Steamed rice flour dough shapes
For Maghi, the Tharu new year in mid-January, and for Dashain and Atwari, families in Dang, Bardiya and Kailali sit together on the floor shaping dhikri, long pieces of rice-flour dough rolled and twisted into ropes, spirals, fish, birds and finger-marked ridges before they are steamed. The finished pieces are soft, smooth and chewy, with a clean, sweetish rice flavour that makes them a canvas for whatever is served alongside: a spicy tomato and sesame chutney, a lentil soup, a vegetable curry or, in many homes, a festive meat curry. Leftovers are sliced and fried the next day. The usual mistake is mixing the dough too dry, which cracks as you shape it and steams up hard. Chef's tip: keep the dough covered with a damp cloth while you shape, and dip your fingers in water if it starts to crack.
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Gâteau patate are little half-moon pastries made from mashed sweet potato dough and filled with sweetened grated coconut and cardamom, then fried until golden. They are a teatime treat in Mauritian homes and are sold at markets and fairs, especially around Divali and the end of the year. Chef's tip: use the sweet potatoes while still warm to make the dough; cold mash needs more flour and the gâteaux turn heavy.
Revani is the syrup cake you meet in Turkish pastry shops and on home tea tables, especially at bayram visits, when trays of it are cut into diamonds and handed round with çay. Unlike a dense eggless semolina bake, it is a light, airy sponge of whisked eggs, semolina and a little flour, which drinks in cold lemon syrup straight from the oven until it is moist right through yet still holds a clean cut. It sweetens with sugar syrup rather than icing and is often finished with desiccated coconut or crushed pistachios. Serve it at room temperature or chilled, with tea or a spoon of kaymak or thick cream. Chef's tip: pour cool syrup over the hot cake (or hot over cool), never hot on hot; that contrast lets the sponge soak up syrup without collapsing into mush.
An easy no-churn ice cream of coconut milk, sweetened condensed milk and evaporated milk, scented with nutmeg or cardamom and a little rose. Whisking it once while it freezes keeps it smooth and fluffy. Garnish with shredded coconut and a sprig of mint.
In Vitória, capital of Espírito Santo, people like to say that moqueca is capixaba and everything else is just fish stew. Their version contains no coconut milk and no palm oil: firm white fish is layered with onion, tomato and plenty of fresh coriander, coloured red with annatto (urucum) and olive oil, and cooked in its own juices. It is always made and served in a black clay pot, the panela de barro handmade by the potters (paneleiras) of the Goiabeiras district, whose craft is protected as Brazilian heritage. Families eat it at weekend lunches with white rice and pirão, a porridge made from the fish broth and manioc flour. Chef's tip: no clay pot? Use a heavy cast-iron casserole with a lid; a thin pan heats unevenly and the bottom layer scorches.
Salvador's moqueca baiana is the richer, sunnier cousin of the capixaba one, and the contrast is worth knowing: where Espírito Santo uses only tomato, annatto and olive oil, Bahia adds coconut milk, sweet peppers and dendê, the orange-red palm oil that came to Bahia with enslaved West Africans and runs through its Afro-Brazilian cooking. The result is creamy, golden and fragrant with coriander. In Salvador it is a weekend lunch at the seafront restaurants and at home, served with white rice, a yellow farofa fried in dendê and pirão. Look for dendê (red palm oil) in Brazilian, African or Caribbean shops. Chef's tip: add the dendê near the end; its flavour is strong and fades with long cooking, so a little stirred in late goes much further.
Umibudo, 'sea grapes', is a seaweed farmed in the warm, clear waters around Okinawa and Miyako island. Its tiny green beads burst in the mouth with a salty, oceanic pop, which is why Okinawans also call it green caviar. It's served as a starter in island izakaya, often next to a cold Orion beer, either plain with a dish of citrus soy or piled on a simple salad. Look for it vacuum-packed in salt at Japanese grocers; it keeps for weeks unopened. Chef's tip: dress the salad, not the sea grapes. Pour the dressing on the greens and dip the sea grapes as you eat, because vinegar and soy make the beads shrivel within minutes.
