Every first Sunday of March, the 90-kilometre Vasaloppet ski race from Sälen to Mora is fuelled by blåbärssoppa: volunteers at the feeding stations hand thousands of skiers paper cups of the warm purple drink, and Swedes drink it from thermoses on winter hikes, after skating and on the ski slopes. It is made from wild bilberries, the small dark forest berries with purple flesh, cooked with sugar and thickened with potato starch so it is just thick enough to coat the cup. It is sweet, softly tart and tastes intensely of berries, with a silky, almost glossy body. The common mistake is stirring the starch straight into the hot pot: it forms jelly lumps at once. Always mix potato starch with cold water first, take the pot off the boil, then stir it in and bring back just to a bubble; long boiling thins it again. It is ready when it turns glossy and coats a spoon in a thin film. Bilberries are sold frozen in Nordic shops; cultivated blueberries work too, with a squeeze of lemon for sharpness. Chef's tip: it is just as good cold the next day, or served as a soup with whipped cream and almond biscuits.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
Finger steaks are Idaho's diner and drive-in speciality, said to have been invented by a butcher in Boise in the 1950s who battered the trimmings of steaks and fried them. Strips of tender sirloin are dipped in a light, peppery batter and deep-fried until crisp, then eaten with chips and pink fry sauce at the county fair. Chef's tip: cut the beef into even strips about 1.5 cm thick so they cook to tender in the 2 minutes it takes the batter to brown.
Huli means turn in Hawaiian, and this chicken was named in the 1950s when a farmer on Oʻahu grilled it between two racks and flipped it over the fire; today you smell it from roadside fundraiser stands and North Shore weekend grills. Chicken is marinated in soy sauce, pineapple juice, ginger and brown sugar, then grilled and basted until sticky and charred. Chef's tip: boil the leftover marinade before basting with it, so it is safe and turns into a glaze.
Despite its name there is no rice in it: chicken long rice is a gingery chicken broth with bean thread noodles, brought to Hawaii by Chinese plantation workers and now a fixture at every lūʻau and baby's first-birthday party alongside kalua pig and poi. The glassy noodles soak up the broth until it is almost a stew. Chef's tip: soak the noodles and cut them into short lengths before they go into the pot, or you get one long, tangled clump.
In Yorkshire the pudding was once served first, on its own with gravy, to fill people up before the meat; today these puffed, crisp-edged cups sit beside the roast at Sunday lunch all over England. The batter is nothing but eggs, flour and milk, and the trick is in the heat: smoking-hot fat in the tin and a hot oven. Serve with onion gravy for a vegetarian roast. Chef's tip: rest the batter for at least 30 minutes, which helps the puddings rise tall and even.
Mince pies are handed round with mulled drinks at every English Christmas gathering, from carol services to office parties, and children leave one out for Father Christmas. The mincemeat once held meat; this home-made version is all fruit, apple and spice, with vegetarian suet, and brandy is optional, so it can be alcohol-free. Chef's tip: make the mincemeat a week ahead so the flavours mellow; it keeps for months.
Crumpets are the spongy, holey griddle cakes that Londoners and the whole of England toast on winter afternoons, soaked in melting butter. A loose yeasted batter is lifted with a little bicarbonate, poured into rings on a griddle and cooked gently on one side only, so bubbles rise and set into the famous holes. Chef's tip: grease the rings generously and keep the heat low; the top must set before the bottom burns.
At Moroccan weddings and engagement parties, silver trays of tall glasses filled with sharbat louz are passed among the guests: chilled milk blended smooth with blanched almonds, sugar and a perfume of orange-flower water. It is also a favourite summer drink at home and is often offered to break the fast in Ramadan. The taste is creamy, delicate and nutty, a world away from carton almond milk, since it is real dairy milk enriched with almonds. Serve it very cold, on its own or with sweets. A common mistake is skipping the straining, which leaves a gritty drink instead of a smooth, silky one. Chef's tip: blend the almonds with the sugar and a little milk first, into a fine paste, before adding the rest; that way it ends up silky rather than gritty. Not for anyone with a nut allergy.
The breaded pork tenderloin sandwich is the pride of small-town diners in Indiana and Iowa: a pork cutlet pounded so thin and wide that the crisp, golden edges stick out far beyond the bun. It came from the German schnitzel tradition of the farming towns, and people drive miles to compare them. It's dressed simply with mustard, pickles, onion and lettuce. Chef's tip: pound the pork evenly to 5 mm; thin pork cooks through in the time it takes the crumb to turn golden.
Two bars in south Minneapolis both claim to have invented the Juicy Lucy in the 1950s, and the city still argues about it over beers. Instead of cheese on top, the cheese is sealed inside the beef patty, so it melts into a molten pocket that spurts when you bite. It is served simply, with fried onions and pickles. Chef's tip: warn everyone to wait a minute before biting; the cheese inside is scalding hot.
On the Door County peninsula of Wisconsin, Scandinavian fishermen cooked their catch in a cauldron over a wood fire, and summer 'fish boils' are still a show for visitors: when the fish is done, the boil master throws kerosene on the fire and the pot boils over, carrying off the fish oils. At home, a big pot and a skimmer do the same job. Lake whitefish, potatoes and onions are boiled in very salty water and served with melted butter, lemon and, for dessert, cherry pie. Chef's tip: the salt is high, so don't cut back; it raises the boiling point and seasons the fish without making it salty.
