Mushroom stew
Tocăniță is the everyday stew of Romanian home cooking, and the mushroom version is a fixture of the Orthodox fasting days, when Transylvanian cooks use forest mushrooms gathered in the Apuseni hills and city cooks use button mushrooms from the market. Onions, garlic, tomato, white wine and thyme cook down into a thick, glossy sauce, without the sour cream and paprika of a Hungarian paprikás. It is always eaten with hot mămăligă and a spoon of the sauce over the top. Chef's tip: brown the mushrooms in batches in a hot pan; crowding them is the usual mistake, and they then stew grey in their own water instead of turning golden.
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Lilikoi is the Hawaiian name for passion fruit, which grows wild on vines all over the islands, and lilikoi butter is the tangy golden curd that farmers' markets on Maui and Kauai sell in jars. It is spread on toast, sweet bread and scones, or spooned onto shave ice and cakes. Chef's tip: keep the heat low and stir constantly; the curd is ready when it coats the back of a spoon and holds a line drawn through it with your finger.
Small, fluted and almost black on the outside, canelés are the signature cake of Bordeaux, sold in pâtisseries all over the city and eaten with morning coffee or at teatime. The thick, caramelised crust cracks to reveal a soft, custardy centre scented with vanilla. The batter traditionally includes dark rum; this version gives it as an option and uses extra vanilla and a little orange zest instead, so it can be made alcohol-free. Copper moulds are traditional, but silicone canelé moulds work well at home. Chef's tip: rest the batter for at least 24 hours in the fridge; fresh batter puffs up like a soufflé and the cakes lose their shape.
Borage grows all along the Ebro valley, and in Zaragoza it is almost a point of pride: markets sell bundles of the thick, hairy stalks from autumn to spring, and borraja con patatas is a weeknight supper in thousands of Aragonese homes. Boiled until tender, the stalks taste mild and green, a little like a cross between cucumber and chard, and the floury potatoes soak up a simple dressing of olive oil and fried garlic. It is vegan and gluten free. A common mistake is skipping the cleaning: the fine hairs and stringy outer fibres must come off, or the dish feels prickly. If you can't get borage, chard stalks are the closest stand-in. Chef's tip: fry the garlic in the oil slowly, off a high flame, and pour it over sizzling hot so it sings when it hits the vegetables.
In the covered Hamidiyeh souk in Damascus, men pound booza in frozen metal drums with long wooden pestles, and the thump of the mallets is part of the show. The ice cream is milky, chewy and elastic, thanks to sahlab (orchid-root flour) and mastic, then rolled in crushed pistachios. This home version thickens the milk with sahlab powder or cornflour and beats it as it freezes to get that stretch. Serve in scoops or slices, plain or with a spoon of rose syrup. Common mistake: grinding the mastic alone, which turns gummy; always pound it with a spoonful of sugar. Chef's tip: real sahlab gives the true chew, but a mix of cornflour and a pinch of guar gum gets very close.
Breakfast stalls in Iquitos and the riverside towns of Loreto pour chapo into glasses from big steaming pots before the heat of the day sets in, and by afternoon the same drink is sold chilled. It is made from plantains left until their skins are black, simmered with cinnamon and cloves until soft, then blended smooth and loosened with milk. The result is thick, naturally sweet and gently spiced, somewhere between a smoothie and a thin custard, and children love it. Some families make it with water only; evaporated milk is the common addition in town. The mistake is using plantains that are still yellow-green: they taste starchy and the drink turns grey and gluey, so wait until the skins are mostly black and the fruit gives when pressed. Serve hot with bread or a tamal, or cold over ice. Chef's tip: strain it through a sieve after blending for a silky drink, and thin it with water if it thickens as it cools.
Dominosteine were invented in Dresden in the 1930s as an affordable Christmas treat and are still bought by the box across Germany through December: a cube of soft gingerbread, a layer of tart fruit jelly and a layer of marzipan, all coated in dark chocolate. Homemade ones are fresher and less sweet than the boxed kind and make a beautiful gift. The jelly is set with pectin, not gelatine, so they suit vegetarians. The mistake people often make is cutting the slab while the jelly is still soft, which smears the layers; leave it overnight. Chef's tip: trim the edges of the slab before cutting so every cube has three clean, sharp stripes.
Sweet and salty is the whole point here. Córdoba's empanadas hold a filling of beef, onion, a little potato, raisins and olives, and the moment they come out of the fryer they get a sprinkle of sugar that melts into the crackly crust. They turn up at birthday parties, school fundraisers and the patriotic holidays of 25 May and 9 July, often next to a bowl of locro. If the sugar on top sounds odd, try one: the contrast with the cumin and paprika is the local hallmark. The error that ruins them is frying in oil that isn't hot enough, which leaves them pale and greasy; keep it at 175 °C. Chef's tip: dust with sugar within seconds of draining, while the surface is still glistening, or it won't stick.
Donauwelle, the 'Danube wave', is a German home-baker's favourite from the 1970s onwards, made on a tray for school fairs, birthdays and the Sunday coffee table. Cut a slice and you see the river: vanilla and chocolate sponge swirled into waves by sour cherries pushed into the batter, then a thick layer of vanilla buttercream and a dark chocolate top combed into ripples. A common mistake is pouring on the chocolate while the buttercream is soft, which melts the layers together; chill the cake well first. Chef's tip: warm a serrated knife in hot water and wipe it between every cut so the chocolate cracks cleanly instead of shattering.
Millionaire's shortbread, called caramel shortcake in much of Scotland and caramel squares across the water in Belfast, is the traybake of school bake sales, cafés and church teas. A crisp shortbread base is covered with thick condensed-milk caramel and a layer of chocolate, rich enough to justify the name. Chef's tip: keep stirring the caramel the whole time it bubbles; it catches on the bottom in seconds.
