A dark, moist eggless chocolate sponge, split and moistened with orange juice, filled and covered with whipped fresh cream, and finished with halved strawberries and grated chocolate. A show-stopping birthday cake.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
Quiche lorraine comes from Lorraine in north-eastern France, near Nancy and Metz, where it began as a bread-dough tart filled with eggs, cream and smoked bacon. It contains pork. The true Lorraine version has no cheese, just a deep, wobbly custard and crisp lardons, and it is eaten warm for lunch with a green salad or cut into slices for picnics. Chef's tip: blind-bake the pastry until it is golden and sealed; a pale base turns soggy under the custard.
In Nice the salad is a summer lunch eaten on shady terraces near the Cours Saleya market, and locals argue about what belongs in it. This is the generous everyday version found across the Riviera: ripe tomatoes, little potatoes, crisp green beans, soft-boiled eggs, good tuna and black olives, dressed with a sharp mustard vinaigrette. Use tuna in olive oil from a jar or tin, or a fresh tuna steak seared rare to medium. Chef's tip: dress the warm potatoes and beans first so they soak up the vinaigrette, then build the rest of the salad around them.
Coq au vin comes from Burgundy, where farm cooks once used the local red wine to soften a tough old rooster for a long Sunday lunch. This version uses chicken thighs and legs, which stay juicy, and contains pork (smoked lardons). The wine cooks for over an hour, so most of the alcohol is driven off but not all of it; for an alcohol-free version use 500 ml chicken stock with 100 ml red grape juice and 1 tbsp red wine vinegar. Serve with buttery mashed potatoes or boiled potatoes and a crusty loaf. Chef's tip: marinate the chicken in the wine overnight in the fridge; it colours the meat deep purple and seasons it right through.
Bouillabaisse began as the fishermen's supper on the quays of Marseille's Vieux-Port, made from the bony rockfish nobody could sell, and today it is a long, slow Sunday lunch in Provence. A deep orange broth of fennel, tomato, orange peel and saffron is boiled hard so the olive oil emulsifies, then firm white fish and shellfish are poached in it at the last minute. In Marseille the broth is served first with garlicky rouille on toasted bread, then the fish on a platter. Chef's tip: add the fish in order of thickness, firmest first, so every piece finishes at the same moment.
Kotosoupa is what a Greek grandmother puts on the stove when someone has a cold, and on the night after Easter Saturday's midnight service many families break the fast with a lemony soup much like it. A whole chicken poaches with onion, carrot and celery, rice cooks in the broth, and at the end beaten eggs and lemon are tempered in so the soup turns creamy and pale without any cream. The chicken is often served on the side with potatoes, or shredded back into the bowl. Chef's tip: whisk the eggs until frothy before adding lemon and hot broth; it makes the soup silky and helps stop it curdling.
This is a pork recipe; chicken thigh works the same way. In Thessaloniki and Athens gyros is cut from a tall turning spit, so thin that the edges crackle, and wrapped with chips, tomato, onion and tzatziki for a late-night bite after a football match or a night out. Home kitchens have no spit, so here thinly sliced pork shoulder is marinated in paprika, cumin, garlic and oregano, roasted in a tight stack, then sliced and crisped in a hot pan to get those charred edges. Chef's tip: slice the cooked meat as thinly as you can, then fry it in a dry hot pan; the crisp edges are what make it taste like the street version.
Kleftiko takes its name from the klephts, mountain fighters of the Peloponnese who were said to cook stolen lamb in sealed pits so no smoke gave them away. Today it is a celebration dish across mainland Greece and Cyprus, baked for Easter week and name days. Lamb on the bone is sealed in parchment with potatoes, garlic, lemon and herbs and baked low for hours, so it steams in its own juices until it falls from the bone. Serve with a village salad and bread. Chef's tip: seal the parcel tightly; if steam escapes, the meat dries and the potatoes never soak up the juices.