Every Friday night in Wisconsin, supper clubs, taverns and church halls hold a fish fry, a Catholic Lenten tradition that became a year-round social event. Beer-battered cod, perch or bluegill is fried crisp and served with rye bread, coleslaw, tartare sauce and a lemon wedge. Many taverns use lager in the batter; it contains alcohol, which mostly cooks off, so for an alcohol-free version use sparkling water, which gives the same light, crisp coat. Chef's tip: dust the fish in flour before it goes in the batter, so the batter clings instead of sliding off.
Burnt ends were once the charred trimmings that Kansas City barbecue joints handed out free at the counter; today they are the most prized thing on the menu. The fatty point end of a beef brisket is smoked low and slow until tender, cubed, tossed in sweet, tangy Kansas City sauce and smoked again until sticky and caramelised. They're eaten on white bread with pickles and beans. Chef's tip: wait for the brisket to probe tender, like pushing into soft butter, before cubing; temperature is only a guide.
Walleye is Minnesota's state fish, pulled through the ice of its northern lakes in winter and fried at the cabin the same evening; restaurants from Duluth to Lake of the Woods sell walleye sandwiches and shore lunches. The mild, sweet white fillets are coated in crushed crackers or a light seasoned flour and pan-fried in butter until golden. Perch, pike-perch or haddock work too. Chef's tip: fry skin-side down first and don't move the fish for 3 minutes; that is how the crust sets.
Cooking salmon on cedar comes from the Coast Salish peoples of Puget Sound, who roasted split salmon on wooden stakes beside the fire, and today a cedar board on the grill is the backyard summer supper from Seattle to Portland. The soaked plank smoulders and steams, giving the fish a gentle, woody smokiness, here with a brown sugar and mustard glaze. Chef's tip: soak the plank for at least an hour, weighted under water, so it smokes rather than burns.
Cioppino was cooked by Italian and Portuguese fishermen in San Francisco's North Beach in the late 1800s from whatever was left of the day's catch, and it is now the big, messy, bib-wearing dinner of Fisherman's Wharf, especially in Dungeness crab season from November. The broth is tomato, garlic, herbs and white wine; for an alcohol-free version, use extra fish stock with a tablespoon of white wine vinegar. Serve with sourdough to mop it up. Chef's tip: add the seafood in stages, slowest-cooking first, so nothing turns rubbery.
In the Santa Maria Valley on California's Central Coast, ranchers' barbecues over red oak fires gave the state its own style: a triangular tri-tip roast of beef rubbed simply with salt, pepper and garlic, grilled until crusty, then sliced thin. It comes with pinquito beans, salsa and garlic bread at fundraisers and Saturday roadside barbecues. Chef's tip: tri-tip's grain changes direction in the middle, so cut the roast in two where the grain turns and slice each piece across its own grain.
Sit down at a café terrace in Casablanca, Rabat or Marrakech and order a 'nous-nous' (from 'nus', half) and you will get a small glass of half espresso, half steamed milk, often layered so the coffee floats in a dark band over the pale milk with a cap of foam. It is the default morning and afternoon coffee for many Moroccans, sipped slowly while watching the street, usually with a sugar lump or two on the saucer. It is smaller and stronger than a latte and milkier than a macchiato. A moka pot works fine at home if you have no espresso machine. Chef's tip: heat the milk only to 60–65 °C, hot to the touch but not scalding; boiled milk loses its sweetness and the foam collapses, a common mistake.
Crab Louie was on the menus of San Francisco's grand hotels and wharf restaurants by the early 1900s and is still a winter lunch when Dungeness crab is in season. Sweet crab meat is heaped on crisp lettuce with hard-boiled eggs, tomato, asparagus and avocado, and covered with a creamy, tangy pink dressing. Chef's tip: keep the crab in big pieces and add the dressing at the table, so the salad stays crisp.
Musubi is Hawaii's favourite grab-and-go snack, sold wrapped in cling film by the till in every convenience store from Honolulu to Hilo and packed for beach days and school lunches. A slice of tinned pork luncheon meat is fried in a sweet soy glaze, set on a block of rice and belted with a strip of nori, a Japanese rice-ball idea adapted after the Second World War. Chef's tip: wet the mould and your hands so the rice doesn't stick, and press firmly so the block holds.
The shrimp trucks parked along Kamehameha Highway in Kahuku, on Oʻahu's North Shore, serve this on paper plates to surfers and day-trippers: shell-on prawns from the local farms fried in a heap of garlic and butter until the shells are crisp enough to eat, with two scoops of rice and lemon. Chef's tip: dust the prawns in a little cornflour before frying; it helps the garlic butter cling and the shells crisp.
Saimin was born in the sugar plantation camps of Hawaii, where Chinese, Japanese and Filipino workers shared pots and combined their noodle soups into one, and it is still sold everywhere from old Kauaʻi diners to the snack bars at Little League games. Springy wheat noodles sit in a clear dashi and shrimp broth, topped with sliced char siu (roast pork), pink fish cake, egg and spring onion. Chef's tip: cook the noodles separately and rinse them, so their starch doesn't cloud the clear broth.
Far began as a savoury porridge in Breton farmhouses; today it is the sweet custard cake that every boulangerie from Quimper to Saint-Malo sells by the slice, dense and wobbly in the middle and browned on top, with prunes hidden inside. Bretons eat it at room temperature for goûter, at the end of a crêpe meal or packed for a day at the beach. Some cooks soak the prunes in rum; this recipe uses warm tea, which plumps them without alcohol, and a little rum can go in the batter if you want the traditional taste. Chef's tip: make the batter the night before and rest it in the fridge; the flour swells and the far bakes smoother and more custardy.