Along the coast of Santa Fe, especially during Lent and Holy Week, fishmongers' stalls and riverside kiosks sell fried empanadas filled with sábalo or surubí. The fish is poached, flaked and folded through soft onion and sweet pepper, then sealed in a thin oil-based dough and fried until blistered and crisp. Squeeze lemon over them and eat them warm, with a green salad or just a paper napkin. Any firm white fish works: hake, cod or a farmed catfish. The mistake people make most is skipping the bone check; river fish such as sábalo hide fine bones, so run your fingers through every flake. Chef's tip: keep the filling quite dry and cold before you fill the discs; extra liquid turns to steam in the hot oil and bursts the seams.
Pressed in a fist so each one carries the marks of the cook's fingers, kispiño are small, dense quinoa cakes from the Puno highlands, steamed and then left to dry so they keep for weeks on journeys, herding trips and pilgrimages. Traditional ones are bound with a little lime water (from cal, the mineral) and fat; this home version uses oil and a pinch of aniseed and sugar, so they're vegan and pleasantly savoury-sweet. They're firm and chewy, a little like a grain cake, and good with hot tea, coca tea or a soup on a cold day. The common mistake is making the dough too wet, so the cakes slump in the steamer; it should feel like damp sand that holds its shape when squeezed. Ground quinoa is quinoa flour; grind your own from rinsed, dried and toasted grain, or buy it ready ground. Chef's tip: toast the ground quinoa in a dry pan first until it smells nutty, which takes away any bitterness.
Around the salt flats of San Pedro del Pinatar, at the northern tip of the Mar Menor, baking fish under a crust of coarse salt is the obvious way to cook a fresh bream, and lagoon-side restaurants crack the crust open at the table for long summer lunches. The salt hardens into a shell that steams the fish in its own juices, so the flesh is moist and lightly seasoned rather than salty. Serve it with a drizzle of good olive oil, boiled potatoes or allioli. Chef's tip: leave the scales on; they stop the salt from reaching the flesh and make the skin peel away cleanly.
Along the Caspian coast in Gilan and Mazandaran, kateh is the daily rice: no par-boiling and draining as in Tehran's chelow, just rice, water, salt and butter cooked together until the water vanishes and the grains settle into a soft, slightly sticky cake with a golden crust underneath. Northern families eat it at almost every meal with fish, mirza ghasemi or baghala ghatogh, and children love the buttery bottom. The common mistake is lifting the lid and stirring once the water has been absorbed, which breaks the grains and stops the crust forming. Chef's tip: use a heavy non-stick pot and add the butter only after the water has boiled down; it seeps through and fries the base.
Ride the train or the bus through the Sacred Valley of Cusco and at every stop someone will hold up choclo con queso: a steaming cob of Urubamba's huge white-kernelled corn with a slab of fresh cheese tucked into a corn husk. The kernels are big, chewy and starchy rather than sweet, and the salty, milky cheese is eaten in alternating bites, sometimes with a dab of uchucuta or ají. It's snack food, a market lunch and something to keep children going on a long day. Fresh choclo is sold frozen in Latin American shops; sweet corn works but is sweeter and softer. Adding salt to the cooking water is the usual misstep, as it can toughen the kernels: season the cheese, not the corn. Andean fresh cheese is generally made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian fresh cheese if needed. Chef's tip: drop a few of the inner husks and a small spoon of sugar into the pot; it brings back some of the sweetness lost after picking.
Mendoza's empanadas are all about juice. The filling uses roughly as much onion as beef, cooked only briefly so it stays sweet and wet, then gets folded with hard-boiled egg and a whole green olive in every pastry; the dough is a tender one made with beef fat. They come out of wood ovens across the province for Sundays, family gatherings and the grape harvest, and are eaten by hand, leaning forward, with a tomato and onion salad on the side. The classic error is filling the dough while the meat is still warm: the fat melts, the pastry turns soggy and the seal splits in the oven. Cool the filling completely, ideally overnight. Chef's tip: cut the beef into small cubes with a knife instead of buying mince; it stays juicier and gives the bite a Mendoza cook expects.
Across the river from Lisbon, the fishing port of Setúbal claims choco frito as its own, and there are whole streets of grill-houses serving it with chips, salad and lemon. Thick strips of cuttlefish are marinated in garlic, lemon and a little white wine, floured and fried until golden and tender. The wine contains alcohol; extra lemon juice with a splash of water does the job. A common mistake is frying too long: cuttlefish goes from tender to rubbery in a minute or two. Chef's tip: score the inside of the cuttlefish in a fine crisscross before cutting it into strips, so it stays tender and grips the flour.
Despite its name, Bavarian Leberkäse contains neither liver nor cheese: it is a smooth, finely ground loaf of pork and beef baked until it has a dark, crunchy crust. In Munich it is the mid-morning snack, a thick warm slice folded into a crusty roll with sweet mustard and eaten standing at the butcher's counter. Made at home without curing salt, the inside bakes pale grey rather than pink, which is normal. Chef's tip: everything, including the bowl of the food processor, must be ice-cold; if the mix warms above about 12 °C the fat separates and the loaf turns crumbly.
Dublin lawyer is an old Dublin restaurant dish, said to be named because lawyers were rich and fond of drink: lobster meat is cooked in butter, flamed with Irish whiskey and finished with cream, then served back in the shell. It is a special-occasion dish for anniversaries and birthdays. This recipe contains alcohol; for an alcohol-free version replace the whiskey with 2 tablespoons of apple juice and a squeeze of lemon. Chef's tip: buy cooked lobster from a fishmonger if you are unsure about preparing a live one, and add it to the sauce only to heat through.
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