This is a pork sandwich. The Cubano was the lunch of cigar workers going between Havana and Tampa, and Miami's Little Havana cafés still press it to order on a hot plancha. Soft Cuban bread is layered with mojo roast pork, boiled ham, Swiss cheese, dill pickles and yellow mustard, then flattened and toasted until the cheese melts and the crust shatters. It is the best use of leftover lechón asado. Drink it with a café cubano. The usual mistake is pressing on too high a heat, which burns the bread before the middle is hot. Chef's tip: butter the outside of the bread, not the inside, and weigh it down with a heavy pan so it crisps evenly.
Ribollita means 'reboiled': a Tuscan peasant soup of cannellini beans, cavolo nero and other vegetables, layered with stale bread and heated again the next day until thick enough to eat with a fork. Florentines eat it through the cold months, when cavolo nero is sweetest after the first frosts, finished with a green thread of new-season olive oil. Make it a day ahead, because the reboil is the point. Chef's tip: when reheating, let the bottom catch very slightly before stirring; that toasty edge is what Tuscans love about day-two ribollita.
In Jaipur, Rajasthan, moong dal kachori is the street snack people queue for: a round, golden pastry that shatters into flaky layers around a dry, crumbly filling of coarsely ground yellow lentils roasted with fennel, coriander seed and chilli. Because the filling is dry and the crust is fried slowly, they stay crisp for days, which is why families make a big batch before a journey or festival. Serve them warm or at room temperature with tamarind chutney and green chutney, or break them into a bowl of kadhi. Chef's tip: grind the soaked dal coarse and without water, then roast it until it smells like toasted nuts and feels sandy; a wet or under-roasted filling is the reason kachoris go soft.
Mooncakes are exchanged and eaten all over China at the Mid-Autumn Festival, when families gather under the full moon with tea and fruit. The Cantonese style, from Guangdong and Hong Kong, has a thin, shiny brown crust around a dense, sweet filling of lotus seed paste or red bean paste; this vegetarian version leaves out the salted duck egg yolks. You need a mooncake press (50–75 g size). Chef's tip: rest the baked mooncakes in an airtight tin for 2 days; the crust softens and turns glossy, a change bakers call 'returning oil'.
Kohlrabi, monji in Kashmiri, grows in almost every kitchen garden in the Kashmir Valley, and families cook the round bulb and its leaves together in one pot. Like its cousin haak, it is a dish of very few ingredients: mustard oil, dried chilli, a pinch of asafoetida and salt, simmered with a splash of water until the bulb turns sweet and tender. It is eaten through the cold months with plain rice and a bowl of yogurt, and Kashmiris will tell you it tastes best in autumn when the bulbs are young. Chef's tip: buy kohlrabi with fresh, perky leaves attached; if the leaves are tired, add a handful of spinach instead.
Monjayaki comes from Tsukishima, a small island district in Tokyo Bay, where one street holds more than seventy monja restaurants. It began as a cheap after-school snack at sweet shops, with children writing letters in thin batter on a griddle. Today friends gather round a teppan table, build a ring of chopped cabbage, pour the runny batter into the middle and eat it with tiny spatulas while it is still molten. It never sets into a pancake like okonomiyaki: the texture is gooey, with crisp, toasty bits where it sticks to the plate. Our version leaves out the usual dried shrimp and uses mochi and cheese, a favourite Tsukishima combination. Chef's tip: press a little monja against the hot griddle with your spatula and wait until it crackles. That crisp layer, called the okoge, is the best bite.
Momiji manju are the souvenir of Miyajima, the sacred island off Hiroshima famous for its floating red torii gate and its maple trees, which turn scarlet each November. A confectioner there first baked them around 1906, and today shops along the island's main street still turn them out of iron moulds while visitors watch. The cake is a soft, honey-scented sponge, the filling smooth red bean paste. Tokyo's Asakusa sells a near twin, ningyo-yaki, baked in the shapes of dolls and temple lanterns; this recipe makes both, depending on your mould. Serve with green tea. Chef's tip: rest the batter for 30 minutes before baking. The flour hydrates, the bubbles settle and the cakes come out smooth and evenly brown.
