In Hong Kong and Guangzhou roast-meat shops, a small saucer of plum sauce comes with crisp roast goose and siu mei, and at home it is the dip for spring rolls at New Year and the glaze for vegetarian fried tofu or cha siu-style mushrooms. Cantonese suan mei jiang is fruitier and more sour than the gloopy bottled kind: ripe plums are simmered with sugar, rice vinegar, ginger and a little chilli until thick and glossy. Make it in late summer when dark plums are cheap. Common mistake: boiling it too thick; it sets further as it cools, so stop when it coats the back of a spoon and a drip on a cold plate wrinkles only slightly. Readiness cues: the plum skins have melted into the sauce, the colour is deep ruby and the taste balances sweet and sharp. This is a high-acid preserve: in the fridge it keeps 2 months, or water-bath process sealed jars for 20 minutes to keep them in a cupboard for a year (refrigerate once opened). Discard if you see mould, it fizzes, the lid bulges or leaks, or it smells fermented. Chef's tip: add 2 Chinese salted preserved plums, mashed, for the authentic salty-sour depth.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
A colourful one-pot rice from Cameroon: long-grain rice simmered in thin coconut milk with tomato paste, chilli, cinnamon-clove powder and thyme, studded with carrot and yellow pepper. It's lightly spiced, creamy and fragrant. Serve it with beans, a vegetable stew or a simple salad.
Kanpur's best-known sweet is a crumbly, rich laddu sold in brown paper boxes near the city's busy crossings and taken home as a souvenir from the city. It is made by roasting semolina slowly in ghee until it smells like warm biscuits, then mixing in browned khoya, sugar and plenty of cashews, giving a soft, melt-in-the-mouth bite with tiny pieces of crunch. Families make a batch for Diwali or Raksha Bandhan and keep it for a week. The biggest mistake is adding the sugar while the mixture is still hot; it melts and the laddus collapse into flat puddles. Chef's tip: if the mixture feels too dry to bind, sprinkle in warm milk a teaspoon at a time rather than adding more ghee.
Mishti doi, 'sweet yogurt', is the classic end to a Bengali meal, sold in Kolkata sweet shops in unglazed clay pots. Milk is simmered until it thickens, sweetened with sugar cooked to a deep caramel, then set overnight with a little live yogurt. The result is thick, creamy and smooth, with a toffee-like sweetness and a gentle tang. Clay pots absorb excess whey, which makes it extra thick, but small glass or ceramic bowls work too. Chef's tip: cool the milk to just warm (about 40°C, comfortable on your little finger) before adding the starter; too hot kills the culture and too cool leaves it runny.
Kapenta are tiny freshwater sardines from Lake Kariba and Lake Tanganyika, sun-dried on racks along the shore and sold in markets from Lusaka to Harare. Cooked with onion, tomato and a little chilli, they become a savoury, crunchy relish that is eaten with nshima or sadza for a cheap, protein-rich weeknight meal. The mistake is skipping the rinse: dried kapenta carries sand and a strong smell, so soak and rinse it well. Chef's tip: fry the drained kapenta on its own first until crisp, then add the tomato, so it keeps some crunch.
Kappa puzhukku is the cassava dish of central Kerala, eaten in homes around Kottayam and Thrissur, and also served at the start of the Thiruvathira festival. Cassava is boiled twice, roughly mashed with coconut crushed with green chilli, shallots and garlic, then finished with a coconut-oil tempering. It's soft and starchy, with crunchy coconut and a lot of chilli heat, filling enough to be a meal with a fiery chammanthi or a ladle of moru curry. Chef's tip: when you peel the cassava, pull out the woody string that runs down the middle; it never softens.