Stifado is the Sunday stew of Greek home cooks, especially in winter, and on islands like Corfu and Crete it fills village tavernas long before lunch. Chunks of beef braise slowly with a mountain of whole small onions, tomato, cinnamon, cloves and bay until the onions turn sweet and jammy. Traditionally red wine and red wine vinegar go in; this recipe uses wine, but you can swap it for the same amount of beef stock plus an extra tablespoon of vinegar and lose nothing important. Serve with crusty bread, rice or orzo. Chef's tip: use as many onions by weight as meat; the onions are the point of the dish, not a garnish.
In Beirut and across Lebanon, a plain bowl of hummus becomes a meal when the cook pours sizzling minced lamb and pine nuts over it straight from the pan. You find it on the mezze table at long Sunday lunches and in neighbourhood breakfast shops, eaten with warm bread, raw onion, mint and pickles. The contrast is the thing: cool, creamy chickpeas and hot, crisp-edged, spiced meat. Chef's tip: peel the warm chickpeas by rubbing them in a tea towel; it takes 5 minutes and makes the hummus really silky.
In Adana, on the hot Çukurova plain in southern Turkey, this is the kebab of the ocakbaşı, the grill-side counters where the cook presses fatty lamb mince onto broad flat skewers and sets them over glowing coals. It is meant to be fiery with red pepper flakes, juicy from the lamb fat and wrapped in thin lavash with sumac-dusted onions, parsley and blistered peppers. Make it for a summer barbecue, or under a very hot oven grill on a weeknight. Chef's tip: knead the mince with wet hands for a full 5 minutes until it turns sticky; that is what holds it on the skewer.
Down the Andaman coast and in Surat Thani and Nakhon Si Thammarat, this is everyday home food, the curry that turns up at lunch alongside rice, fried egg and a plate of raw vegetables. It is thin, brothy and startlingly bright: fresh turmeric turns it orange, tamarind makes it sour, and a pounded paste of chillies and shrimp paste gives it real heat, all without any coconut milk. Chunks of firm white fish poach gently in the soup with green papaya and long beans. Eat it with plenty of jasmine rice to soak up the broth. Chef's tip: pound a little of the poached fish into the curry paste; it thickens the broth slightly and makes it taste of the sea.
Shepherds from Amatrice, a mountain town in northern Lazio, carried guanciale and pecorino up to summer pastures, and once tomatoes arrived from the south the sauce took the shape it has kept ever since. The town still holds a sagra every August, and the dish became a Roman staple through the cooks who moved to the capital. Thick, hollow bucatini catch the sweet-sharp tomato inside and out, while the guanciale gives rich, porky pockets and the chilli a gentle warmth. Locals are firm that onion and garlic do not belong in it; they soften the clean taste of the pork. Chef's tip: lift the browned guanciale out of the pan before the tomatoes go in and return it just before serving, so it keeps its bite instead of turning soft in the sauce.
Roman trattorie from Testaccio to Trastevere serve carbonara at lunch to people who would be scandalised by a drop of cream: the gloss comes only from egg yolk, sharp pecorino romano, rendered guanciale fat and starchy pasta water. Made well, it coats each strand in a golden, peppery custard that just holds together, with crisp-edged nuggets of cured pork through it. It needs nothing alongside but a green salad dressed with lemon, eaten after the pasta as Romans do. Because the eggs are only warmed through, use pasteurised eggs if you are cooking for anyone pregnant, very young, older or otherwise vulnerable. Chef's tip: use mostly yolks and only a couple of whole eggs; whites set first and turn grainy, while yolks give that silky, deep yellow sauce.
