Anchovy and onion bread pie
Vis, the most far-flung inhabited island of Croatia, has a fishing town, Komiža, that gave the world this pie: two thin layers of olive-oil bread dough wrapped around onions stewed until jammy with tomato, and fillets of salted anchovy or sardine. Fishermen took wedges of it to sea, and it still turns up at island festivals and in bakeries, eaten warm or at room temperature with a tomato salad. The salted fish is bought ready-cured from a good fishmonger and is baked inside the pie until piping hot. Where most people go wrong is a wet filling: the onions and tomato must cook down until thick and jammy, or the bottom crust goes soggy. Keep leftovers in the fridge and eat within 2 days. Chef's tip: soak the salted fillets in cold water for 15 minutes to take the harsh edge off the salt, and don't add any more salt to the filling.
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Cawl is the national dish of Wales, a slow broth of lamb on the bone, swede, carrots, potatoes and leeks that farmhouses kept simmering through the winter, and which is eaten with bread and a hunk of Caerphilly on St David's Day. Many families serve the broth first and the meat and vegetables after, and say cawl tastes best on the second day. Chef's tip: chill it overnight and lift off the fat that sets on top for a cleaner broth.
Brought over the Channel by British soldiers and miners, the welsh rarebit became a fixture of the estaminets of Lille and the Nord, where it is served in its own oval dish: toast soaked in beer, a slice of ham, then a flood of Cheddar melted with more beer and mustard, baked until bubbling and often topped with a fried egg. It is rich, sharp and very filling, with chips and a green salad the usual partners. It contains pork in the form of cooked ham, and uses beer; the notes give an alcohol-free swap. Chef's tip: use a strong, mature Cheddar, because a mild one melts flat and loses all its bite once the beer goes in.
Blindhuhn, "blind hen", is a late-summer pot from the farms of Westphalia and the Münsterland, made when the garden and orchard give green beans, carrots, apples and pears all at once. It is called blind hen because, as farmers joked, even a blind hen finds a grain in it: the pot holds a bit of everything. White beans, vegetables and fruit cook together with smoked streaky bacon into a sweet-savoury one-pot supper. Leave out the bacon and add a spoon of smoked paprika for a vegetarian pot. Chef's tip: add the apples and pears only for the last 15 minutes so they stay in soft pieces instead of melting away.
Backhendl, crumbed fried chicken, was the treat of 19th-century Viennese Sunday outings to the Prater and the wine villages, and it is still the star of Styrian taverns, served with lemon and a lukewarm potato salad glossy with pumpkin seed oil. Chicken pieces on the bone are seasoned with lemon, coated in flour, egg and fine breadcrumbs and fried slowly so the crust puffs and stays crisp while the meat cooks through. Chef's tip: fry at a moderate heat, not a fierce one; bone-in pieces need time for the centre to reach a safe temperature before the crumbs burn.
Manaus starts the day with this sandwich, sold from cafés, street stalls and market counters near the Mercado Adolpho Lisboa. A crusty roll is split, buttered and toasted, then filled with slices of fried pacovã plantain, a slab of melted coalho cheese and shavings of tucumã, an orange Amazon palm fruit with an oily, nutty, slightly earthy flavour. The name plays on 'caboclo', the riverside people of the Amazon, and amazonenses defend it as a symbol of local pride. Frozen tucumã slices are sold in some Brazilian shops; there is no true substitute, though thin slices of ripe avocado give a different but pleasant result. Use a vegetarian coalho or halloumi, as most coalho uses animal rennet. People often add the tucumã to the hot pan, but it should go in cool and raw for its fresh flavour. Chef's tip: fry the plantain until really dark at the edges; its caramel sweetness is what balances the salty cheese and the palm fruit.
From late autumn to early spring, the towns of the Garraf coast, Vilanova i la Geltrú, Sitges and Vilafranca, hold xatonades: festive lunches built round this salad of bitter curly endive dressed with a thick sauce of ñora peppers, almonds, hazelnuts and garlic, and loaded with salt cod, tuna and anchovies. Each town insists its sauce is the true one. Like esqueixada, the cod is often only desalted; it is poached here for safety, since raw cured fish is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. Chef's tip: dress the endive in the sauce with your hands, so every frond is coated before the fish goes on top.