Molokhia is one of the oldest dishes on the Egyptian table, eaten across the country from Alexandria to Upper Egypt, usually at a family lunch with white rice and torn baladi bread. The finely minced leaves of the jute plant cook in stock in minutes into a bright green, gently slippery soup; at the end a ta'leya of garlic and ground coriander fried in oil is poured in with a loud hiss. Most families cook it with chicken or rabbit broth, but a well-flavoured vegetable stock makes a lovely, light vegan version. Frozen minced molokhia from Middle Eastern grocers is what most Cairo cooks use too. Chef's tip: some cooks take a sharp breath (the shahqa) as the ta'leya goes in; joke or not, the point is to pour it in while the garlic is still sizzling hot.
On Christmas Eve, almost every Danish family ends dinner with risalamande, a cold vanilla rice pudding lightened with whipped cream and chopped almonds and served with a hot cherry sauce poured over the top. Hidden somewhere in the bowl is one whole almond, and whoever finds it wins the mandelgave, the almond prize, usually a marzipan pig. Some finders keep the almond in their cheek until everyone has eaten far too much. The rice base, risengrød, is often cooked on 23 December, eaten warm with butter and cinnamon, and the leftovers become risalamande the next night. Chef's tip: let the rice pudding cool completely before folding in the cream; warm rice melts the whipped cream and the pudding turns heavy instead of airy.
Risi e bisi was once served to the Doge of Venice every 25 April, the feast of Saint Mark, when the first tender peas arrived from the lagoon islands. It sits between a soup and a risotto: thicker than a minestra, looser than risotto, eaten with a spoon. Venetians make a quick broth from the empty pods, which gives a sweet, grassy flavour no stock cube can match; pancetta often goes in, but this version keeps it vegetarian with parsley and butter. Chef's tip: when podding fresh peas, keep the pods; simmered for 20 minutes they make the whole dish taste of spring.
Molletes are a favourite cheap breakfast and after-school snack across Mexico, especially in Mexico City cafés: a bolillo (a crusty, oval white roll) split, buttered and toasted, spread with refried beans, covered with cheese and grilled until bubbling, then topped with fresh pico de gallo. They are crunchy, creamy and gooey, and children love them. Use crusty white rolls or short pieces of baguette if you can't get bolillos, and a mild melting cheese made with vegetarian rennet, such as mild cheddar, mozzarella or Oaxaca cheese. Chef's tip: toast the buttered rolls before adding the beans, so the bread stays crisp underneath instead of going soggy.
Risotto alla milanese is the saffron risotto of Milan, served on its own as a first course or beside ossobuco on Sunday tables, and a legend says it was first made in 1574 by a glass-painter's apprentice working on the Duomo who coloured rice with saffron. Milanese cooks use beef marrow and meat broth; here a well-flavoured vegetable stock keeps it vegetarian, with butter and hard cheese for richness. It should be all'onda: loose enough to ripple like a wave when you shake the plate. Chef's tip: keep the stock at a bare simmer beside the rice; cold stock stops the cooking and makes the grains chalky.
Mole verde is the brightest of Oaxaca's seven moles: instead of dried chillies and chocolate it is built from tomatillos, fresh green chillies and a fistful of herbs (hoja santa, epazote, parsley) and thickened with masa or pumpkin seeds. In Oaxaca it is often cooked with white beans and vegetables, which is how we make it here, with potatoes, courgette, green beans and chayote. The sauce is tangy, herbal and silky, and goes with white rice or warm corn tortillas. It is vegan as long as you use vegetable stock. Chef's tip: blend the raw herbs in at the very end, off the heat; cooked any longer they turn grey and lose their fresh perfume.
A simple Swahili dish of tender cassava and sweetcorn simmered in thick coconut milk with green chillies, a little raw mango and lemon. It's creamy, mild and filling. Serve hot as a side or a light meal.