Bouncy, not fluffy, is how a good tod man pla should feel between the teeth: the fish is worked with red curry paste into a sticky, elastic paste, studded with slices of long bean and shredded lime leaf, then fried in small discs that puff and ruffle at the edges. Markets all over Thailand, from Chiang Mai to Hat Yai, sell them by the bagful, and at home they are a starter or part of a shared meal with a sweet-sour cucumber dip scattered with crushed peanuts. Featherback fish (pla grai) is the classic choice, but any firm white fish works. Chef's tip: rub your hands with a little oil before shaping and the sticky paste won't cling to your fingers.
Satay came to Thailand with Muslim cooks from the south and the Malay peninsula, and now its smoke drifts from Bangkok market lanes to the night stalls of Hua Hin: thin strips of chicken stained yellow with turmeric and coconut, grilled over charcoal until the edges char. Every order comes with two partners, a thick, gently spiced peanut sauce and ajad, a sweet-sour relish of cucumber, shallot and chilli that cuts the richness. Grilled bread or sticky rice turns it into a meal; on its own it is a party snack. Chef's tip: thread the meat in a flat, tight ribbon rather than bunched up, so it cooks evenly and quickly without drying out.
After dark on Yaowarat Road in Bangkok's Chinatown, queues form at the guay jub stalls for bowls of curled rice noodles in a cloudy, peppery broth, topped with crackling pork belly and a soy-stained egg. The noodles roll into little tubes as they cook and turn slippery and soft, the broth bites with white pepper, and the pork shatters before it melts. This is Teochew comfort food, eaten as a late supper or to round off a night out, with a dish of chilli vinegar and extra pepper on the side. Chef's tip: grind white peppercorns fresh over each bowl at the end; ready-ground pepper has lost the floral heat that defines the soup.
The name goes back to the canals of Ayutthaya and Bangkok, where vendors cooked noodles in narrow wooden boats and passed tiny bowls up to customers on the bank; the bowls are still small, and at Victory Monument diners stack ten or more empties beside them. The broth is what people come for: beef simmered with star anise, cinnamon, galangal and pandan, darkened with soy and red fermented bean curd, then sharpened at the table with chilli vinegar. Stalls traditionally stir in fresh cow's or pig's blood for body; here it is optional and left out by default, and the soup is still rich and deep. Each bowl gets thin rice noodles, tender beef, beef balls, morning glory and Thai basil, finished with crisp garlic and pork crackling. Chef's tip: keep the pot slightly under-salted and let everyone season their own bowl with fish sauce, sugar, chilli and vinegar.
On Mahachai Road near Bangkok's Golden Mount, pad thai cooks work charcoal-fired woks late into the night, and their style is the model here: chewy rice sticks tossed with a dark, sweet-sour tamarind sauce, scrambled egg, cubes of firm tofu, sweet preserved radish, garlic chives and plump fresh prawns. It should taste tangy first, then sweet and salty, never like ketchup. Everyone finishes their own plate at the table with crushed peanuts, chilli flakes, a squeeze of lime and a handful of raw bean sprouts and chives for crunch, and children usually love it with the chilli left off. Chef's tip: make the tamarind sauce a day ahead; it keeps for a week in the fridge and the noodles then take ten minutes.
Crunchy, mild and gently sweet, this stir-fry is what central Thai families order for the table when children or chilli-shy guests are eating too. Strips of chicken are dusted in cornflour and fried golden, then tossed with roasted cashews, onion, spring onion and whole dried chillies that are crisped in the oil for smoky colour rather than fierce heat. Restaurants from Bangkok to Hua Hin serve it as one dish of a shared meal, with steamed rice and a sour soup such as tom yum. The sauce is glossy and savoury from oyster sauce, with a spoonful of roasted chilli paste for depth. Chef's tip: toast the cashews slowly in the oil before anything else goes into the wok; they stay crunchy far longer than nuts thrown in raw.
