animal rennet, so look for a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: salt the courgette and squeeze it hard in a cloth; wet courgette makes heavy fritters that never crisp.
When the big winter squashes come in from the fields around Konya and Ankara, home cooks cut them into thick wedges, bury them in sugar overnight and let the pumpkin cook slowly in the syrup it releases. The pieces turn glossy, deep orange and tender while holding their shape, and they're served cold with a drizzle of tahini and crushed walnuts. It's one of the few Turkish sweets made without any water at all. Common mistake: stirring the pot, which breaks the wedges; shake the pan gently instead. Chef's tip: cook it lid on for the first half and lid off for the second, so the syrup reduces to a thick glaze.
No falafel or shawarma wrap in Beirut is complete without a few batons of kabees lifit, the crunchy, vinegary pickled turnips that glow pink from a slice of raw beetroot in the jar. Lebanese families put them up in autumn when turnips are young and sweet, and a bowl sits on the mezze table next to olives and green chillies. They are sharp, salty and crisp, and cut through grilled meats, fried kibbeh and hummus. Common mistake: using iodised table salt, which clouds the brine; use pure fine salt or sea salt. Chef's tip: choose small, firm turnips with smooth skins — big woody ones stay bitter however long they pickle.
In Erzurum, kadayıf means not shredded pastry but small, spongy pancakes cooked on one side only. For kadayıf dolması they're filled with walnuts, folded into half-moons, fried golden and plunged into syrup, and they are the city's pride on festival days and at weddings. The outside is crisp and syrupy, the inside soft and nutty. Common mistake: cooking the pancakes on both sides; the uncooked, bubbly top is what sticks the edges together. Chef's tip: the syrup must be cold and the dolma hot straight from the oil, so they absorb syrup without going soggy.
The name means 'lady's thigh', a playful Ottoman-era compliment to their plump, tender shape, and these köfte still appear in Istanbul home kitchens and old lokantas for Friday lunch. Half the meat is cooked with onion first, then mixed with raw mince, rice and herbs, so the köfte are unusually soft and moist. They are dipped in egg and fried golden, and served with a simple tomato salad and pilaf or mashed potato. Chef's tip: the rice must be fully cooked and cooled before mixing, or the köfte crack and fall apart in the pan.
Kasnudeln are the pride of Carinthia in Austria's south, where every village claims the best filling and where they are eaten on Fridays and at church fairs. Big half-moons of thin noodle dough are stuffed with crumbly curd cheese, floury potato, onion and fresh mint, then sealed with a braided edge called 'krendeln' that keeps the filling in as they simmer. They are served with a generous pour of brown butter and chives, often with a green salad. A common mistake is rolling the dough too thick: it should be thin enough to see your hand through, or the folded edges turn stodgy. Carinthian Topfen is usually made without animal rennet, but check the label and pick a vegetarian quark. Chef's tip: if crimping feels tricky, press the edges with a fork first, then practise the braid on the last few.
Malatya cooks wrap cubes of lamb with tomatoes, peppers, shallots and garlic in greaseproof paper and bake them slowly, so the meat steams in its own juices and the parcel puffs up like a pillow. At the table each person tears open their own package to a cloud of fragrant steam. It's a festive dish for guests, served with bulgur pilaf and a yoghurt salad. Common mistake: wrapping loosely so the juices leak and the meat dries; fold and crimp the edges tightly. Chef's tip: brown the lamb quickly before wrapping; it gives a deeper flavour than raw meat steamed alone.
On Sizdah Bedar, the thirteenth day of the new year, Iranian families leave the city for parks and riverbanks around Tehran and Isfahan, and the picnic cloth almost always holds a jar of sekanjabin and a head of crisp romaine. The syrup is an ancient one: sugar and vinegar simmered together and steeped with fresh mint, sweet-sour and cooling. You tear off a lettuce leaf, dip it and crunch. The usual mistake is boiling the syrup too long, which turns it into hard toffee once cold. Chef's tip: keep the lettuce in iced water until the moment you serve; the colder and crisper the leaf, the better the contrast with the syrup.