In the city of Puebla, mole poblano is the dish for weddings, baptisms and saints' days, and families often make it together over a whole afternoon. Three dried chillies (mulato, ancho and pasilla) are fried and ground with almonds, peanuts, sesame, raisins, spices, toasted tortilla and a little chocolate into a sauce that is deep, glossy and only gently sweet. It is spooned over poached chicken and scattered with sesame, with Mexican rice and warm tortillas to mop it up. Making it a day ahead lets the flavours settle. Chef's tip: fry the blended sauce in hot fat before adding stock; that sizzling stage is what turns it from a purée into mole.
Moksi alesi, "mixed rice" in Sranan Tongo, is a weekday one-pot from Paramaribo's Creole kitchens: rice cooked with salted meat or salt fish, black-eyed beans, coconut milk, onion, celery and hot pepper, until the grains are soft and full of flavour. It is cooked when there's little time but a full pot is needed. This version uses salted pork; it contains pork. The mistake is not soaking the salted meat, which makes the rice far too salty; soak it, then boil it first. Chef's tip: smoked turkey or salt beef works in place of pork.
Unniyappam are small, round sweet dumplings that Kerala families make for Vishu and Karthika, and they are a well-known temple offering at Guruvayur and Sabarimala. A batter of ground rice, ripe banana and jaggery, studded with ghee-fried coconut bits and sesame, is fried in the round hollows of an unniyappa chatti until crisp and dark brown outside and soft and spongy in the middle. They keep for a couple of days in a tin and are perfect with tea. Chef's tip: let the batter rest for an hour; it softens and puffs a little, giving lighter unniyappam.
Rocoto relleno is the pride of Arequipa's picanterías: fiery rocoto peppers stuffed with a sweet-savoury filling, topped with cheese and baked over sliced potato in an egg and milk custard. The traditional filling is minced beef; this vegetarian version uses mushrooms and lentils fried with ají panca, cumin, peanuts, raisins, olives and boiled egg, which gives the same rich, spiced, slightly sweet bite. The peppers are first blanched several times in fresh water with sugar and vinegar to tame their heat, which is the real skill of the dish. If you can't find rocotos, use small red bell peppers and add a little habanero to the filling. Chef's tip: taste a sliver of rocoto after the second blanching; stop when it is hot but pleasant, and blanch once more if it still burns.
Mok pa is cooked all over Laos, from Vientiane's riverside markets to village kitchens near the Mekong, where freshwater fish is the everyday protein. Chunks of white fish are mixed with a paste of lemongrass, shallot, garlic and chilli, a handful of dill and lime leaves and a spoon of sticky rice flour, then wrapped in banana leaf parcels and steamed until set and fragrant. Eat it with sticky rice and raw vegetables. Chef's tip: soften the banana leaves by passing them briefly over a flame or into hot water; they fold without cracking.
Mojo criollo is the raw sauce Cuban cooks keep in a jar by the stove: sour orange juice from the naranja agria tree, pounded garlic, cumin, oregano and olive oil. On the island it marinates whatever goes on the grill and is spooned over tostones, boiled malanga and roast vegetables; vegetarians use it to marinate tofu, mushrooms or thick slices of squash. It is sharp, garlicky and bright. Chef's tip: pound the garlic to a paste with the salt rather than chopping it; the salt helps it break down so the sauce tastes round, not harsh.
Moi moi (also written moin moin) is the soft, savoury bean pudding of Yorubaland that turns up at every Lagos party beside jollof, and in lunchboxes and on Sunday breakfast plates with ogi or custard. Peeled black-eyed beans are blended with red pepper, onion and oil, then steamed until set and sliceable, like a light, spicy terrine. Traditionally it is wrapped in broad uma (thaumatococcus) leaves; ramekins or foil cups work at home. Party versions often hide boiled egg or fish inside; this one is fully plant-based. Chef's tip: the batter should drop thickly from a spoon, like a cake batter; too runny and the moi moi never firms up.
