Spiced fried plantain
Kelewele is what Accra smells like after dark: ripe plantain cubes tossed in a paste of ginger, onion, chilli and spice, then fried at roadside stalls lit by lamps and sold in paper cones. It is eaten as an evening snack, often with a handful of roasted peanuts, or as a side with red red. The outside caramelises while the spices turn toasty, so every piece is sweet, hot and spicy at once. Chef's tip: use plantains that are yellow with lots of black spots; fully black ones collapse in the oil and green ones never turn sweet.
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Zanzibar is the spice island, and chai ya viungo is its everyday tea: black tea boiled with a home-roasted masala of cardamom, dry ginger, black pepper, cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg. The masala keeps for months in an airtight jar. Milk is optional; serve the tea hot.
Osmania biscuits are named after the last Nizam of Hyderabad, and they have been baked in the city's Irani bakeries for generations: round, crumbly, melt-in-the-mouth butter biscuits that are gently sweet with a distinct salty edge and a hint of cardamom. In old-city cafés, men linger over a plate of them and a cup of Irani chai in the early morning or after the evening prayers, dunking each one until it is just about to collapse. Chef's tip: chill the dough before cutting and baking; it keeps the biscuits round and thick instead of spreading thin.
Thick cross-cut slices of veal shank, each ringed around a hollow bone full of marrow, are browned and then braised slowly in white wine and stock until the meat is soft enough to cut with a spoon: this is Milan's great winter Sunday dish. The old Milanese way, 'in bianco', keeps tomato out, so the sauce stays golden and savoury. Just before serving it gets a shower of gremolata, a sharp mix of lemon zest, garlic and parsley that wakes up the rich braise. Serve it with risotto alla milanese, the saffron risotto that is its traditional partner (one of the few times a Milanese risotto shares the plate), or with soft polenta. Chef's tip: snip through the thin skin around each shank in three or four places before browning, so the slices stay flat in the pan instead of curling up.
Quinotto is quinoa cooked like a risotto, a dish from the new Andean cooking of Cusco and Lima that marries Italian technique with the grain of the high Andes. Quinoa is toasted with onion and garlic, simmered in stock with white wine, then finished with mushrooms, butter, cream and grated cheese until creamy and loose. It has a pleasant pop and nutty flavour that rice never has, and a gentle warmth from ají amarillo. Serve it as a main with a green salad. Use a hard cheese made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: quinoa has little starch, so the creaminess comes at the end; stir in the butter, cheese and cream off the heat and serve straight away while it still flows.
Drive through Muar in Johor and you will see roadside grills stacked with slim green parcels, sold by the dozen in paper bags for the journey home. Inside each is a soft, bright-orange custard of pounded mackerel, coconut milk and egg, flavoured with a chilli-lemongrass rempah and kaffir lime leaf, which turns smoky and slightly charred at the edges from the grill. Melaka's Nyonya cooks make a fatter, steamed version, but this one is grilled in banana leaf. Eat it warm, peeled straight out of the leaf, with white bread, rice or nasi lemak. Chef's tip: chill the fish mixture for 15 minutes before wrapping; it firms up and is far easier to spoon onto the leaves.
Ou tenga, the elephant apple, is a hard, sour green fruit that grows across Assam and turns up in every winter market in Guwahati. Ou khatta is its sweet chutney: slices are boiled until tender, then simmered with jaggery and panch phoron until glossy, sticky and sharp-sweet. It is served in a little mound at the end of a festive Assamese lunch and at Bihu feasts, the way Bengalis end with tomato chutney. Chef's tip: outside the Northeast, use a mix of very sour green apple and a little tamarind; it gets surprisingly close.
Ovocné knedlíky are the summer main course of Czech childhoods: in July with apricots from South Moravian orchards, in September with blue plums, eaten as lunch rather than pudding. Each soft quark dumpling hides a whole fruit that turns jammy as it simmers, and they are served the old way, rolled in melted butter and buried under grated tvaroh (quark) and icing sugar. Kids compete over who can eat the most. Chef's tip: pinch the dough completely closed with no thin patches; a single gap lets water in and the dumpling bursts in the pot.