Xerém is coarse-ground maize cooked to a soft, spoonable porridge, an old poor man's food of the eastern Algarve that tasted of whatever the sea or the pig gave that day. Around Tavira and Olhão it is cooked with conquilhas, the little wedge clams raked from the sand bars of the Ria Formosa, so the cornmeal soaks up their salty juices. This contains pork (chouriço and streaky bacon); leave them out for a purely seafood version. Chef's tip: stir the cornmeal into the clam water off the heat, then put it back on, to avoid lumps.
At a Cretan wedding or baptism, the women of the family spend the day before rolling dough so thin you can read through it, winding the strips into roses in hot oil and stacking the crisp spirals on huge platters. Xerotigana shatter at the first bite and then turn sticky with honey, walnuts, sesame and cinnamon. Many village versions add a little raki to the dough for extra crispness; this one uses orange juice and a splash of lemon instead, so it is alcohol-free. Common mistake: rolling the strips too thick, which gives chewy, greasy spirals instead of glassy ones. Chef's tip: use a pasta machine down to the second-thinnest setting, and keep the strips you are not frying under a damp tea towel.
Ximbó comes from the Otomí (Hñähñu) communities of Hidalgo's Valle del Mezquital, where it is cooked for village fiestas: pieces of chicken, and often pork, are coated in a guajillo and pasilla sauce with nopales and onion, wrapped in the thick leaves of the maguey and slow-cooked in a pit oven like barbacoa. The meat comes out tender and juicy, in a concentrated, smoky red sauce. Maguey leaves are almost impossible to buy outside Mexico, so this home version wraps everything in banana leaves and baking paper and steams it on the hob; the pork is optional, but if you use it this becomes a pork dish too. Eat it straight from the parcel with tortillas, salsa and pickled chillies. Chef's tip: pass the banana leaves briefly over a gas flame or hot pan until they turn glossy; they become supple and stop cracking when you fold them.
Cooked for Oxum's feast days in the terreiros of Salvador and on ordinary Sundays in Bahian homes, xinxim de galinha is chicken braised in a thick, golden sauce of ground dried shrimp, peanuts, cashews, ginger and dendê oil. It tastes nutty, a little smoky from the palm oil and quietly savoury from the shrimp, and the sauce clings to the meat rather than pooling. Serve it with white rice, farofa de dendê and a bowl of caruru alongside. One common slip is adding the nut paste too early, so it sticks and scorches before the chicken is cooked; it goes in for the last 15 minutes. Chef's tip: use bone-in thighs and drumsticks rather than breast; they stay juicy through the braise and their gelatine gives the sauce its silky body.
Porto Alegre's lancherias and late-night food trucks press the xis (the Portuguese name for the letter X, which sounds like 'cheese', as in X-burger) on a hot griddle with a heavy lid until a giant round bun is flat, crisp and holding everything together: a beef patty, a fried egg, ham, melted cheese, sweetcorn, peas, lettuce, tomato and lots of mayonnaise. It is huge, messy and much loved after a night out or a football match, usually cut in half and shared. Its pork element is the ham. The common mistake is stacking it too high before pressing, so the fillings slide out; spread them in flat even layers right to the edges. Minced beef must be cooked through to 71 °C with no pink in the middle. Chef's tip: press the assembled sandwich under a heavy pan with a weight on top if you have no sandwich press, and turn it once.
Yakhnet bazella is weekday food in almost every Lebanese household: cubes of lamb (or beef) simmered until tender with peas, carrots and tomato, with a last-minute hit of garlic and coriander, ladled over buttery vermicelli rice. Mothers in Beirut make it with frozen peas in winter and fresh ones in spring; children love its sweetness. Common mistake: adding the peas with the meat — they turn grey and mushy; put them in for the last 10 minutes. Chef's tip: brown the meat in small batches so it really sears; that browned base is where the stew's flavour comes from.