Mohan thaal, named after Krishna, is offered at temples on Janmashtami and fills sweet boxes at Diwali in both Rajasthan and Gujarat. It is coarse gram flour roasted in ghee until it turns golden and smells like roasted nuts, then set with cardamom syrup into a grainy, fudge-like slab and cut into diamonds. The texture comes from a step called dhabo: rubbing ghee and milk into the flour, then sieving it into tiny granules before roasting. The mistake most cooks make is cooking the syrup too long; the fudge sets rock-hard and crumbles when cut. Chef's tip: take the syrup off the heat at a firm one-and-a-half string stage, and stop stirring when the mixture pulls away from the pan's sides in one mass.
In Puerto Rico mofongo is the dish people drive out to the kioskos of Piñones and the roadside fondas of Arecibo for: green plantain fried in chunks, then pounded while hot in a wooden pilón with raw garlic and good olive oil until it holds together in a rough, crusty dome. The outside stays a little crisp, the inside is soft, starchy and fiercely garlicky. Most places pound in chicharrón (pork crackling); this garlic-oil version is the main one here, and the crackling is a note at the end for meat eaters. Serve it with a small bowl of hot caldo to spoon over, or with stewed beans or a tomato sofrito sauce. Chef's tip: warm the garlic in the olive oil only until it smells sweet, never until it browns, so the mofongo tastes of fresh garlic rather than bitter toast.
Mochar ghonto is a labour of love from Bengali home kitchens: the florets of a banana flower are cleaned one by one, boiled and then cooked down with potato, grated coconut, ginger and cumin into a soft, dry, faintly sweet ghonto. It is served at weekend lunches and to guests, with rice and a little dal, and grandmothers judge a cook by it. The flavour is earthy, a little like artichoke, lifted at the end with ghee and freshly ground garam masala. Chef's tip: oil your hands before cleaning the flower, or the sticky sap stains your fingers black.
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.
Seafood restaurants on the jetties of Krabi, Trang and Hua Hin bring this out whole on a long platter, its scored sides fanned open and crackling, as the centrepiece of a shared table. The skin and fins fry so crisp you can eat them, while the flesh inside stays moist and sweet; a sticky glaze of fish sauce and palm sugar goes over at the last minute. It is salty-sweet rather than spicy, so it sits happily beside a sour green mango salad, a hot curry and plenty of jasmine rice. Chef's tip: dry the fish thoroughly with kitchen paper, inside the cuts too, and leave it uncovered in the fridge for 30 minutes if you can; dry skin is crisp skin and spits far less.
A whole fried fish blanketed in glossy red chilli sauce is the centrepiece of many family celebrations and riverside restaurant meals in central Thailand. The sauce is known as sam rot, 'three flavours', because palm sugar, tamarind and fish sauce are balanced against pounded chillies and garlic; spooned over a fish fried until its skin crackles and the fins crunch like crisps, it turns sticky and shiny. Sea bass (pla kapong) is the usual choice, though snapper or tilapia work well too. Bring it to the table with jasmine rice, a stir-fried green vegetable and a clear soup to share. Chef's tip: score the fish down to the bone on both sides and pat it bone-dry, so the heat reaches the thickest part and the oil doesn't spit.
In Moldavia, on both sides of the Prut, plăcintă means a flat round pie fried or baked on a griddle, and the cheese and dill one is what grandmothers in Iași and Chișinău make for weekend breakfasts and for guests at the door. A soft, stretchy dough is pulled thin, wrapped around salty cheese with fresh dill and egg, coiled into a snail and flattened, then cooked in a pan until blistered and crisp. They are eaten hot with a glass of sour milk or tea. Chef's tip: rest the oiled dough properly so it stretches without tearing; skipping the rest is the common mistake and you'll be fighting a springy dough that leaks its filling.
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.
The smell of poffertjes drifts across every Dutch kermis (funfair), Christmas market and summer street festival, where they are flipped by the hundred on a cast-iron plate full of shallow hollows. They are tiny, puffy, yeasted pancakes made partly with buckwheat, served a dozen at a time on a cardboard dish with a slab of melting butter and a snowfall of icing sugar. At home you need a poffertjespan, a pan with small round dips; a Danish æbleskiver pan is too deep. Chef's tip: put the batter in a squeeze bottle or a piping bag; filling 30 hollows quickly by spoon is almost impossible, and the first ones burn while you fill the last.