Salt-cured, aged country ham is a pride of Kentucky, Tennessee and Virginia smokehouses, and on mountain breakfast tables it is pan-fried in thin slices, then the pan is deglazed with black coffee to make red-eye gravy, thin, salty and bitter-sweet, spooned over the ham, grits or biscuits. This is pork, and very salty, so the slices are soaked first. Chef's tip: soak the ham in water or milk for 30 minutes if your country ham is very salty, then pat dry.
Toledo's convents have shaped marzipan for centuries, and in December the city's pastry shops fill their windows with coiled eels, half-moons and little figures, glazed golden and sold by weight for Christmas. Toledo's version is firm and almond-rich, with less sugar than many, and the best is made with Marcona almonds. Chef's tip: let the shaped pieces dry, uncovered, overnight before glazing; they hold their shape and the glaze sets glossy instead of soaking in.
Bread and butter pudding was the thrifty English way of using up stale bread, and today it's a pub and Sunday-lunch pudding from the Cotswolds to London. Buttered slices of bread are layered with sultanas, soaked in a vanilla and nutmeg custard and baked until puffed with a crisp, sugary top and a soft, wobbly centre. Chef's tip: let the bread soak in the custard for 30 minutes before baking, so it's creamy all the way through.
Every bouchon in Lyon, the small checked-tablecloth restaurants of the old town and the Presqu'île, puts salade lyonnaise on its menu as a starter or light lunch. Bitter, crunchy frisée is tossed with a sharp mustard vinaigrette, then topped with hot smoked pork lardons, garlicky croutons and a poached egg whose yolk spills into the leaves and turns the dressing creamy. It's the meeting of hot and cold, soft and crisp that makes it work. The egg is served runny, so use pasteurised eggs for pregnant women, young children, older people or anyone with a weakened immune system, or cook the egg until set. Chef's tip: deglaze the lardon pan with the vinegar and pour it warm over the leaves so they wilt very slightly.
Somewhere between a shortbread and a cake, gâteau breton is the big round that Breton bakeries cut into wedges for the road, and families buy one for the weekend or a picnic at the coast near Concarneau or Lorient. It is made from almost as much salted butter as flour, with lots of egg yolks, and baked thick so the edges are crisp and the middle is dense, moist and fudgy. The top is glazed and marked with a criss-cross pattern using a fork. Plain is traditional; some bakers add a layer of prune purée in the middle. Chef's tip: chill the dough in the tin before baking; it holds its pattern and bakes up with a sharp, shiny crust.
Sunday lunch in Rio, a birthday churrasco, the Christmas Eve table: wherever Brazilian families gather, a bowl of salada de maionese is there. Potatoes and carrots are cooked in small cubes, mixed with peas, chopped hard-boiled egg, a squeeze of lime and plenty of mayonnaise, then chilled until cold and creamy. Some homes add diced green apple or olives; the soft potato and sweet carrot with the tangy dressing are the heart of it. Serve it with rice, farofa and anything grilled. Dressing the potatoes while still hot is the usual misstep: the mayonnaise splits and turns oily, so let them cool first. Keep it in the fridge and don't leave it out in the heat for more than two hours. Chef's tip: toss the warm potatoes with the lime juice and salt only, so they absorb the seasoning before the mayonnaise goes on.
Black-eyed peas are the bean of Bahia, ground for acarajé and abará and simmered whole for the caruru feasts of late September. Cooked until just tender and dressed while warm, they also make this bright salad that appears on Salvador's por-quilo lunch buffets and next to grilled food at weekend gatherings. Tomato, red onion, two kinds of pepper, coriander and plenty of lime give it crunch and sharpness, and the peas stay creamy inside. It goes with rice and grilled vegetables, or stands alone as a light lunch. Soak the dried peas for at least 4 hours or overnight before you start. The trap to avoid is boiling the peas hard until the skins split; they turn to mush when tossed. Chef's tip: dress the peas while they are still warm with the lime, oil and salt only, then add the raw vegetables once they are cool so everything stays crisp.
Order grilled sardines or fish at any beach shack between Sagres and Monte Gordo and this salad arrives alongside without anyone asking. It is little more than summer tomatoes, crisp green pepper and sweet onion, dressed with olive oil, a splash of vinegar and plenty of dried oregano, but the juices left in the bowl are the best part, mopped up with bread. Chef's tip: salt the tomatoes 10 minutes before dressing them so they release their juice into the dressing.
The little town of Lisieux, in the Pays d'Auge, has made sablés since the 1800s, and the word means 'sandy', for the way they crumble on the tongue. They are one of the simplest things a Normandy kitchen bakes: good salted butter, sugar, egg yolks and flour, rolled into a log, sliced and baked pale gold. Normans dip them in coffee or serve them with fruit compote, teurgoule or a bowl of fromage blanc, and children grow up with a tin of them in the cupboard. Chef's tip: work the dough as little as possible once the flour goes in; the less you knead, the more tender and sandy the crumb.