Yatimcheh means 'little orphan', the joke being that this Isfahan stew has no meat to look after it. Cooks in Isfahan and the towns around Kashan make it in late summer when aubergines are glossy and cheap, frying them until silky and then letting them collapse into onion, garlic, turmeric and ripe tomato. It is eaten warm with plain rice or torn lavash, with a bowl of yogurt and a plate of herbs on the side. A common mistake is frying the aubergine pale: it needs a deep golden colour or the stew tastes flat and spongy. Chef's tip: a spoon of verjuice or lemon juice stirred in at the very end lifts the sweetness of the tomato.
Named for the high summer pastures of Anatolia, yayla çorbası is the soup that tradesmen's restaurants in Ankara and Kayseri ladle out from morning onwards: soft rice in a silky, gently sour yoghurt broth, finished with a slick of mint butter. It is light enough for breakfast yet filling with bread, and many families make it when someone is unwell. Common mistake: pouring cold yoghurt straight into the boiling pot, which splits it into grainy curds; temper it first with hot liquid and keep the soup below a boil afterwards. Chef's tip: whisk an egg yolk and a spoon of flour into the yoghurt; they stabilise it and give a velvety body.
Inside Ávila's medieval walls, little boxes of yemas are the souvenir every visitor carries home: soft, deep-yellow balls of egg yolk cooked with sugar syrup, rolled in sugar and set in paper cases. They are linked with Saint Teresa, the city's famous nun, and are eaten with coffee after lunch, especially around her feast in October. The yolks are cooked until thick, well past the point that makes them safe. Chef's tip: keep the heat low and never stop stirring; yolks scramble in seconds if they catch.
Parkin is the dark ginger cake that West Yorkshire bakes for the 5th of November, cut into squares and handed round at Bonfire Night fires in Leeds, Halifax and Bradford. It is made with oatmeal, black treacle and golden syrup, so it is dense, chewy and gingery rather than light. It gets better with time, turning stickier after a few days in a tin. Chef's tip: wrap it and keep it for three days before cutting; fresh parkin is dry and crumbly by comparison.
Youvarlakia is the soup Greek mothers, from Tripoli in the Arcadian hills to the Athens suburbs, make for a cold night or anyone feeling under the weather. Little meatballs of beef, rice, onion and herbs poach in a light broth until tender, and the broth is thickened at the end with whisked egg and lemon into a pale, silky avgolemono. It's a meal in a bowl, with bread and feta. Common mistake: boiling the soup after the egg goes in, which curdles it — take the pot off the heat first. Chef's tip: roll the meatballs with wet hands and drop them into simmering, not boiling, broth so they hold together.
Families in Gaziantep spend the day before Kurban Bayramı rolling thousands of chickpea-sized dumplings for yuvalama, the festive yoghurt soup served on the first morning of the holiday. Little balls of rice dough and tiny lamb meatballs simmer with chickpeas and chunks of lamb in a tangy yoghurt broth, finished with mint butter. It is rich, soothing and very much a feast dish, so make it with friends. The most common mistake is adding the yoghurt straight to a boiling pot: it curdles. Chef's tip: whisk an egg yolk and a spoon of flour into the yoghurt and stir it constantly as it comes up to a simmer.
In Palestinian homes za'atar is both a herb and the blend made from it, kept in a jar beside a bowl of olive oil so torn bread can be dipped in one and then the other at breakfast; children grow up on it, and it goes to school in sandwiches. The blend is mostly dried wild za'atar (or thyme and oregano), tangy with sumac, nutty with toasted sesame and seasoned with salt. Common mistake: grinding it to dust; it should be coarse and slightly flaky. Chef's tip: rub the dried leaves with a few drops of olive oil before mixing; it wakes their aroma and helps the sumac cling.
Round green zapallitos, the size of a tennis ball, pile up at every verdulería in Buenos Aires from December to March, and stuffing them is how home cooks turn a cheap summer vegetable into a main course. The shells are blanched, hollowed and refilled with their own flesh fried with onion and red pepper, bound with egg and melting cheese, and topped with breadcrumbs that bake to a crunchy lid. Expect a soft, savoury, slightly creamy filling under a golden crust; serve two per person with a tomato and onion salad or white rice. Overcooking the shells in the first boil is the trap: they collapse in the oven and leak water, so they only get 4 minutes. Round courgettes, eight-ball squash or short fat courgettes all work. The cheeses are usually made with animal rennet; swap in vegetarian versions if needed. Chef's tip: squeeze the chopped flesh in a clean cloth before frying it; drier filling means a firmer, tastier stuffing.