Kakavia takes its name from the three-legged pot fishermen in the Cyclades set on the beach, filling it with the small, bony fish they couldn't sell, seawater, onions, potatoes and a generous pour of olive oil. Today island tavernas and families make it with a mix of firm white fish, and serve the broth first with lemon, then the fish and potatoes on a platter. It is clean, golden and comforting, best with crusty bread. Common mistake: stirring once the fish goes in, which breaks it into shreds; shake the pot instead. Chef's tip: simmer the heads and bones first for the broth, then poach the fillets in it briefly so they stay in whole pieces.
Kal kabab comes from the rice-growing plains around Rasht, where late-summer aubergines are charred straight on the embers and mashed with a green, sour mixture of herbs, walnuts, garlic and sour pomegranate paste. Unlike Tehran's creamy kashk-e bademjan it has no dairy and is eaten cool, as a starter or side with kateh and grilled food, scooped up with bread. Golpar, ground Persian hogweed seed, adds a resinous edge. A common mistake is pulling the aubergines off the flame too early: they must collapse completely and the skin must blacken all over, or the flesh is bitter and the dish lacks smoke. Chef's tip: pound the walnuts, garlic and herbs to a paste before adding the aubergine, so the sour green flavour runs through every bite.
Kalam polo is the rice that Shirazi families cook from late autumn into spring, when white cabbage is sweet and the herb sellers of the Vakil Bazaar pile up basil, tarragon and dill. Shredded cabbage is fried until caramel-brown, mixed with a big handful of herbs and a touch of cumin, then layered through basmati with tiny meatballs no bigger than a chickpea and steamed into a fragrant, green-flecked pilaf. For a vegetarian pot, leave the meatballs out and add a handful of cooked chickpeas. Serve with Shirazi salad and yogurt. A common mistake is frying the cabbage too briefly; it must turn golden and sweet, or it gives the rice a sulphurous taste. Chef's tip: dry the chopped herbs on a tea towel before frying so they crisp instead of stew.
On the waterfront in Bodrum and in every Aegean fish meyhane, a plate of kalamar tava arrives hot among the cold meze: tender rings of squid in a light, crisp coat, with a bowl of tarator, a thick sauce of walnuts, bread, garlic and lemon, for dipping. The trick is speed; squid is tender after a minute or two in the oil and rubbery after five. Chef's tip: soak the rings in milk or fizzy mineral water for half an hour in the fridge; it tenderises them and helps the coating cling.
Stuffed squid is Lenten and summer food all over the Cyclades: the bodies are filled with rice, onion, the chopped tentacles, dill, mint and pine nuts, then baked in a light tomato sauce until the squid is tender and the rice has drunk up the juices. Families on Paros and Naxos make a tray for a Friday or a feast day of the Virgin in August, and serve it warm with bread and a salad. Common mistake: packing the squid full; the rice swells and splits them, so fill only two-thirds. Chef's tip: close each squid with a toothpick through the opening, threaded like a stitch.
Kaleh joosh is the fast, frugal soup of the Azerbaijani villages around Tabriz and of central Iran, cooked when the cupboard holds kashk, walnuts and onions. Kashk, the tangy fermented whey that gives so many Persian dishes their savoury depth, is simmered with deeply fried onions and ground walnuts, then crowned with sizzling dried mint and turmeric oil. It is eaten from a shared bowl, scooped up with torn bread rather than spoons, often on cold evenings. A common mistake is boiling the kashk hard, which can make it split and grainy; keep it at a gentle bubble. Chef's tip: taste your kashk before salting, as brands vary wildly in saltiness.