Clouds of cumin-scented smoke rise from long charcoal troughs at night markets from Ürümqi to Kashgar, where Uyghur grill men fan the coals and turn dozens of skewers at a time. Small cubes of lamb, often with a piece of fat between them, are seasoned with salt, cumin and chilli right on the grill, so the outside is crusty and spicy while the inside stays pink and juicy. Street vendors across China copy them, but the best are simple. Eat them hot off the skewer with flatbread, sliced onion and a cold drink. Chef's tip: thread a small cube of lamb fat after every three pieces of meat; it melts over the lean as it grills and keeps it moist.
In Lanzhou, capital of Gansu, the day starts at a noodle shop where cooks stretch dough into strands before your eyes and drop them into bowls of clear, fragrant beef broth. Locals describe the ideal bowl in five colours: clear broth, white radish, red chilli oil, green coriander and garlic shoots, and yellow noodles. The broth is light yet deeply beefy and gently spiced, the radish sweet, the chilli oil toasty rather than fierce. This version uses good bought noodles, with an optional route for pulling your own if you fancy the challenge. Chef's tip: simmer the broth, never boil it; a hard boil turns it cloudy and the clear, golden look is the whole point.
Born in roadside restaurants along the highways of northern Xinjiang in the 1980s, when truck drivers wanted something big enough to share, this dish arrives on a platter the size of a steering wheel. Chunks of bone-in chicken and potato braise in a spicy, star anise-scented sauce with green peppers, and the leftover gravy is spooned over wide, chewy belt noodles at the end. It is warming, a little numbing and very generous. Serve it for a crowd on a cold evening, with a bowl of sliced cucumber and garlic to cool things down. Chef's tip: cook the noodles first in the same pot and toss them in a little oil; they wait happily while the stew cooks and you only have one pot to wash.
This smoky, aromatic stir-fry carries the flavours of Xinjiang's night markets, where cumin and chilli are scattered over everything grilled, into a home wok. Thin slices of lamb are seared over the fiercest heat so the edges char, then tossed with crushed cumin seeds, dried chillies, onion and a big handful of coriander. Expect bold, earthy spice, a little numbing tingle and juicy meat. It is a weeknight favourite all over northern China, eaten with plenty of steamed rice or wrapped in warm flatbread. Chef's tip: toast and lightly crush the cumin seeds yourself just before cooking; ready-ground cumin alone tastes flat here.
Ask anyone from Heilongjiang what their grandmother cooked when guests arrived and this is the likely answer: a farmyard chicken stewed in a big iron pot with dried hazel mushrooms gathered from the forests of the Greater Khingan range. The mushrooms give a deep, woodsy flavour to a dark, lightly sweet soy gravy, and glass noodles go in at the end to drink up the juices. Bone-in chicken keeps it rich and tender. Serve in big bowls with steamed rice or cornbread, and a crunchy cabbage salad on the side. Chef's tip: let the soaking water from the mushrooms settle, then pour it gently into the pot and leave the grit behind.
These are the dumplings north-eastern families make together on New Year's Eve and on any snowy Sunday, with the whole household rolling, filling and boiling around the kitchen table. Tangy fermented cabbage, chopped fine and squeezed dry, is mixed with fatty pork and sizzling Sichuan-pepper oil, so the filling is juicy, sour and warmly numbing at the same time. The wrappers are slightly thick and chewy, the way Dongbei cooks like them. Pile them on a plate and serve with black vinegar, garlic and a spoon of chilli oil; a bowl of the cooking water to drink afterwards is a northern habit. Chef's tip: pour the hot pepper oil straight onto the spring onions in the filling; the sizzle releases their fragrance into every dumpling.
Across north-east China, autumn means packing crocks with salted napa cabbage to ferment through the long winter, and this hearty stew is the reward. Thin slices of boiled pork belly lie in a pale broth with shreds of sour cabbage and slippery glass noodles; the tang cuts the richness, and the broth tastes both clean and deeply savoury. It is everyday winter family food in Harbin and Shenyang, often served in a clay pot at the centre of the table with rice and a garlic-soy dip for the pork. Chef's tip: let the boiled pork cool for 15 minutes before slicing; warm belly crumbles, slightly cooled belly cuts into neat, thin slices.