Across the Argentine countryside, when the autumn squash harvest piles up, cooks turn some of it into zapallo en almíbar: cubes of firm orange squash soaked briefly in slaked lime (cal) and then simmered in syrup until they are crisp-skinned outside and tender, almost translucent inside. Farm stalls in Córdoba and Santiago del Estero sell it in jars, and it is eaten as dessert with a slice of cheese, the same idea as postre vigilante. This home version skips the lime and uses a short sugar cure instead, which still keeps the pieces whole. It is vegan as written; serve it with vegan cheese or toasted walnuts to keep it that way. The mistake to avoid is stirring: the squash breaks into purée, so shake the pan instead. Chef's tip: use a dense, dry squash such as Crown Prince or butternut neck, and cook the syrup slowly; if it boils hard the outside candies before the centre softens.
Ask for a tapa in almost any bar in Murcia city and zarangollo will be on the counter in a clay dish, scooped onto bread or eaten with a fork. It comes from the huerta, the irrigated market gardens around the city, where courgettes pile up all summer: they are sliced thin with onion, stewed gently in olive oil until sweet and almost jammy, and then bound with beaten egg. Some families add a little potato, but courgette and onion are the heart of it. Chef's tip: slice the courgettes into thin half-moons so they melt quickly and evenly.
Visitors to the desert camps of Wadi Rum often watch the zarb come up from the sand at sunset: tiered racks of spiced lamb, chicken, potatoes and onions that have steamed for hours in a pit of embers, then lifted out smoky and falling apart. At home you get close with a deep roasting tin sealed tightly with foil, a long, low oven and a short blast of heat at the end. Serve it on a big platter over rice or with shrak, with yoghurt and a tomato salad. The mistake most people make is leaving gaps in the foil, so the steam escapes and the meat dries. Chef's tip: marinate overnight in the fridge and add a little smoked paprika to the spice mix; it brings back the taste of the pit.
Zereshk polo ba morgh is the rice Iranians cook for guests, weddings and Friday lunches, and its tart red barberries come mostly from the orchards around Birjand in South Khorasan, where the berries are dried on rooftops in autumn. Fluffy steamed basmati is crowned with saffron rice and barberries fried briefly in butter with a little sugar, and served beside chicken braised slowly with onion, tomato and saffron until it is falling off the bone. A common mistake is frying the barberries for more than a minute or two; they burn fast and turn bitter. Chef's tip: sort the barberries on a white plate and remove any tiny stems or grit before soaking.
In Istanbul meyhanes and lokanta counters, the zeytinyağlı dishes are the cold olive-oil vegetables served at room temperature, and barbunya is one of the summer favourites when fresh borlotti appear in their speckled pink pods. The beans are braised slowly with onion, carrot, tomato and a little sugar until creamy, then left to cool in their glossy sauce and finished with parsley and lemon. Serve with crusty bread as a meze or a light lunch. Chef's tip: add the salt only once the beans are tender; salting at the start keeps the skins tough.
When celeriac fills the Kadıköy market stalls in winter, Istanbul home cooks braise thick slices of it in olive oil with orange juice, carrots and baby onions, then serve it cold the next day as a starter. The root turns silky and sweet, the orange gives it a bright, almost marmalade edge, and a little dill keeps it fresh. It sits happily on a meze table or alongside a bowl of lentil soup. Chef's tip: drop the cut celeriac straight into lemon water, otherwise it greys within minutes and never looks as good on the plate.
In April, when the first tender broad beans arrive in İzmir's markets, Aegean cooks braise them whole, pods and all, with onion, dill and olive oil, and serve them cold under a blanket of garlic yoghurt. The pods turn silky and slightly sweet, nothing like the tough shells of older beans. It is one of the true markers of spring on the coast. Chef's tip: rub the pods with lemon and a little flour before cooking; it keeps them green and stops them blackening as they braise.
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