Kalimotxo contains alcohol (red wine), so the classic version is for adults only; an alcohol-free version is given below. The story goes that it was mixed in 1972 at a fiesta in Algorta, near Bilbao, when the wine bought for the stall turned out to be poor and cola was added to save it. Today it is the drink of every Basque summer fiesta, from Bilbao's Aste Nagusia to village squares, poured into big plastic cups. A common mistake is mixing warm wine and flat cola, which tastes heavy and sweet: both should be fridge-cold and the cola freshly opened. Chef's tip: pour the cola slowly down the side of the glass so it keeps its fizz.
Come Holy Week, Cretan kitchens from Chania to Sitia fill trays with kalitsounia, little open pastries whose edges are pinched into stars around a mound of fresh whey cheese. They come out with crisp, slightly sandy pastry and a soft, barely sweet filling that tastes of milk, cinnamon and orange zest, and they are eaten at Easter breakfast, offered to visitors with coffee and packed for the drive back to the village. On the island the filling is fresh mizithra or anthotyro; drained ricotta is the easiest stand-in and is usually made without animal rennet. Common mistake: using wet cheese straight from the tub, which floods the pastry and leaves the bases soggy. Chef's tip: drain the cheese overnight in a sieve lined with kitchen paper so the filling bakes up light and holds its dome.
Kallaj appears in the sweet shops of Beirut and Tripoli only during Ramadan, when bakers sell paper-thin starch sheets to wrap around cream or cheese and fry for after iftar. Home cooks recreate it with filo: square parcels of thick milk cream, baked until they crackle, then soaked briefly in rose and orange-blossom syrup and finished with pistachios. Serve them warm, a few minutes after the syrup goes on, while the outside is still crisp. Common mistake: drowning them in syrup and leaving them to sit; spoon it over just before serving. Chef's tip: a cheese version — fill with half mozzarella, half unsalted ricotta — is just as traditional; choose a vegetarian-rennet mozzarella if you need it.
Kalter Hund, the 'cold dog', is the no-bake party cake of West German childhoods, set in a loaf tin in the fridge and sliced into stripes of crisp biscuit and dark chocolate at every 1970s birthday. Recipes from Hamburg to Bavaria differ only in the details; old ones used coconut fat and raw egg, while this version uses dark chocolate, cream and a little coconut oil, so there is nothing raw in it. A common mistake is pouring the chocolate too hot, which softens the biscuits into mush; it should be just warm. Chef's tip: line the tin with cling film overhanging the sides, then you can lift the whole loaf out and slice it with a hot knife.
Brought to the table as a sharing platter at big chifa lunches in Lima, kam lu wantán is a gleeful mix of textures: golden fried wontons filled with ginger-spiked pork, smothered in a bright, sweet-and-sour sauce full of sliced chicken, pork, pineapple, peppers, carrot, snow peas and bok choy. The wontons shatter at the edges and soften where the sauce soaks in, so eat it fast. It works as a starter for a crowd or a main with rice. The mistake to avoid is making the sauce too thick and gloopy; it should flow over the wontons, not sit on them like jam. Chef's tip: fry the wontons at the last minute and pour the sauce over at the table so the crunch survives.
Dingle pies are small, round mutton pies made in west Kerry for the Puck Fair in Killorglin, for fishermen going to sea, and for farmers at the mart, often reheated in a bowl of the mutton broth. A firm hot-water-crust pastry holds a peppery filling of lamb or mutton, onion and carrot, so they travel well and are eaten by hand or with gravy. Chef's tip: shape the pastry while it is still warm; hot-water crust cracks and won't mould once it cools.
Kapchi (sometimes spelled capchi) comes from the Quechua for something like 'dressed' or 'creamed', and around Cusco it turns up when the fresh broad beans are in season: green habas, potatoes and soft fresh cheese simmered with milk until the sauce turns thick and pale, with ají and a handful of huacatay. Market stalls in San Pedro sell it with rice, and families make it at Easter as a meatless dish. It is gentle and creamy with a herby, slightly minty finish, and the beans stay sweet and tender. The trap is boiling the sauce once the cheese is in; it splits into curds and goes watery, so keep it at a bare simmer. Serve with white rice or boiled potatoes and a spoon of uchucuta. The same recipe works with sliced mushrooms instead of beans, which Cusco cooks also do. Queso fresco is usually set with animal rennet, so pick a vegetarian fresh cheese if you need to. Chef's tip: peel the beans of their pale inner skins after blanching; it takes ten minutes and makes the dish far silkier.