Ovoshchnoe ragu is what happens at a Russian dacha in August, when the garden outside Moscow or Nizhny Novgorod produces more courgettes, cabbage, peppers and new potatoes than anyone can eat. Everything is fried in turn, then stewed together in one heavy pot with tomato until soft and spoonable, and eaten hot with black bread, or cold the next day. It is homelier than French ratatouille or Greek briam: cabbage and potatoes give it body, and dill and garlic go in right at the end. Chef's tip: fry each vegetable separately before stewing; dumping everything in raw gives a watery, boiled taste.
Oyaki are the everyday snack of Nagano's mountain villages, where rice was scarce and wheat and buckwheat grew better. The plump dumplings are filled with whatever the season gives: pickled nozawana greens in winter, aubergine and miso in summer, sweet squash in autumn. Old farmhouses baked them in the ashes of the irori hearth; today they are browned in a pan and steamed, so they come out crusty on both faces with a soft, chewy middle. They travel well, which made them the lunch of farmers and hikers on the trails around Zenkoji temple. Chef's tip: let the dough rest for at least 30 minutes. A relaxed dough stretches thin around the filling without tearing.
The name means 'parent and child bowl', a gentle joke about cooking the chicken and the egg together. A Nihonbashi chicken restaurant in Tokyo says it first served the dish in the 1890s, and today it is a staple lunch in soba shops, office canteens and home kitchens all over the country. Thigh meat and sliced onion simmer briefly in sweet soy dashi, then beaten egg goes in and is taken off the heat while still soft and glossy. Everything slides onto a bowl of hot rice so the sauce seeps into the grains. Chef's tip: beat the eggs with just a few strokes of chopsticks, leaving streaks of white and yolk, as that marbled look and silky texture is what you're after.
Pabellón criollo is Venezuela's national dish, the lunch plate served in family kitchens and at every Caracas lunch counter: white rice, black beans (caraotas), sweet fried plantain (tajadas) and shredded stewed beef side by side, like the stripes of a flag. This vegetarian version replaces the beef with king oyster mushrooms pulled into strands and stewed in a sofrito with tomato, cumin and a little panela, which gives the same tender, shredded texture. For slow-cooked beans from scratch, see the frijoles negros cubanos page. Chef's tip: shred the mushrooms along the grain with a fork, as you would pull beef; it's what makes them look and eat like carne mechada.
In the highlands around Huancayo and Ayacucho, families mark harvests and saints' days by burying marinated meats, potatoes, sweet potatoes, broad beans and humitas under hot stones and earth for a pachamanca, an 'earth pot'. City cooks get close to it with a heavy pot: the same green marinade of huacatay (black mint), chincho, ají and garlic, layered with meats and roots and steamed in their own juices under banana or corn leaves. Chef's tip: layer the hardest things lowest, potatoes on the bottom and chicken nearest the lid, just as the stones are packed in the field.
Pachi pulusu, 'raw stew', is Telangana's summer cooler: a no-cook tamarind water stirred with jaggery, finely sliced raw onion and green chilli, finished with a hot mustard-seed tempering. In the heat of April and May in villages around Warangal and Karimnagar, families pour it over hot rice with a spoonful of dal or a spicy fry, and it wakes up appetites dulled by the sun. Some add a smoky roasted brinjal mashed in, which gives it body. Sweet, sour and sharp at once, it takes ten minutes. Chef's tip: rub the onion with salt and a little chilli powder in your fingers before adding the tamarind water, so it softens slightly and flavours the whole bowl.
Pączki are the rich, yeasted doughnuts Poland eats by the dozen on Tłusty Czwartek, Fat Thursday, the last Thursday before Lent, when Warsaw bakeries such as the old ones on Nowy Świat have queues round the block from dawn. A good pączek is round and heavy for its size, with a pale ring around its middle, a fine, yolk-rich crumb and a filling of rose-petal jam (konfitura z róży) or plum butter, finished with icing and candied orange peel. A spoon of vodka or spirytus in the dough is an old trick: it evaporates in the hot oil and stops the dough soaking up fat. Chef's tip: keep the oil between 165 and 175°C with a thermometer; hotter and they burn outside while raw in the middle, cooler and they turn greasy.