Cali's bakeries and Sunday food stalls by the Pance river sell aborrajados all day: thick slices of very ripe plantain, fried soft, pressed around a slab of white cheese, sometimes with guava paste, then coated in a light batter and fried again until golden. The result is sweet, salty and gooey, a snack you eat with your hands alongside a glass of lulada or champús. Choose plantains with skins almost completely black; yellow ones are too starchy and never get sweet. Queso blanco or campesino is often set with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian mozzarella or similar. The usual mistake is batter that is too thick, giving a heavy, bready shell; it should coat like thin pancake batter. Chef's tip: chill the stuffed plantain parcels for 10 minutes before battering; they hold together much better in the oil.
Spotted dick is the steamed suet pudding of English school dinners and gentlemen's clubs in London, the 'spots' being the currants and 'dick' an old word for pudding. Suet makes it light and moist; this recipe uses vegetarian suet, so it is meat-free. It is rolled, wrapped and steamed, then served in thick slices with hot custard. Chef's tip: leave a pleat in the paper and foil so the pudding has room to swell.
Douillons are what Normandy cooks do with the small, firm pears from their orchards in autumn: each fruit is peeled, cored from the bottom, filled with butter and sugar and wrapped whole in pastry, then baked until the pastry is golden and the pear is meltingly soft inside. In the Pays de Caux and around Rouen they are served warm on cold days, often with a jug of thick Normandy cream. The same trick with apples is called a bourdelot. Choose pears that are ripe but still firm, about 150 g each. Chef's tip: cut the pastry into squares a little bigger than you think and bring the corners up over the top; tidy pleats matter less than a sealed parcel that keeps the juice inside.
The name means 'twisted mouth' in Norman dialect, after the face you pull if you eat it too hot. Teurgoule comes from the Calvados countryside around Houlgate and Honfleur, where farm women left it in the bread oven overnight after baking; it is still the dessert at village fêtes and family Sundays, served with a slice of brioche-like fallue. Short-grain rice bakes for hours in creamy milk with sugar and cinnamon until it turns thick and pale caramel inside under a dark, almost burnt crust. Use a deep ovenproof dish that holds at least 2 litres. Chef's tip: never stir it once it is in the oven; the crust that forms on top is the best part and seals the creamy pudding underneath.
Normandy dairy farmers have always known that a Camembert just past its best is perfect for the oven, and baked Camembert is now what friends share on cold evenings across the region, from Caen to the Pays d'Auge, with crusty bread, apple slices and boiled potatoes for dipping. The cheese stays in its wooden box, gets scored, studded with garlic and thyme and baked until the inside is liquid under a just-holding rind. It is ready in 20 minutes and makes a light supper with a salad. Real Camembert de Normandie is made with animal rennet; for a vegetarian version use a vegetarian Camembert-style cheese. Chef's tip: take off any plastic wrapping and tie the box with kitchen string if it is stapled; cheap boxes can split in the heat.
From the start of Advent, kitchens across Alsace turn out bredele, dozens of kinds of little Christmas biscuits kept in tins and offered to every visitor until New Year, while the markets in Strasbourg and Kaysersberg sell them by the bag. Cinnamon stars are among the most loved: chewy almond and cinnamon biscuits with a crisp white meringue top, and no flour at all. They take patience rather than skill and keep for weeks, so families make them early in December. The same dough also works rolled into small balls. Chef's tip: spread the meringue on the rolled sheet before you cut the stars, rather than icing each biscuit; it is far quicker and gives a clean, sharp edge.
Lorraine grows most of the world's mirabelles, small golden plums with a blush of red that ripen for only a few weeks from mid-August, when Metz holds its Mirabelle festival and every pâtisserie in Nancy fills its window with this tart. The plums are halved and packed tightly into a crisp shortcrust, sometimes over a thin layer of almond or semolina to soak up the juice, and they bake into a jammy, honey-sweet layer. Families eat it warm or cold for Sunday dessert or at four-o'clock goûter. Out of season, use small yellow plums or halved apricots. Chef's tip: stand the halves upright and overlapping, cut side up; they shrink as they bake, and a tight layer stops the tart looking bare.
In Alsace, spätzle (also called knepfle or spaetzle) are the side every winstub, the cosy wine taverns of Strasbourg and the wine route, puts next to a stew, and at home they make a quick supper in their own right. The batter is barely more than flour, eggs and milk, pushed through a spätzle press or a colander with big holes straight into boiling water, so the noodles come out short, soft and irregular. This version skips the cheese of the German käsespätzle: the noodles are tossed in nutty browned butter and topped with a heap of slowly crisped onions, with a green salad alongside. Chef's tip: beat the batter until it forms bubbles and slaps off the spoon in thick ribbons; that elasticity is what gives spätzle their bounce.
In Bologna, lasagne means green lasagne: thin sheets of spinach egg pasta layered with slow-cooked ragù, béchamel and plenty of parmigiano, baked until the edges crisp and served for Sunday lunch and every family celebration in Emilia-Romagna. The ragù is made with beef and pork mince and a little pancetta, so this is a pork dish as well as a beef one; a splash of white wine is traditional but optional, and the note gives an alcohol-free swap. Homemade spinach pasta is the classic choice, but bought fresh egg lasagne sheets work well. Serve with a crisp green salad. Chef's tip: keep the layers thin and many rather than thick and few; a proper Bolognese lasagne has at least six layers and holds its shape when cut.