Tianjin people queue on winter mornings for these small steamed buns, famous since the 1850s for their many fine pleats and for the burst of savoury juice inside. The filling is minced pork beaten with ginger and spring onion water until it holds a surprising amount of liquid, so the first bite is soupy and the soft, slightly springy wrapper soaks up the rest. Bakers aim for 18 pleats arranged like a chrysanthemum. Eat them hot for breakfast with a dish of vinegar, crushed garlic and a bowl of millet porridge or soy milk. Chef's tip: use pork with about 30 per cent fat; lean mince gives dry, crumbly filling however much water you add.
When the first cold winds blow through Beijing, old restaurants around Dongcheng light their chimney-shaped copper pots and diners start swishing paper-thin lamb through plain, gently bubbling water. Unlike fiery Sichuan hot pot, this one is all about the meat: the broth stays clear and mild, and the flavour comes from a creamy dip of sesame paste, fermented tofu and chive flower sauce. Everyone cooks their own slices for a few seconds, then adds cabbage, tofu and glass noodles to the pot as the evening goes on. It is a slow, sociable meal for winter weekends, with sesame flatbreads on the side. Chef's tip: half-freeze the lamb for 1–2 hours and it slices thin as paper with a sharp knife; or buy ready-rolled hot-pot lamb from an Asian grocer.
Every spring, when Spanish mackerel run off the Shandong coast, Qingdao families fill the kitchen table with flour and fish for these large boiled dumplings; restaurants by the harbour serve them by the plate all year. The filling is whipped with peppercorn-infused water until it turns light and almost mousse-like, with chives for freshness and a little fatty pork for richness. Bitten open, they are juicy, briny and sweet rather than fishy. Eat them straight from the pot with black vinegar and crushed garlic, with a pot of jasmine tea. Chef's tip: if you can't find Spanish mackerel, ordinary mackerel or a mix of mackerel and cod works well.
For generations, travellers passing through Dezhou station in Shandong bought this chicken in a paper wrap from the platform sellers, and boxes of it are still a favourite gift to take home. A whole bird is trussed with its legs tucked into the body, glazed and fried to a reddish gold, then barely simmered for hours in a stock of soy and a dozen spices. The result is fragrant, savoury and so soft that a gentle shake loosens the bones. Eat it warm or cold, torn into pieces, with steamed buns, a cucumber salad or plain congee. Chef's tip: keep the stock at the barest shiver, never a boil; that is how the skin stays whole while the meat turns meltingly tender.
On Jinan's banquet tables a whole carp, its tail curled up as if leaping the Dragon Gate on the Yellow River, is a wish for success, so it turns up at weddings, exam celebrations and New Year. The fish is scored deeply, coated in a thin starch batter and fried until the skin crackles, then a hot glaze of sugar, vinegar and soy is poured over so it sizzles at the table. Inside, the flesh stays white and moist. Serve with steamed rice and a stir-fried green vegetable. Chef's tip: carp has fine bones, so if you are cooking for children use sea bass or tilapia; the method is the same.
Jinan restaurants have served this Shandong classic for more than a century, and its name, 'nine turns', borrows from Taoist alchemy to praise how many times the flavour seems to change on the tongue. Sections of pork intestine are cleaned thoroughly, simmered until tender, fried golden and then braised in a dark glaze that is sweet, sour, salty, peppery and gently spiced all at once, finished with a dusting of cinnamon and white pepper. The texture is soft and rich with a slight chew. It is banquet food in Shandong, eaten with plain rice or steamed buns and a green vegetable. Chef's tip: buy intestines already cleaned by a butcher if you can; you will still give them a wash, but the hard part is done.