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.
Guatemala's mole is not the savoury Mexican sauce but a dessert: fried sweet plantains bathed in a dark sauce of chocolate, tomato, a gentle dried chilli, sesame, pumpkin seeds and cinnamon. It appears at Christmas and during Semana Santa, and in the market comedores of Guatemala City all year, eaten warm with a sprinkle of toasted sesame. It's sweet, spiced and only faintly hot. Chef's tip: use Guatemalan or Mexican-style table chocolate (grainy, with sugar and cinnamon) if you can find it; with dark eating chocolate, add a little more sugar.
Every Malaysian household seems to have someone who makes pineapple tarts in the weeks before Chinese New Year or Hari Raya, and the plastic tubs of them go round every visit and open house. In Hokkien the pineapple, 'ong lai', sounds like 'fortune comes', which is why they matter so much at the New Year. This is the rolled 'nastar' style: a little ball of golden, slow-cooked pineapple jam, scented with cinnamon, star anise and clove, wrapped in rich, crumbly butter pastry. Chef's tip: grate the pineapple by hand rather than blending it; the fibres give the jam its chewy body.
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.
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.
Pogácsa are small, round, flaky savoury scones that appear on every Hungarian buffet table, at weddings, christening parties and wine tastings in Tokaj and Villány, where they are eaten with a glass of white. Bakeries sell them by weight, and every region has its own: with crackling, potato, cabbage or, like these, butter, sour cream and cheese. The dough is folded a few times, so they split into tender layers, and the top is scored in a criss-cross before baking. Chef's tip: cut straight down with a sharp cutter and don't twist; twisting seals the edges and the pogácsa rise lopsided. Use a cheese made with vegetarian rennet.
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.
Leskovac, in southern Serbia, holds a whole grill festival every September in honour of pljeskavica, and Belgrade's street kiosks sell it day and night in a lepinja flatbread with chopped onion, kajmak and urnebes, a fiery cheese spread. It is a broad, thin patty of mixed beef and pork with onion and paprika, grilled hard and fast. The 'gourmet' version, gurmanska pljeskavica, hides cheese and bacon in the middle, and that is the version given here. This recipe contains pork. A common error is pressing the patties on the grill with a spatula: the juices drain away and they dry out. Chef's tip: press a shallow dimple into the centre of each patty with your thumb before grilling; it stops them doming up as they shrink.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ehime prefecture on Shikoku farms more red sea bream than anywhere else in Japan, and tai-meshi is its signature rice. Around Matsuyama and the old fishing town of Hojo, a whole grilled fish is laid on seasoned rice and cooked in the same pot, then the flesh is flaked through the grains at the table. Down the coast in Uwajima the same name means raw bream on hot rice, but this is the cooked kind. Sea bream is a fish for celebrations in Japan, so the dish turns up at weddings and New Year as well as in station lunch boxes. Chef's tip: grill the fish briefly before it goes in the pot; the browned skin adds a toasty flavour to the rice and keeps the fish from smelling of the sea.
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.
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.
On the roadside grills of Douala and Yaoundé, women split tilapia or mackerel, smear them with a green paste of ginger, garlic, onion and herbs, and grill them over charcoal while people wait with a cold drink; it is late-evening food, eaten with fried plantain, bobolo (cassava sticks) or miondo and a fiery tomato pepper sauce. At home a very hot grill or a barbecue does the job. The mistake is turning the fish too early, so it sticks and breaks: wait until the skin is crisp and releases. Chef's tip: oil the fish and the grill bars, not just one of them.
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.
Pol roti is the hearty coconut flatbread that rural Sri Lankans eat for breakfast or an evening meal, cooked on a flat iron pan (thachchi) and torn up with lunu miris, parippu or a spicy potato curry; you'll see it stacked in glass cases in kades from Anuradhapura to Matara. Wheat flour is mixed with lots of freshly grated coconut, finely chopped onion and green chilli, and the dough is patted out thick by hand, so the roti come out chewy, with toasted coconut flecks and a sweet, savoury smell. The common mistake is rolling them thin: pol roti should be a good 1 cm thick and soft inside. Chef's tip: pat each roti out on a banana leaf or oiled baking paper and flip it straight onto the pan; it's too soft and crumbly to lift any other way.