In the troglodyte restaurants carved into the tufa cliffs near Saumur and Tours, bakers slap small rounds of bread dough onto the floor of a wood-fired oven, and in a minute they puff up like balloons. Fouées (also called fouaces) are split while still steaming and filled at the table, and a fouée evening is a favourite outing for families and groups in the Loire. Rillettes are the classic filling, but butter, fresh goat's cheese and garlicky white mogette beans are just as traditional, and those are what we use here. At home, a very hot oven and a preheated tray do the job. Chef's tip: roll the rounds evenly thin, about 4 mm; uneven dough puffs only on one side.
Antioquia eats arepas the way other places eat bread: a thin, pale disc of white corn sits beside the eggs at breakfast, the bandeja paisa at lunch and the hot chocolate at night. The paisa arepa is deliberately plain, with no salt, cheese or butter in the dough, so it frames whatever comes with it; locals spread it with butter or a slice of quesito at the table. It is chewy and soft inside with a toasted, freckled skin. Traditionally it is made from boiled, ground pilado corn; precooked white corn meal (masarepa) makes an excellent home version. The mistake is a dry dough: the edges crack and the arepas turn hard. Chef's tip: knead in warm water until the dough feels like soft play dough, and rest it 5 minutes before shaping.
Legend says a cook at the court of the Counts of Savoy, in Chambéry, invented this sponge in the fourteenth century to impress a visiting emperor, and Savoyard families still bake it in a tall fluted mould for birthdays and Sunday tea. It has no butter and very little flour, using potato starch for a crumb so light it almost dissolves, and it is eaten plain with a dusting of icing sugar, or with jam, fruit compote or a cup of hot chocolate. Chef's tip: fold the whites in three goes with a large metal spoon, cutting down through the middle; you are keeping in the air that makes it rise.
When the maize ripens in the fields of Boyacá, families grind the fresh kernels and steam little husk-wrapped parcels that are sold at Sunday markets in Tunja, Paipa and Duitama. Envueltos are soft, moist and gently sweet, somewhere between a tamal and a corn pudding, with pockets of melted cheese, and they are eaten for breakfast or as an onces snack with hot chocolate or coffee. Use fresh corn on the cob; the starchier, less sugary types are closest to Colombian maíz, and frozen kernels work at a pinch. Fresh campesino cheese is usually made with animal rennet, so pick a vegetarian one. The commonest fault is wrapping the parcels loosely, so water gets in and they turn soggy. Chef's tip: grind the corn coarsely, not to a purée; a little texture lets the envueltos set firm and sliceable.
Where pastéis de bacalhau are neat and smooth, pataniscas are rough and generous: spoonfuls of a loose batter packed with shreds of salt cod, onion and parsley, fried into wide, crisp-edged fritters. Lisbon tascas serve them at lunch with arroz de feijão, a soupy red-bean rice, or tucked into a bread roll as a snack. Soak the cod in the fridge for a day or two first. A common mistake is a batter as thick as pancake mix, which gives doughy fritters; it should drop loosely from the spoon. Chef's tip: let the batter rest for 30 minutes so the flour swells and the fritters hold together without needing more.
Little golden papas criollas are the potato Bogotá loves best: thin-skinned, buttery-yellow and so creamy they almost melt. At the asaderos along the roads out of the capital, and next to every plate of ajiaco or fritanga, they come fried whole, skin on, crackling outside and soft in the middle, with nothing but salt and a bowl of ají. Frozen papas criollas are sold in Latin American shops; otherwise use the smallest waxy yellow potatoes you can find. Frying them raw is the usual mistake: the skins brown before the insides are cooked. A quick boil first fixes that. Chef's tip: let the boiled potatoes steam dry for a few minutes and squash a few slightly with your palm before frying, so the split skins catch extra crunch.
Roadside stalls on the highway from Bogotá to Tunja sell these golden, puffed discs straight off the griddle. Unlike the plain arepas of Antioquia, the boyacense mixes yellow corn with wheat flour, butter and a little sugar, and it hides a layer of fresh cheese that melts as it cooks, so each bite is sweet, salty and buttery at once. Eat them warm with coffee, hot chocolate or a cup of aguapanela. Queso campesino or cuajada is traditionally set with animal rennet; choose a vegetarian mozzarella or other microbial-rennet fresh cheese. The trap is cooking them on a high heat: the sugar browns fast and the middle stays raw and doughy. Chef's tip: keep the griddle at low-medium and give them time; a slow cook gives a thin crisp crust and lets the cheese melt fully.
Salted butter caramel was made famous by a confectioner in Quiberon in the 1970s, and now every crêperie from Rennes to Brest pours it over sweet crêpes, and every Breton cupboard has a jar for ice cream, apples or simply a spoon. Brittany kept the habit of salted butter long after the rest of France, so the salt is part of the flavour, not a trend. The caramel is cooked dark, loosened with hot cream and finished with butter flecked with sea salt. It keeps for two weeks in the fridge. Chef's tip: warm the cream before adding it; cold cream makes the caramel seize into hard lumps and spit furiously.
The Loire Valley and the Centre region, around Sancerre, Chavignol and Sainte-Maure-de-Touraine, make some of France's best goat's cheeses, and this salad is how bistros all over the country serve them: rounds of cheese melted on toast, laid over dressed leaves with walnuts and a thread of honey. It is a lunch dish in cafés and a starter at home, ready in 20 minutes. Small crottins or slices from a log both work. Many French goat's cheeses use animal rennet; look for one labelled vegetarian. Chef's tip: grill the toasts with the cheese on top only until the cheese softens and freckles; if it melts flat it slides off and loses its creamy centre.