Kapusniak is the sour, warming sauerkraut soup of western Ukraine, cooked through the long winters in Lviv and the Galician villages, when barrels of home-fermented cabbage stand in every cellar. Potato and a handful of millet make it filling, and a spoon of tomato paste and smoked paprika round out the tang. It is famous as the soup for the morning after a wedding or New Year party, and is often cooked with smoked pork; this vegan version gets its depth from a well-browned zazharka instead. Chef's tip: taste your sauerkraut first and rinse it only if it is very salty or sharp, because the brine is where the flavour lives. Common mistake: adding the sauerkraut together with the potatoes; the acid stops them softening, so let the potatoes cook first.
Sambusa are the crunchy triangles sold on the streets of Harar and Dire Dawa, and made at home across Ethiopia for Ramadan, Meskel and Timkat celebrations. The Ethiopian version is usually filled with brown lentils (misir), cooked dry with onion, green chilli and spices, then wrapped in thin pastry and fried until blistered and golden. Eat them hot, with a squeeze of lemon or a spicy dip. Chef's tip: cook the lentil filling until it is quite dry; a wet filling makes the pastry soggy and causes bursting in the hot oil.
Every neighbourhood in Doha, Dubai and Kuwait City has a cafeteria with a hatch on the street, where karak is handed through car windows in paper cups at all hours. Brought to the Gulf by South Asian workers and now firmly local, it is black tea boiled hard with sugar and cardamom, then simmered again with evaporated milk until it is strong, sweet and the colour of toffee; a few strands of saffron mark the Gulf version. Chef's tip: pour the tea from a height between two pans a few times; the froth and slight cooling give the silky karak texture.
In Nagoya, udon is cooked in its broth rather than boiled separately, in a small clay pot called a donabe that comes to the table still bubbling. The broth is made with Aichi's famous dark soybean miso, hatcho miso, which is aged for years and tastes deep, slightly bitter and chocolatey. Nagoya's noodles are deliberately firm, almost chewy at the centre, and locals use the pot's lid as a plate to cool each mouthful. It is a cold-weather lunch, and the egg poached on top is part of the ritual. Our version uses kombu-shiitake dashi and fried tofu instead of chicken. Chef's tip: dissolve the miso in a ladle of broth before adding it. Hatcho miso is dense and stays in lumps if it goes straight in.
Nuremberg has been the German capital of Lebkuchen since the Middle Ages, when the city sat on the spice trade routes, and at its Christkindlesmarkt the stalls are piled with them every Advent. The finest kind, Elisenlebkuchen, contain almost no flour: they're made mostly of ground nuts, candied peel, eggs, sugar and a warm spice mix, baked on thin Oblaten wafers so they stay soft and chewy inside, then glazed with chocolate or sugar. They keep for weeks in a tin and get better as they rest. Chef's tip: bake them only until just set; a common mistake is baking until firm, which makes them dry and hard by the next day.
Kare-kare belongs to Pampanga, the province north of Manila that many Filipinos call the country's kitchen, and it is the stew families bring out for fiestas, birthdays and long Sunday lunches. Oxtail and beef shin are simmered until the meat falls from the bone, then finished in a thick, nutty sauce coloured orange with annatto and thickened with toasted ground rice. The sauce itself is barely salted on purpose: everyone adds a little sautéed shrimp paste (bagoong alamang) at the table, so the dish contains shellfish. Pile it over steamed rice with the aubergine, long beans and pak choi. Chef's tip: toast the rice in a dry pan until it is the colour of biscuits before grinding it; that roasted smell is what makes the sauce taste of kare-kare rather than plain peanut butter.
Kari koko zourit, octopus in coconut curry, is the dish most Seychellois would name as their national favourite, cooked on Mahé and Praslin when the fishermen bring octopus in from the reef. The octopus is simmered until tender, then cooked in a sauce of coconut milk, curry powder, garlic, ginger, cinnamon and a little aubergine. It is served with rice and a green papaya chutney. The mistake is cooking the octopus too briefly or at a fast boil, which makes it rubbery; it needs a long, gentle simmer. Chef's tip: frozen and thawed octopus is often more tender than fresh, because freezing breaks down the fibres.