Pide salons in Samsun, Trabzon and Rize stretch their dough into long boats, pinch the ends into points and fill them with minced beef, onion, tomato and peppers, then slide them into a wood oven for a few minutes. At home a very hot oven and a heavy tray get you close: a crisp, chewy rim, a juicy filling and a brush of butter as it comes out. Slice across into strips and eat with ayran and a sharp shepherd's salad. Common mistake: a wet filling, which soaks the base; squeeze the chopped tomato and let the mince sit on the dough raw so its juices cook into the bread. The mince must reach 71 °C. Chef's tip: crack an egg into the middle for the last 3 minutes if you like it the Samsun way.
Along the Black Sea coast from Samsun to Artvin, cornbread was the everyday loaf long before wheat bread was common, and it still sits beside bowls of collard soup and plates of fried anchovies. This version is the simple household one: fine cornmeal scalded with hot water and milk, a little wheat flour and egg for lift, baked in a well-oiled pan until the crust cracks and the inside stays moist and slightly sweet. Cut it into wedges and eat it warm with butter, cheese or crumbled into soup. Common mistake: using cold water, which leaves the cornmeal gritty; scalding it first softens the grains. Chef's tip: heat the oiled pan in the oven before the batter goes in, so the base sizzles and forms a crisp, shiny crust.
Dark, ribbed karalahana is the cabbage of the eastern Black Sea, and in Trabzon and Rize winter kitchens it goes into a thick soup that is somewhere between a broth and a stew. Shredded leaves simmer with borlotti beans, onion and a spoon of pepper paste, then a handful of cornmeal is whisked in at the end to give the soup body and a gentle sweetness. It is served with cornbread, a wedge of onion and a few chilli pickles. Common mistake: leaving the tough central ribs in; they never soften and make the soup stringy. Chef's tip: the soup is noticeably better the next day, so make it ahead and loosen it with a little hot water when you reheat.
In Trabzon and Artvin kitchens the big dark leaves of karalahana are blanched and wrapped around a filling of minced beef, rice, onion and plenty of mint and dill, then packed into a pot and simmered with a little tomato and butter. The rolls are thicker and chewier than vine-leaf sarma, with an earthy taste that suits cold weather, and they're served with a bowl of garlicky yoghurt. Common mistake: leaving the thick central vein on the leaf; shave it flat with a knife or the rolls split. Simmer until the filling is cooked through to 71 °C and the rice is soft. Chef's tip: lay any torn leaves in the base of the pot so the rolls never touch the bottom and scorch.
Kardinalschnitten, 'cardinal slices', were created in Vienna with the colours of the Church in mind: white meringue and yellow sponge baked side by side in stripes. In Viennese cafés they are a light, summery choice with an afternoon coffee. Two baked sheets of alternating stripes sandwich a soft coffee cream, and the result is crisp, airy and cool at the same time. A common mistake is overfilling with cream that has not been stabilised; it squeezes out when you cut. Here a little mascarpone keeps the cream firm without gelatine. Chef's tip: pipe the meringue stripes first and the sponge in the gaps after, so the sponge does not spread flat.
Every autumn Turkish kitchens line up jars of karışık turşu, and in Istanbul pickle shops (turşucu) sell it by the glass with its sour juice to drink. Crunchy cabbage, carrots, cucumbers, green peppers and cauliflower are packed with garlic and chickpeas in a salted, vinegar-spiked brine and left to sour for a couple of weeks. It sits beside bean stews, pilaf and kebab at almost every home meal. Common mistake: iodised table salt, which clouds the brine and softens the vegetables; use rock or pickling salt. Chef's tip: a few dried chickpeas in the jar help the fermentation get going, as Turkish grandmothers swear.
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