In the villages below the Huangshan mountains of Anhui, pigeon slowly stewed with Chinese yam in a clay pot is a classic nourishing dish, given to people recovering from illness and served to guests in cold weather. The broth is clear, light and gingery; the dark, rich squab turns tender enough to pull off the bone, and the yam goes soft and slightly creamy. Bring the pot to the table and eat the meat with rice, sipping the broth between mouthfuls. Squab is sold by good butchers and Asian grocers, often frozen. Chef's tip: wear gloves when peeling the yam; its sticky juice makes many people's hands itch.
From the mountain towns of Huizhou in southern Anhui comes a fish with a famous smell: mandarin fish lightly fermented for days, then braised with pork belly and bamboo shoots until the flesh separates into firm, almost garlic-clove-like flakes with a savoury, cheesy depth. Traditionally the fish ferments in a barrel at room temperature, which is not safe to copy at home. This version gives the same firm texture and a gentle tang by salt-curing the fish in the fridge for 1–2 days, never at room temperature; it is milder than the real thing. Serve it in its sauce with plenty of rice. Chef's tip: dry the cured fish very well before it goes into the pan, or the skin sticks and tears.
Shanghai's cold-dish counters always have a tray of drunken chicken: smooth, pale poached chicken with jelly-like skin, steeped overnight in a fragrant, slightly sweet bath of Shaoxing wine. Please note that the wine here is not cooked, so the classic dish contains alcohol and is not suitable for children, during pregnancy or for anyone avoiding alcohol. For them, make the fragrant alcohol-free version given in the ingredients, which steeps the chicken in stock with goji berries, dried tangerine peel and a little rice vinegar. Serve it chilled as a starter in summer or at Chinese New Year with other cold dishes. Chef's tip: plunge the chicken into iced water straight after poaching; the quick chill is what gives the skin its springy texture.
Every Shanghai family has its own hong shao rou, the dark, sticky pork belly at the heart of benbang (local) home cooking. Unlike the Hunan version linked to Chairman Mao, there is no chilli here; the colour and gloss come from rock sugar, soy sauce and a long, quiet braise, and the flavour is unmistakably sweet and savoury. The cubes should hold their shape but give way under chopsticks, with soft fat and a sauce that clings like syrup. It is weekend and festival food, served with plenty of rice and something green, and it tastes even better the next day. Chef's tip: reduce the sauce uncovered over a high heat in the last 10 minutes and keep tossing; that is when the shine appears.
Nanjing people are said to eat more duck than anyone in China, and this cold, pale salted duck is the one bought by the half from neighbourhood shops for the dinner table, especially around the Mid-Autumn Festival, when the ducks are plumpest. It is cured in pepper salt, brined, then poached at a bare simmer so the skin stays white and smooth, the fat turns clear and the meat is pink-tinged, moist and savoury. Serve it chilled, chopped into pieces, with rice or as part of a cold platter. Start a day ahead, as the duck needs 12 hours of curing and brining in the fridge on top of the cooking time. Chef's tip: toast the salt and Sichuan pepper together until fragrant; the warm, numbing aroma is what makes it taste of Nanjing.
The showpiece of Suzhou banquets, this fish is deboned, scored into a deep criss-cross and fried so the flesh fans out into spikes; with its tail curled up, someone once decided it looked like a squirrel. The sauce poured over it at the table crackles as it hits the crisp edges, sweet and tangy with tomato and vinegar. Mandarin fish is hard to find outside China, so sea bass is the practical choice. Serve as the centrepiece with rice and a few simple vegetables. Chef's tip: work starch into every cut with your fingers and shake off the excess; any bare patch fries soggy and the spikes collapse.
Legend has a hungry beggar near Hangzhou wrapping a stolen chicken in mud and burying it in the embers; restaurants in Hangzhou and Changshu still crack open the crust at the table for a bit of theatre. This home version swaps the mud for a salt-and-flour dough, so it bakes in an ordinary oven. Inside two lotus leaves, the bird steams in its own juices with pork, mushrooms and bamboo shoots, so the meat is fall-apart tender and smells of the leaves. Make it for a special dinner and serve with rice and greens. Chef's tip: the crust is only an oven, not something to eat; seal every crack with a scrap of dough so the steam stays in.