In the villages of Jharkhand's Chotanagpur plateau, the first tender bamboo shoots of the rains are called karil, and they are cooked into a simple, punchy dry curry with potato, lots of garlic and mustard oil. Some families also dry or pickle the shoots to last the year. The shoots stay crunchy and have a gentle sourness that goes beautifully with rice and dal. Tinned bamboo shoots work well and are already cooked. Chef's tip: always boil fresh shoots before using them; raw bamboo is bitter and not safe to eat.
Karjalanpiirakka come from Karelia, the borderland of eastern Finland, and are now baked in every Finnish home and sold in every Helsinki market hall. The open, oval pies have a crust of rye dough rolled paper-thin and crimped by hand around a filling of creamy rice porridge. Straight from a very hot oven they are brushed with butter and milk to soften, then eaten warm with munavoi, egg butter: chopped hard-boiled egg mashed into soft butter. Finns eat them for breakfast, at coffee tables and at weddings and funerals alike. The crimping looks fiddly but goes quickly after the first few. Chef's tip: make the rice porridge a day ahead; cold porridge is stiff enough to spread neatly and won't soak the thin crust.
Karnıyarık is a summer weekday dinner in kitchens all over Turkey, made when aubergines are glossy, cheap and piled high at the street markets. Small whole aubergines are peeled in stripes, fried until silky, then slit down the middle and packed with minced beef cooked with onion, green pepper and tomato. A short spell in the oven melts it all together. It is eaten warm with plain rice pilaf and a bowl of cacık or yogurt. Chef's tip: press the fried aubergine open with the back of a spoon to make a deep boat, so the filling sits inside rather than rolling off.
Narikol laru are the small, chewy coconut balls that sit next to til pitha on every Bihu plate in Assam, offered to visitors with tea and jolpan. Fresh coconut is cooked with jaggery until it binds, flavoured with cardamom and rolled warm. They are soft and moist, not dry like desiccated-coconut ladoos, and are made in big batches the night before the festival. Chef's tip: roll them while still warm with damp palms; once cold, the mixture won't hold.
Nokedli, also called galuska, are the small, soft, irregular egg dumplings that sit under almost every paprikás in Hungary, from Budapest lunch canteens to Sunday tables in the villages of the Great Plain. Unlike German Käsespätzle, they are not baked with cheese: they are a plain, buttery side whose job is to soak up a red, sour-cream sauce. Grandmothers scrape the batter off a wet board with a knife, but a nokedli grater (nokedliszaggató) or a colander with large holes is quicker at home. Serve them with gombapaprikás or lecsó, or toss them with fried egg for a quick supper. Chef's tip: let the batter rest for 10 minutes before cooking; the flour hydrates and the dumplings hold together instead of dissolving into the water.
In Cologne and Düsseldorf they're called Reibekuchen, and they are the smell of the Christmas markets and autumn fairs: thin, lacy potato fritters fried in oil until golden and crunchy at the edges. At home in the Rhineland they're traditionally a Friday dish, eaten hot with apple sauce or on buttered dark rye bread. They are simple, but timing and heat matter. Chef's tip: squeeze the grated potato really hard in a tea towel and keep the starch that settles at the bottom of the liquid; it binds the mixture so you need very little flour.
Buckwheat, hrechka, is the grain Ukrainians grow up on: cooked loose and fluffy, it turns up as a weekday side in Kharkiv kitchens, in student dorms in Lviv and on every school canteen tray. Cooked with fried mushrooms, onion and carrot it becomes a filling meal of its own, and in autumn it is made with wild mushrooms picked in the Polissia forests. It is naturally gluten free and, with no butter, vegan. Chef's tip: dry-toast the grains until they smell nutty and crackle; it gives the kasha its deep flavour and keeps each grain separate.