Ask a Bangkok office worker what they had for lunch and the answer is very often 'kra pao gai, khai dao': chopped chicken flash-fried with garlic, chillies and holy basil, spooned over rice and crowned with a fried egg whose edges have blistered into brown lace. Street stalls and food courts across the city cook it to order in a roaring wok in about three minutes. The chicken should be slightly sticky and salty-sweet, the basil peppery with a hint of clove, and the runny yolk becomes a sauce for the rice. A saucer of prik nam pla (sliced chillies in fish sauce) on the side is all it needs. Chef's tip: chop the chicken by hand with a heavy knife instead of buying fine mince; the coarse, uneven bits catch the sauce and stay juicy.
Pad pak ruam, 'stir-fried mixed vegetables', is the dish every Bangkok made-to-order (aharn tam sang) cook can make in ninety seconds over a roaring flame, and the one Thai office workers add to a lunch order so there is something green on the table. The vegetables stay crisp and bright, coated in a thin, glossy sauce of garlic, soy and mushroom stir-fry sauce. Restaurants use oyster sauce; the vegetarian mushroom version tastes almost the same. Serve it with jasmine rice and a fried egg, or as a side to curry. Chef's tip: cut everything before you light the stove, and add the vegetables in order of hardness, so the carrots soften while the greens stay snappy.
Despite the name, pain à la grecque is pure Brussels: the 'Greek' is thought to come from the Flemish gracht, the canal next to the old abbey on the Wolvengracht whose monks handed out bread to the poor. Today it is a long, flat stick of cinnamon-spiced bread pressed into pearl sugar and baked until the sugar melts into a crunchy, glassy crust. Brussels bakeries such as those around the Sablon sell it by the slab, and it is eaten with coffee in the afternoon or dunked at breakfast. Chef's tip: press the dough hard into the pearl sugar on both sides; loosely scattered sugar just falls off in the oven.
Pain perdu means 'lost bread', and French families have always made it from the end of a stale baguette or brioche that would otherwise be thrown away. Thick slices are soaked in milk, eggs, sugar and vanilla, then fried in butter until caramelised outside and soft, almost like custard, inside. In France it is more often a Sunday breakfast or goûter for the children than a brunch dish, eaten with a dusting of sugar, jam or fresh fruit. Chef's tip: use bread that is a day or two old; fresh bread is the common mistake and turns soggy and falls apart in the custard.
This domed green cake sits in every Swedish konditori window and is the cake for name days, birthdays and the last week of September, which Swedes call Prinsesstårtans vecka. It was first written down in the 1930s by Jenny Åkerström, cookery teacher to three young Swedish princesses, and they adored it. Under the smooth marzipan lie airy sponge layers, raspberry jam, thick vanilla custard and a tall mound of whipped cream. Shop versions often set the cream with gelatine; here the custard is firmed with cornflour and the cream with a little mascarpone, so it is fully vegetarian and still slices cleanly. Chef's tip: assemble the cake the day before you need the custard and sponge, but cover it with marzipan only a few hours before serving; marzipan sweats in the fridge overnight.
Pakhala is Odisha's answer to the summer heat: cooked rice left to soak in water, often overnight so it turns faintly sour, then loosened with curd, salt, lime leaf, cumin and green chilli and eaten cold at midday. The state even celebrates Pakhala Dibasa on 20 March. The rice itself is plain; the pleasure is in the sides, such as badi chura (crushed fried lentil dumplings with onion and mustard oil), fried potato, saga bhaja and roasted aubergine. Chef's tip: for the gently sour basi pakhala, leave the rice in its water at room temperature for 8–12 hours; for dahi pakhala, eat it the same day with more curd.
In Pakistan a bowl of chana chaat is on almost every iftar table during Ramadan, next to the dates, pakoras and a jug of red sherbet, and in Lahore and Karachi street vendors toss it to order all year round in big steel bowls. The Pakistani style is simple and sharp: plump chickpeas and potato with raw onion, tomato, green chilli, lots of coriander and mint, tamarind chutney, lemon juice and a heavy hand of chaat masala, served cold or at room temperature. It is a quick, filling, high-fibre snack. People often mix it too early and the onion goes limp and the potato mushy; dress it no more than 15 minutes before eating. Chef's tip: toss the chickpeas with the chaat masala and salt first, before anything wet goes in, so the spice clings to them.