Camotes are the sweet Puebla is most famous for: finger-long rolls of sweet-potato fondant, flavoured with pineapple, lemon, strawberry or orange and wrapped individually in paper. Like tortitas de Santa Clara, they come from the city's convent kitchens, and you will find them at every candy shop on Puebla's Calle de los Dulces. The texture is soft and smooth, like a firm marzipan, and very sweet, so one or two is plenty. Chef's tip: sieve the cooked sweet potato while it is hot; fibres caught in the sieve are what would make the candy stringy.
Before fabada became famous, pote was what simmered on every Asturian hearth: white beans, dark winter cabbage, potatoes and the cured pork mix the locals call compango. It is still the dish for a cold, wet weekday in the mining valleys around Mieres and Langreo, served from the pot with crusty bread. This contains pork (chorizo, morcilla, pork belly and ham hock). Chef's tip: add the morcilla only for the last 20 minutes and never stir hard after that, or it breaks up and clouds the broth.
Papadzules may be the oldest dish still eaten in the Yucatán: Maya cooks were rolling tortillas in ground squash seeds long before the Spanish brought chickens and their eggs. Today they are a lunch and Lent dish in Mérida, Valladolid and Campeche. Corn tortillas are dipped in a pale green sauce of toasted pumpkin seeds and epazote, rolled around chopped hard-boiled egg, then topped with a cooked habanero-tomato sauce and a few drops of green pumpkin-seed oil squeezed from the paste. The flavours are nutty, herbal and gently hot. Chef's tip: keep the seed sauce warm, never boiling; heat makes it split and turn grainy, and the oil that separates is meant to be drizzled on top, not stirred back in.
In Yucatec Maya, sikil means squash seed and p'aak means tomato, and that is almost all there is to this pale, coarse dip from the Yucatán Peninsula. Cooks in Mérida and the villages around it toast the seeds on a comal until they pop, grind them with charred tomato, chives and a little habanero, and serve the dip with tostadas or crisp tortilla chips before a meal. It tastes nutty, smoky and fresh at the same time, and is naturally vegan. Chef's tip: roast the habanero whole and add it a little at a time; you can always grind in more, but you can't take the heat back out.
No table in Mérida is complete without a bowl of these bright pink onions. They go on almost everything in the Yucatán, from panuchos and salbutes to bean tacos, eggs and grilled vegetables, and their sharp crunch is what cuts through rich, earthy food. The traditional pickle uses naranja agria, the sour Seville-type orange that grows all over the peninsula, with a little habanero and dried oregano. Chef's tip: pour boiling water over the sliced onions for 10 seconds first; it softens their raw bite and makes them turn pink much faster.
The Ulster fry is the big weekend breakfast of Northern Ireland, from Belfast cafés to County Down B&Bs, and what sets it apart is the bread: soda farls and potato bread fried golden in the pan juices. Pork sausages, back bacon, black pudding, eggs, tomatoes and mushrooms complete the plate. Chef's tip: cook in order of what takes longest and keep things warm in a low oven, so the eggs go in last and are served soft.
Every household in La Mancha seems to own a flower-shaped iron, a long-handled mould that is dipped in hot oil, then in batter, then back in the oil, where a lacy flower slides off as it sets. Grandmothers make towers of them for Holy Week and Carnival, and they are sold in bags at village fiestas from Cuenca to Tomelloso. You can buy the iron, sometimes called a rosette iron, in kitchen shops. Chef's tip: the iron must be very hot each time it goes into the batter, or the batter won't cling.
Ski stations across the Savoie, from Val Thorens to the villages above Chambéry, serve croziflette in the same bubbling dish as tartiflette, but with crozets in place of potatoes: tiny square buckwheat pasta that is a speciality of the region. It is warming après-ski food, nutty and rich, eaten with a sharp green salad. Restaurants add lardons; this one uses browned mushrooms for the same savoury depth. Reblochon is a raw-milk cheese made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian washed-rind or soft rind cheese if you need to. Chef's tip: cook the crozets fully before baking; unlike other pasta, they stay firm and need a good 15–20 minutes.
When Lima's grey winter sets in, from June to September, champús sellers set up on street corners with big pots of this thick, fruity drink, ladled warm into glasses and eaten as much as drunk. It's made from mote (hulled white corn), simmered with pineapple, quince or apple, soursop, chancaca and warm spices, then thickened lightly with corn flour, so every spoonful has soft fruit and chewy corn in a spiced, molasses-sweet base. It is close in spirit to mazamorra morada but paler and tangier. The mistake people make is adding the thickener straight into the hot pot, where it forms lumps; always slake it in cold water first and pour it in while stirring. Canned or jarred hominy saves hours; frozen soursop (guanábana) pulp is in Latin shops and can be left out. Serve warm in glasses with spoons. Chef's tip: simmer the pineapple peel and core with the spices for the first 20 minutes, then strain them out; they give much of the flavour.
Dirty rice gets its name from the brown speckles of chicken liver and minced pork that colour it, and it is the side dish of Cajun Thanksgivings, church fairs and plate lunches around Lafayette, often served next to fried chicken. It is deeply savoury, peppery and good enough to eat as a main. This recipe contains pork. Chef's tip: chop the livers very finely, almost to a paste, so they melt into the rice rather than sitting in lumps.