Kashk-e bademjan is the aubergine dip that greets you at the start of a meal in Tehran restaurants and at family gatherings all over Iran, swirled on a plate and decorated with fried onions, mint oil, walnuts and white ribbons of kashk. Fried aubergine is mashed with golden onions and garlic, then enriched with kashk, a tangy, salty fermented whey. Most kashk is made from soured yogurt without rennet, but some brands use cheese whey, so check the label if you avoid animal rennet; strained Greek yogurt beaten with a little sour cream and lemon is a good substitute. Serve it with warm flatbread. Chef's tip: fry the dried mint for a few seconds only, off the heat; it should smell sweet, not scorched.
Kashmiri chai, called pink tea or gulabi chai across Pakistan, came down from Kashmir to become the winter drink of Lahore, Karachi and Islamabad: it is ladled out at weddings, sold from steaming pots at tea stalls on cold nights and served with nankhatai biscuits at family gatherings. The colour is real chemistry, not food colouring: green tea leaves are boiled hard with a pinch of baking soda until the brew turns deep red, then whisked and splashed to get air into it, and finally cooked with milk until it blushes pink. It is lightly salted in the old Kashmiri way and sweetened in the city way; add as much sugar as you like. The mistake people make is using black tea; only green tea leaves turn pink. Chef's tip: pour in ice-cold water as soon as the brew is reduced, and beat it hard; the shock and the air are what lock in the bright colour.
Every neighbourhood in Srinagar has a kandur, a baker working at a pit oven, and before sunrise people queue there for girda: round breads about the size of a side plate, pressed all over with fingertips so the crust sets in ridges and hollows. The outside is lightly crisp, the crumb soft and slightly chewy, and the bread is torn and dunked into salty pink noon chai or spread with butter. A home oven with a heavy tray heated until very hot gets close to the kandur. Chef's tip: wrap the breads in a clean cloth as they come out; the trapped steam keeps the crust tender rather than hard.
Modur means sweet in Kashmiri, and this ghee-rich saffron rice is served at Kashmiri weddings and on Navreh, the Pandit new year, glowing orange and studded with almonds, cashews and raisins. In the hills of Himachal Pradesh the dham feast ends with a near-identical sweet rice called mittha, so this one page covers both: Himachal cooks often add a little more raisin and a pinch of fennel, which you can do too. It is sweet but not dessert-sweet, perfumed with cinnamon and cardamom, and is eaten alongside savoury curries as well as on its own. Chef's tip: soak the saffron in warm milk for at least 15 minutes before you start; it gives the rice its colour far more evenly than strands scattered dry.
In Uttar Pradesh, people joke that kathal is the vegetarian's mutton, and the comparison makes sense once you taste it. Young, unripe jackfruit has a firm, fibrous texture that absorbs a slow-cooked onion masala and the smoky warmth of black cardamom. Lucknow and Kanpur homes cook it in summer when the green fruit is plentiful, and it is a common choice for Sunday lunches and family gatherings, served with paratha or rice. The mistake to avoid is undercooking the jackfruit before adding it to the masala; it will remain rubbery no matter how long it simmers afterward. Chef's tip: frying the boiled pieces until golden before they go into the gravy gives them a meaty crust that holds up in the sauce.
Ask someone in Korea what they ate on their birthday morning and the answer is usually miyeok guk. The same soup is given to new mothers for weeks after a birth, as the seaweed is rich in iodine, calcium and iron. Some students avoid it on exam days, because slippery seaweed is said to make you 'slip' in the test. The broth is clear and mild, made with brisket fried in sesame oil and seasoned with soup soy sauce. Chef's tip: squeeze the soaked seaweed hard and fry it with the beef for a few minutes; it gives the broth a rounder, nutty taste.
A simple, homely East African dish of butter beans (or kidney beans) tossed with tender cabbage and carrots in butter with deeply browned onions. It's mild, filling and good for every day; the book's Handy Hints note that cabbage is high in fibre and good for digestion. Serve hot with chapati, rice or ugali.