Makassar's other great beef soup is darker, richer and more coconutty than coto, and locals argue about which is better over late lunches at pallubasa houses near the port. The secret is kelapa sangrai: grated coconut toasted slowly to a deep brown and pounded, which gives the broth a roasted, almost nutty sweetness and a slightly gritty, full body. It's eaten with a mound of plain rice rather than rice cakes, and for the full version you ask for 'alas', a raw egg yolk dropped in the bowl that you stir into the boiling soup until it turns silky. Offal is traditional but optional; tender beef alone is delicious. Chef's tip: the coconut must reach the colour of milk chocolate, not black, because burnt coconut makes the whole pot bitter.
Provoleta is the first thing off the grill at an Argentine asado: a thick round of provolone-style cheese, invented by Italian immigrants in Buenos Aires, cooked in a small iron pan or straight on the grate until the outside forms a golden crust and the inside turns molten. It comes to the table bubbling, sprinkled with oregano and chilli flakes and drizzled with chimichurri, to scoop up with crusty bread. Many provolones use animal rennet, so check the label and choose one made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: chill the cheese well before cooking; cold cheese forms a crust before the middle melts and runs.
Palusami is at the heart of a Samoan Sunday to'ona'i, the big lunch after church, when the umu (earth oven) is lit and parcels of taro leaves filled with thick coconut cream and onion bake among the hot stones. The leaves melt into something like rich, creamy spinach, and the coconut sets around them. In Fiji similar parcels are called rourou. Many families add corned beef or fish; this is the plain coconut version, served with baked taro or breadfruit. Chef's tip: taro leaves must be cooked thoroughly, as underdone leaves make the throat itch; if you can't get them, use large spinach or silverbeet leaves, which need less time.
Pampushky are the small, pillowy yeast rolls that arrive in a basket next to borshch in any Ukrainian restaurant, from Kyiv to Poltava, glistening with a raw garlic and dill dressing. They are baked tightly packed in one tin so they pull apart with soft sides and golden tops, and the sharp garlic is the perfect partner for sweet, sour beetroot soup. Sweet pampushky, fried and dusted with sugar, also exist; this is the savoury baked kind. Chef's tip: brush on the garlic oil while the rolls are still hot from the oven, so they drink it in; common mistake is brushing them before baking, which burns the garlic bitter.
Medialunas, 'half moons', are what Argentines order with a café con leche at every confitería in Buenos Aires: smaller, sweeter and softer than a French croissant, with a sticky shine from a sugar syrup brushed on as they leave the oven. The dough is enriched with egg, sugar and a little honey and laminated with butter, so it's a weekend project. Chef's tip: keep the butter and dough at the same cool temperature; if the butter is too hard it breaks into pieces, too soft and it melts into the dough and the layers disappear.
Up in the hill villages of Himachal Pradesh, where flocks are walked to summer pastures, lamb is often cooked in chhaachh, the thin buttermilk left after churning butter. Thickened with a spoonful of gram flour, it makes a pale, gently sour gravy that is milder and lighter than the red curries of the plains, and it is a favourite at dhams, the festive meals of the Kangra and Chamba valleys. Serve it with steamed rice or makki ki roti. Chef's tip: whisk the gram flour into the buttermilk until there are no lumps before it goes near the pot; once it hits the heat, any lumps stay lumps.
No Filipino birthday is complete without a big tray of pancit, because long noodles stand for a long life; aunts arrive at the party carrying it in foil trays, and it sits on the table next to the cake. Pancit bihon uses thin rice vermicelli tossed with sautéed vegetables and a soy-seasoned stock until the noodles drink up every drop and turn light brown and glossy. This version is vegetarian, with fried tofu standing in for the usual chicken, shrimp and sausage, and vegetable stock in the pan. Squeeze calamansi (or lime) over each plate; the sharp citrus is what lifts it. Chef's tip: never cut the noodles before serving, for luck, and cook them in the stock rather than boiling them first.
Pancit Molo is named after the Molo district of Iloilo City, where Chinese traders settled centuries ago. Despite the word pancit, there are no noodles: the wonton wrappers are the 'noodle', folded around a filling of pork and prawns and simmered in a clear chicken broth with plenty of fried garlic. Ilonggo families serve it on rainy days, at fiestas and at Christmas gatherings, often as a starter before the main feast. The broth should be light, the dumplings silky. Chef's tip: let the wrappers trail a loose 'tail' when you fold them; those soft, frilly edges are what make molo different from a tight Chinese wonton.