Any corrientazo (set-lunch place) in Medellín will have a sudado on the menu on weekdays, and it is just as common at home on a busy Tuesday: chicken pieces cooked in a closed pot with tomato, onion and potatoes until they release their own juices and turn into a thin, savoury, reddish sauce. No stock, no water to speak of, just patience and a tight lid. The meat goes tender and soaks up the cumin and garlic; the potatoes thicken the sauce at the end. It belongs next to white rice, a few slices of avocado and maybe a ripe plantain. The thing people get wrong is lifting the lid over and over: every look lets out the steam that does the cooking. Chef's tip: marinate the chicken with the garlic, cumin and salt in the fridge for 30 minutes to an hour first; the seasoning goes deeper and the sauce tastes richer.
Walk through any German Weihnachtsmarkt, from Cologne's cathedral square to Nuremberg's Hauptmarkt, and you will smell the Champignonpfanne before you see it: a huge flat pan of button mushrooms frying with onion and garlic, scooped into paper boats and topped with a cool herb sauce. It is the market's favourite meat-free snack on a cold December evening, and it takes twenty minutes at home. Serve it with crusty bread or as a side to potato pancakes. The common mistake is piling every mushroom into the pan at once, which makes them stew grey in their own water instead of browning. Chef's tip: salt the mushrooms only once they have coloured; salt added early draws out the liquid and stops the browning.
Córdoba claims rabo de toro as its own, and its taverns near the Mezquita serve it all year, though it is most at home on a cold winter Sunday. Once it was made with the tails of bulls from the ring; now it is beef or veal oxtail, browned and braised for hours in red wine with vegetables until the meat slips off the bone into a glossy, sticky sauce. This recipe uses wine; the alcohol-free option is in the ingredient list. Chef's tip: make it a day ahead, chill it and lift off the set fat; the sauce is cleaner and the flavour deeper.
Champ is the creamy mashed potato of Ulster, eaten in farmhouse kitchens from Tyrone to Monaghan, and once pounded in a big pot with a wooden beetle for the whole family. Scallions are steeped in hot milk, then beaten into floury potatoes with salt, pepper and butter, so it is soft, green-flecked and gently oniony. Serve in a mound with a pool of butter in the centre, next to sausages or a pie. Chef's tip: dip each forkful into the butter well, as is done at home; don't stir the butter through.
Tatws pum munud means 'five-minute potatoes' in Welsh, a joke, since it takes half an hour, but it was the quick, cheap one-pot supper of North Wales quarry and farm families. Sliced potatoes and onions are simmered on a bed of smoked bacon (pork) in stock until the potatoes are soft and the bottom layer catches and turns golden. Chef's tip: don't stir; shake the pan instead so the layers stay intact and the bottom crisps.
Málaga's fishermen once made gazpachuelo on the beach with whatever the nets brought in, and today it is a winter comfort soup in the city's homes and old-style taverns: a clear broth with potatoes, hake and prawns, slowly poured over a homemade mayonnaise until it turns pale and creamy. Done right it is silky, lemony and light. The eggs in the mayonnaise must be heated through properly, so this method brings the soup to 72 °C at the end without boiling it. Chef's tip: add the broth to the mayonnaise, never the other way round, and at first only a ladle at a time.
Late summer in southeastern Turkey, from Urfa to Gaziantep, means patlıcan kebabı: thick rounds of unpeeled aubergine threaded between small patties of spiced lamb, so the fat from the meat bastes the aubergine as it chars. Served on lavaş, the aubergine is pressed with a spoon into the bread and the whole thing is eaten with onions and green chillies. Use small, firm aubergines that won't split on the skewer. Common mistake: cutting the aubergine thinner than the meat; it burns before the köfte is cooked. Chef's tip: peel the charred aubergine skin off on the plate, but leave it on while grilling.
Order an Adana kebab in its home city and a tall glass of şalgam arrives with it, deep purple, salty, sour and often fiery. It is made by fermenting black carrots with a little bulgur and salt for a week or more, and the sharpness clears the palate between bites of lamb and grilled onion. Street carts in Adana sell it by the glass in summer. This home version skips the separate bulgur-sour-dough stage the big producers use. Use non-iodised salt: iodised salt can stall the ferment. Chef's tip: taste from day 5; when it is sour enough to make you blink, strain and chill it, because it keeps fermenting at room temperature.
Evening in Mérida's Plaza Grande means the smell of marquesitas: thin batter pressed in hot hinged irons until crisp, then rolled like a cigar around grated Edam cheese and a sweet filling such as cajeta, chocolate-hazelnut spread or jam. Edam came to the Yucatán through the port trade with the Netherlands and became part of the local cooking, and the salty-sweet combination is the whole point. At home you can cook them in a thin, wide frying pan. Edam is usually made with animal rennet, so check the label or use a vegetarian Gouda-style cheese. Chef's tip: roll while the crêpe is still in the pan and hot; within seconds it hardens and will crack.
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.
In the Algarve, Christmas trays are never without figos cheios, sun-dried figs split open, packed with a paste of toasted almonds and cocoa, pressed together in pairs and baked until fragrant. They come from a time when every farm in the Barrocal dried its own figs on cane racks in August. They take half an hour to make and keep for weeks, so they make an easy edible present. Chef's tip: choose soft, plump dried figs; if yours are hard, steam them over simmering water for 5 minutes first.