Japanese students often eat a bowl of katsudon the night before a big exam, because 'katsu' sounds the same as the verb 'to win'. Soba restaurants, set-meal shops and train-station stands all over Japan serve it, and it is a favourite takeaway lunch too. A panko-crusted pork loin cutlet is fried until golden, sliced, then simmered for a minute with onion and egg in sweet soy dashi. The top of the crust stays crunchy while the underside soaks up the sauce. Chef's tip: snip the fat along the edge of each cutlet in three or four places before breading, so the meat stays flat in the oil and cooks evenly.
Kochi, on the Pacific coast of Shikoku, is Japan's bonito town. At Hirome Market in the city centre, cooks sear whole loins over roaring straw fires and slice them to order, served thick with garlic slices, onion and ponzu or just a pinch of salt. Bonito has two seasons there: the leaner first catch of spring and the fattier fish returning south in autumn. At home a very hot dry pan, or a blowtorch, gives the same charred skin around a cool red centre. Use very fresh, sushi-grade fish from a trusted fishmonger; not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. Chef's tip: slice it thick, about 1 cm, as they do in Kochi; thin slices lose the contrast between the smoky crust and the soft middle.
Mizeria is the cool, creamy cucumber salad that sits beside Sunday dinner in Polish homes from May to September, especially next to young potatoes sprinkled with dill. Thin slices of cucumber are dressed in soured cream with dill, a pinch of sugar and a little lemon or vinegar, so it is fresh, tangy and slightly sweet. Legend links the name to Queen Bona Sforza longing for Italy, but in practice it is simply summer on a plate. Chef's tip: slice the cucumbers paper-thin on a mandoline or the slicing side of a box grater; thick slices never soak up the dressing.
Bai is the everyday dish of Mizoram, cooked in Aizawl homes almost daily: a stew of greens such as mustard leaves or pumpkin leaves, bamboo shoot, pumpkin and beans, boiled in water with a pinch of soda (traditionally 'chingal', an ash-filtered alkali) that softens the greens. It has almost no oil and little spice, and often a spoonful of pork fat goes in; this vegetarian version leaves it out and adds a little more ginger. Bai is light, green and soothing, eaten with rice and a chilli dip. Chef's tip: add the soda with the greens, not before, and only a pinch; too much turns the stew slimy.
Up in Bulgaria's Rhodope mountains, around Smolyan and Chepelare, kavarma is cooked in individual glazed clay pots and brought to the table still bubbling, often with an egg baked on top. This one is made with pork shoulder (chicken thighs work too), browned and then stewed slowly with a mountain of onion, peppers, mushrooms, paprika and savory. It traditionally includes a splash of dry white wine; the ingredient list gives an alcohol-free swap. Eat it with crusty bread and a shopska-style tomato and cucumber salad. A common slip is cutting the pork too small, so it dries out before the sauce is ready; keep the pieces bite-size but chunky. Chef's tip: let the onions cook down with the meat until almost jammy before the peppers go in; that is where kavarma gets its sweetness.
Kaya is the coconut and egg jam spread thickly on toast in every kopitiam in Singapore, from heritage chains to the coffee shop under a housing block. This is the green Nyonya-style kaya, gently cooked with pandan leaves until it turns thick, glossy and custardy; the Hainanese version adds caramel for a brown colour. It keeps for a week in the fridge and is the essential part of kaya toast. Chef's tip: cook it slowly over a pan of barely simmering water and keep stirring; rushed kaya scrambles and turns grainy.
The kaya toast set is Singapore's breakfast ritual: thin, crisp toast sandwiched with kaya and a cold slab of butter, served with two runny soft-boiled eggs seasoned at the table with dark soy and white pepper, and a cup of kopi. Office workers eat it at kopitiams in Tiong Bahru and Tanjong Pagar before work; children love dunking the toast in the eggs. Chef's tip: put the eggs in water that's just off the boil for exactly 6–7 minutes; the whites should be barely set and wobbly, the yolks completely runny.