Pandebono is the warm cheese bread of the Valle del Cauca, the region around Cali, eaten for breakfast or as an afternoon snack (onces) with hot chocolate or a coffee. It looks like Brazilian pão de queijo but tastes different: the dough is cassava starch and a little precooked cornmeal kneaded with lots of crumbly fresh cheese, with no milk or cooking, so the rings bake up with a slightly crisp skin and a soft, stretchy, tangy middle. Chef's tip: shape them into rings or balls and bake them straight away; the dough dries out if it sits.
Pandesal is the bread of the Filipino morning: small, soft, slightly sweet rolls with a fine breadcrumb coating, bought hot at dawn in brown paper bags from the neighbourhood panaderia (bakery) and eaten before school or work. They are torn open and filled with butter, cheese or peanut butter, or dunked straight into a cup of coffee, and at night the leftovers are toasted. Despite the name ('salt bread'), they are gently sweet, with a pillowy crumb and a thin crust. Home-made ones are best eaten within hours of baking. Chef's tip: the classic shape comes from rolling the dough into a log, coating it in crumbs and cutting slices, which bake into those familiar oval rolls with cut sides up.
Karahi is named after the heavy round-bottomed wok it is cooked and served in, and the roadside dhabas of Lahore and the Grand Trunk Road through Punjab are where it is at its loudest: a cook working three pans at once over a roaring flame, late at night, for tables of friends tearing naan. The Pakistani style is lean on spice and big on tomato, garlic, ginger, green chilli and crushed black pepper, with no onion and no cream, so the masala tastes bright and sharp rather than rich. Paneer takes the place of meat here and only needs warming through. The usual mistake is pouring in water to make more gravy; a karahi gets its sauce only from tomatoes cooked down until the oil comes back out. Chef's tip: crush the coriander seeds and black pepper yourself just before cooking; the coarse, fresh crunch is what makes it taste like a dhaba karahi.
Everything on this central Thai plate is arranged in little heaps around a mound of rice tossed with garlic and fermented shrimp paste: sticky caramelised pork (moo wan), threads of sour green mango, shallots, chillies, sliced long beans, crisp dried shrimp and ribbons of thin omelette. You mix a bit of each into every spoonful, so salty, sweet, sour and hot arrive together. It's a favourite at Bangkok's curry-and-rice shops and a clever way to use up yesterday's rice at home; lime wedges and cucumber cool it down. Chef's tip: use day-old jasmine rice straight from the fridge, because freshly cooked rice clumps and smears the shrimp paste instead of coating each grain.
Ptichye moloko, 'bird's milk', is named for the impossible treat in old fairy tales, and in 1978 Moscow's Praga restaurant turned it into a cake: a cloud of vanilla soufflé on a thin sponge, glazed with dark chocolate. Soviet shoppers queued for hours for the boxed version, and it is still the cake for birthdays and 8 March. The soufflé has always been set with agar, a seaweed jelly, which makes it naturally free of gelatine and gives a clean, springy bite. Chef's tip: boil the agar syrup to exactly 110°C (a thread forms between two fingers); undercooked syrup leaves the soufflé weepy and soft.
Panipopo (from 'pani', bun, and 'popo', coconut) are soft, sweet bread rolls baked sitting in a pool of coconut milk and sugar, which bubbles into a sticky, caramel-coloured sauce around them. Samoan families bake them for Sunday lunch, fundraisers and church gatherings, and they've spread to Samoan communities in Auckland and Hawaii. Served warm with the sauce spooned over, they're somewhere between a cinnamon roll and a pudding. Chef's tip: pour the coconut sauce around the rolls just before baking, not hours ahead, or the bottoms go soggy instead of sticky.
Ptitim was invented in Israel in the 1950s, when rice was scarce and the Osem factory was asked to make a wheat substitute; the little toasted pasta pearls soon became the dish every Israeli child grew up on. In homes from Haifa to Be'er Sheva it is cooked like a pilaf, first toasted in oil until nutty, then simmered in stock until plump and chewy. This version folds in courgette, red pepper and peas for a quick weeknight dinner or lunchbox side. Chef's tip: toast the dry ptitim until it smells like popcorn and turns light gold; it gives a much nuttier flavour than boiling it like pasta.
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