Pol sambol sits on the table at almost every Sri Lankan meal, from breakfast hoppers and string hoppers in a Kandy home to a rice packet bought at a roadside kade. Grandmothers grind it on a stone (miris gala) so the chilli and onion bruise into the coconut, and it turns a bright brick red, hot, sour and salty all at once. Most island recipes add a spoonful of Maldive fish (dried tuna flakes); we leave it out to keep it vegetarian and add a little extra onion and lime for depth. A common mistake is using dried desiccated coconut straight from the packet, which tastes dusty; fresh or frozen grated coconut gives the proper moist texture. Chef's tip: rub the chilli, onion and salt together first with your fingers until they turn juicy, then work in the coconut so every flake turns red.
In the Veneto and the mountain valleys of the north-east, polenta is the old daily staple, poured steaming onto a wooden board in the middle of the table. Its classic autumn partner is funghi trifolati: mushrooms sautéed with garlic, parsley and a splash of white wine until glossy and deeply savoury. Soft polenta is spooned into bowls with the mushrooms on top, a warming supper for a cold night. Chef's tip: whisk the cornmeal into the water in a thin stream; if it goes in all at once, it lumps and no amount of stirring will fix it.
Zanzibar's famous street bowl (urojo): a thin, tangy, golden soup of gram flour, raw mango, coconut and chilli, filled with little lentil fritters and potato balls and topped with crushed cassava crisps and coconut, green and red chutneys. It's sour, spicy and crunchy all at once. Make the fritters, potato balls and chutney ahead, then assemble the bowls at the table.
Born in the 1950s in Chaclacayo, just east of Lima, this rotisserie chicken has grown into a national obsession, with its own holiday on the third Sunday of July and a pollería on almost every block. The bird is marinated in soy sauce, lime, garlic, cumin and ají panca, then roasted until the skin is lacquered and dark. At home a hot oven does the job, and the meal is not complete without chips, a simple salad and a jar of creamy green ají sauce. Chef's tip: dry the skin well and leave the chicken uncovered in the fridge overnight after marinating; it roasts up much crisper.
Tsuivan is one of the most-cooked dinners in Mongolia, from Ulaanbaatar apartments to gers on the steppe: homemade noodles laid over a stir-fry and steamed under a lid until they soak up all the juices, then tossed together. It's normally made with mutton; meaty mushrooms and firm tofu stand in here, with carrot, cabbage and onion. Simple and filling, it's often eaten with a pot of salty milk tea. Chef's tip: lay the noodles on top and don't stir until the end; they cook in the steam, not in the liquid.
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.
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.
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.
Tteokgalbi is rib meat chopped finely, pressed back into neat slabs and grilled, so it's soft enough to eat without struggling with a bone. Two places in South Jeolla claim it: Damyang, the bamboo county, where all-beef patties come with rice steamed in bamboo tubes, and Gwangju's Songjeong district, whose restaurant street near the railway station mixes beef with pork. This home version uses minced beef and pork, seasoned with soy, garlic and pear, then brushed with a soy and honey glaze as it cooks. Serve with rice, lettuce and a few banchan; leftovers are good cold in a lunchbox. Chef's tip: slap the mince against the bowl for a few minutes; it turns sticky and the patties hold together on the grill without any breadcrumbs.
Polos is the tiny unripe jackfruit picked in the Western and Sabaragamuwa provinces long before it sweetens, and cooked low and slow it becomes one of the island's most loved festival curries, especially at Sinhala and Tamil New Year in April and at wedding lunches. The firm, pale flesh soaks up a very dark roasted curry powder, garlic, ginger, goraka (a smoky souring fruit) and coconut milk until it turns almost black-brown and tastes rich, sour and meaty. Fresh polos is hard to find abroad; tinned young green jackfruit in brine works well. A frequent mistake is not cooking it long enough, which leaves it squeaky; the pieces must be soft enough to break with a spoon. Chef's tip: oil your hands and knife before cutting fresh jackfruit; the sticky white sap washes off oiled skin but not dry skin.