Spring in Hangzhou means new-season Longjing tea from the hills west of the city, and restaurants celebrate it by tossing tiny, pearly river shrimp with the tender tea leaves and a splash of their brew. The result is very delicate: sweet, springy shrimp, a faint grassy and chestnut aroma from the tea, and no heavy sauce at all. It is usually one dish among several at a family meal, eaten with rice. Small raw prawns are the easiest home swap for river shrimp. Chef's tip: brew the tea with water at about 80 °C, never straight from the boil, which makes the leaves bitter.
Hangzhou restaurants by West Lake have served this for generations, traditionally with grass carp kept in clean water for a day or two before cooking. The fish is not fried at all: it is butterflied, poached for a few minutes, and coated with a shiny, dark sauce of black vinegar and sugar that tastes sharp first and sweet after. The flesh should be tender enough to fall from the bone at a touch. Carp, sea bass or a thick white fish fillet all work at home. Eat it with rice and a simple stir-fried green vegetable. Chef's tip: thicken the sauce at the last moment and pour it straight over; left to sit, it turns gluey.
The Engadiner Nusstorte comes from the high Engadine valley in Graubünden, where pastry cooks who had emigrated to Italian and French cities brought home their skills in the 1800s, and walnuts arrived from Italy over the passes. It is a shallow, closed tart of rich butter pastry filled with chopped walnuts set in thick, golden cream caramel. Bakeries all over Switzerland sell it, and it keeps for weeks, so families give it as a gift and take it on hikes. Cut it into thin wedges: it is very rich, chewy, crunchy and buttery all at once. Chef's tip: let the caramel reach a deep amber before you pour in the cream; pale caramel tastes only of sugar, dark amber gives the toffee note the tart is known for.
Cooks in Yangzhou say the shaggy meatball looks like a lion's head and the cabbage leaves around it like a mane. The Jiangsu way is the clear braise: no frying, just a slow simmer in stock until the meatballs are so tender that you eat them with a spoon, while the cabbage drinks up the pork juices. They appear at family reunions and at Chinese New Year, where the round shape stands for togetherness. Everything cooks in one pot; serve the meatballs in their broth with rice. Chef's tip: chop some of the pork belly by hand if you can, or ask for coarse mince; a fine, lean mince gives a dense, bouncy ball rather than a soft one.
Named after the Song dynasty poet Su Dongpo, who governed Hangzhou, these neat squares of pork belly are a fixture of the city's restaurants around West Lake and of New Year banquet tables across Zhejiang. Cooked for hours in Shaoxing wine with soy and rock sugar, the fat turns soft and wobbly, the lean melts apart, and the skin goes glossy and mahogany. Each guest usually gets one square, eaten with plain rice and a green vegetable to cut the richness. The traditional braise uses only wine and no water; if you avoid alcohol, use the stock-and-vinegar version in the ingredient note, which is just as tender, though less fragrant. Chef's tip: tie each square with kitchen string before braising so it keeps its shape for serving.
Hainan islanders count Wenchang chicken, from the coastal county of the same name, as the first of their four famous dishes, and no wedding, New Year or welcome-home meal there is complete without it. The small free-range birds are gently poached until the skin is pale gold and slightly jellied and the meat is firm, sweet and full of flavour. The real stars on the island are the dips, not rice: a hot-oil ginger and garlic relish, and a sharp calamansi and chilli sauce. This is the original that Hainanese emigrants turned into chicken rice in Singapore and Malaysia, but in Hainan it is eaten chopped on the bone with a bowl of the poaching broth and plain rice or greens on the side. Chef's tip: choose a small free-range chicken; its firmer meat and thin skin are closest to the Wenchang breed.
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