The Caesar salad was born in Tijuana in the 1920s, at an Italian immigrant's restaurant on Avenida Revolución, and it is still tossed at the table there by waiters who make the dressing in a wooden bowl in front of you. Crisp inner romaine leaves are coated in a garlicky, lemony emulsion of coddled egg yolk, anchovy, olive oil and parmesan, then showered with garlic croutons; traditionally you pick the leaves up with your fingers. The yolks are only lightly warmed, so use pasteurised eggs if you are serving anyone pregnant, very young, elderly or with a weakened immune system. It makes a starter before grilled meat, or a light lunch on its own. Chef's tip: mash the garlic and anchovies to a paste with salt before anything else goes into the bowl, so the dressing is smooth with no fishy lumps.
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.
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.
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.
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.
New York cheesecake is the tall, dense, rich slice served in Manhattan delis and Brooklyn bakeries since the 1920s, made with cream cheese and a little soured cream rather than the curd cheese of European cakes. It is smooth and heavy, with a slight tang and a thin biscuit base, and is usually eaten plain or with strawberries. Chef's tip: have every ingredient at room temperature and beat on low speed; cold cheese makes lumps and fast beating whips in air, which cracks the top.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Every village fête in the Aveyron, the old province of Rouergue, has a baker selling fouace: a big golden brioche ring scented with orange flower water and topped with crunchy sugar, carried home in a paper bag to be torn up at breakfast or after Sunday lunch. Laguiole and Rodez bakeries are famous for it, and families bake one for Easter, weddings and christenings. It is softer and less buttery than a Paris brioche, with a light, cottony crumb. Chef's tip: let the shaped crown rise until it is puffy and a fingertip leaves a dent that springs back slowly; underproved fouace tears in the oven.
The name comes from Maya: xni' pek means 'dog's nose', because the salsa is hot enough to make your nose run and stay wet like a dog's. It is the raw table salsa of the Yucatán, made in minutes from tomato, red onion, coriander and plenty of habanero, all soaked in sour orange juice. In Mérida it is spooned over black-bean dishes, eggs and rice, and it brightens anything rich. It is best on the day it is made. Chef's tip: chop everything by hand into small, even dice; a blender makes it watery and the habanero turns bitter.
Bara brith means 'speckled bread', and this is the fruit loaf of Welsh farmhouses and tea rooms from Snowdonia to the Gower. Dried fruit is soaked overnight in strong black tea, then mixed with sugar, egg, flour and spice, so it is moist, dark and keeps well without any butter in the mix. Slice it thickly and spread with salted Welsh butter. Chef's tip: wrap it and wait a day before cutting; it gets stickier and slices cleaner.
At every Asturian romería, the summer pilgrim fairs held in meadows from Llanes to Cangas del Narcea, stalls sell bollos preñaos by the dozen, warm from the oven, to eat with cider on the grass. The name means "pregnant buns": each soft roll carries a chorizo inside, and its paprika fat seeps into the crumb as it bakes. This contains pork (chorizo). Chef's tip: use semi-cured chorizo sausages that are already safe to eat; raw fresh chorizo may not cook through inside the dough.
Fegato alla veneziana is one of the oldest dishes in Venice and still a weekday staple in the trattorie around the Rialto market. Mountains of onions are cooked gently until soft and sweet, then thin strips of calf's liver are tossed through them for barely two minutes, so the liver stays tender against the jammy onions, with a splash of vinegar and parsley to finish. The classic partner is soft white or yellow polenta, which soaks up the buttery juices. Chef's tip: slice the liver into thin strips, no thicker than your little finger, so it cooks through in moments without going tough.
Asturias has two great loves at table, the fish landed at ports like Cudillero and Avilés and the cider pressed from its orchards, and merluza a la sidra brings them together. Families cook it for Sunday lunch, the hake settled on a bed of soft onion and potato with cider poured over, until the sauce turns sweet-sharp. The cider is alcoholic; cloudy apple juice with a little cider vinegar makes a good alcohol-free swap. Chef's tip: add the hake only when the potatoes are nearly tender, so the fish stays juicy.
Fariñes, or farrapes in some valleys, fed Asturian farming families through the winter: a pot of maize meal stirred over the fire, eaten for breakfast or as a light supper with cold milk poured over the hot porridge. Today it is comfort food again, offered at rural guesthouses in the Oriente and made at home when the weather turns. The contrast of warm, soft porridge and cold milk is the whole point. Chef's tip: whisk the cornmeal into cold water before it heats so it never forms lumps.
In the Savoyard valleys, especially around Albertville and the Val d'Arly, farçon was the Sunday dish left to cook slowly while the family was at Mass: grated potatoes mixed with eggs, cream, prunes and raisins, set in a tall mould and cooked for hours in a water bath. The result is a sliceable, sweet-and-savoury cake, soft and golden, served with a green salad or as a side at a winter feast. Traditionally the mould is lined with bacon; this version uses a buttered mould instead, so it is vegetarian. Chef's tip: let it rest for 15 minutes in the mould before turning it out; it firms up and slices cleanly.
No sidrería in Oviedo's Calle Gascona is without a clay dish of chorizo bubbling in cider, served with bread to mop up the paprika-red juices. It takes minutes, is cheap, and is the first thing ordered while the waiter pours cider from shoulder height. This contains pork (chorizo) and uses dry Asturian cider, which is alcoholic; for an alcohol-free version use cloudy apple juice with a splash of cider vinegar, as noted below. Chef's tip: prick the chorizo all over first so it releases fat into the cider and drinks the cider back in.
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