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.
Tudkiya bhath comes from Chamba in western Himachal Pradesh, where it is the dish cooks make when a crowd turns up: rice, whole lentils and potato cooked in one big pot with fried onions, tomato and a tangy splash of yogurt. Tudka means tempering, and the name hints at the generous mustard-oil base of whole spices that flavours every grain. It is heartier and spicier than a pulao, a little wetter than a biryani, and is usually eaten with a bowl of plain yogurt or a sour pickle. Chef's tip: fry the onions properly to a deep golden brown; they give the rice its colour and its sweetness.
Pom is Suriname's celebration dish, baked for birthdays and holidays in Paramaribo and by the Surinamese community in the Netherlands: a layer of grated pomtajer root (a type of taro) mixed with citrus juice, then a layer of chicken stewed with onion, tomato, nutmeg and pickled peppers, then more pomtajer, baked until the top is golden. It is usually eaten on a roll as a "broodje pom". The mistake is skipping the citrus: pomtajer must be mixed with orange or lime juice, which gives the dish its fragrance. Chef's tip: frozen grated pomtajer from Surinamese or Caribbean shops saves the hard grating; if you can't find it, use grated taro or a mix of taro and potato.
In Mongolian summer, when the herds are milked several times a day, families on the steppe gently heat fresh milk in a wide pan, ladling and pouring it back to froth it, then leave it overnight. By morning a thick, wrinkled, pale-gold skin of cream has formed: öröm. Lifted off and folded, it's spread on boortsog (fried dough) or bread with a sprinkle of sugar and eaten with milk tea. It's rich, slightly nutty and very simple. Chef's tip: use the widest, heaviest pan you own and the lowest possible heat; öröm needs a large surface and patience, not boiling.
Tufahije came to Bosnia with the Ottomans, and the name comes from the Persian and Arabic word for apple. In Sarajevo's old Baščaršija quarter they sit in the windows of slastičarne (sweet shops), whole apples poached pale in lemon syrup, filled with sweet walnuts and capped with whipped cream; at home they are a favourite after the iftar meal during Ramadan and at Bajram. They are soft, juicy and only moderately sweet. Chef's tip: choose firm, slightly tart apples and poach them gently; boiling them hard is the classic mistake and leaves you with split, mushy apples.
In Bari the old women of Arco Basso still shape orecchiette on wooden boards in the street, and the dish everyone cooks them with is cime di rapa: the bitter, leafy turnip tops sold in big bunches from autumn to early spring. The greens and pasta boil in the same pot, then get tossed with garlic, chilli and good olive oil. Pugliese cooks usually melt in anchovies; this vegan version uses golden fried breadcrumbs (mollica), the 'poor man's cheese' of southern Italy, for crunch and savour. Chef's tip: add the chopped stalks first and the leaves a few minutes later, so everything is tender at the same moment as the pasta.
In Puducherry, the former French enclave on the Tamil coast, Creole families of mixed Tamil and French descent cook a fish curry that is softer and creamier than anything else along that shore. Assad is mild and pale, fragrant with fennel, pepper and curry leaves, with the fish poached in thin coconut milk and finished with a thick, rich pour. It is a Sunday-lunch and Christmas dish in these homes, eaten with plain rice or a crusty loaf from the town's bakeries. Chef's tip: add the thick coconut milk only at the very end and keep the curry below a boil, so it stays silky and white.
Pootharekulu ('coated sheets') come from Atreyapuram village in the Godavari district, where women make translucent rice-starch films by dipping a cloth in batter and wiping it over a hot, upturned clay pot. Those whisper-thin sheets are then layered with ghee and powdered sugar or jaggery and folded into neat parcels that melt on the tongue. True rekulu need the special pot and years of practice, so this home method spreads a very thin rice batter on an upturned wok or non-stick pan and peels off the dried film. Sheets can also be bought ready-made in Indian shops; then just do the filling. Chef's tip: work with the sheets dry; brush ghee on, never sugar syrup, or they turn soggy and tear.
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