Kazakhs drink more tea per person than almost anyone, and at home it is always sut shai: strong black tea, often brewed from Kenyan or Indian leaves, poured into a wide cup (kese) with hot milk or a spoon of cream. The host keeps the cups barely half full and refills them again and again, and a guest turns the cup upside down when they've had enough. In winter in Astana a pinch of salt or a knob of butter may go in. It accompanies baursak, shelpek and every meal. Chef's tip: heat the milk until it just steams and add it to the cup first; scalded, boiled milk gives the tea a cooked taste.
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.
Kedjenou comes from the Baoulé people of central Côte d'Ivoire, who cooked it in a sealed clay canari set in the embers and shook the pot instead of stirring it; today it is a weekend favourite in Abidjan's maquis, served with attiéké or rice. Chicken, tomato, onion, aubergine, ginger and chilli go into the pot with no water at all, and the vegetables release enough juice to make a light, intense sauce. The mistake is lifting the lid to stir: the steam escapes and the pot can burn, so seal it well and shake it instead. Chef's tip: a heavy casserole with a sheet of foil pressed under the lid works just like the clay pot.
Keerai masiyal is the plain, green, buttery-soft mash Tamil mothers make with whatever keerai the market has that morning: arai keerai, siru keerai, amaranth or plain spinach. The leaves are cooked with shallots, garlic and green chilli and then mashed, traditionally with a wooden mathu, until smooth but still a little textured, then finished with a cumin tempering. It's eaten mixed into hot rice with a spoon of ghee or sesame oil, next to sambar or rasam, and it's a favourite first food for toddlers. Chef's tip: cook the greens uncovered; covering them traps the gases that turn the leaves dull olive instead of bright green.
In Kuching, kek lapis Sarawak is baked for Hari Raya, Christmas and Gawai, and every family gives boxes of it away. Unlike Indonesia's spiced lapis legit, Sarawak cakes are sweet, dense and buttery, often made with condensed milk, and famous for their bright geometric patterns. Many layers are grilled one by one, then the cake is cut into strips and glued back together with jam to make the design. This is the beginner's chequerboard in plain and pandan green. Chef's tip: spread each layer thin and even with the back of a spoon; uneven layers make the pattern crooked.
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.
Ker sangri is a true desert dish from the Thar in Rajasthan: ker are small, sour wild caper berries and sangri are the thin, chewy bean pods of the khejri tree, both picked in summer and sun-dried to last the year. Soaked, boiled and fried in plenty of mustard oil with chilli, mango powder and coriander, they become tangy, earthy and almost pickle-like. It keeps for days, which is why it travelled with camel herders. Serve with bajra roti or puri, or as a side to dal baati. Chef's tip: taste a ker berry after boiling; if it is still very bitter, boil it again in fresh water before frying.
Kerak telor is the Betawi snack of Jakarta, cooked over charcoal by vendors at the Jakarta Fair and around Monas: a little soaked sticky rice is cooked in a tiny wok, an egg cracked on top, then the wok is turned upside down over the coals so the bottom forms a crust. It is finished with serundeng, a spiced toasted coconut, and fried shallots. Vendors usually add dried shrimp to the coconut; this version doesn't. Chef's tip: soak the sticky rice overnight; half-soaked grains stay hard in the middle.
Down the southern backwater districts of Travancore, around Kottayam and Alappuzha, the everyday fish curry has no coconut at all: just a brick-red gravy of chilli, shallots and coconut oil, made sour and smoky with kudampuli (Malabar tamarind). It is traditionally made in a clay pot (manchatti) and left to sit, because it tastes better hours later or the next morning, when the fish has soaked up the sourness. Kingfish, sardines and mackerel are the usual choices; eat it with boiled red Kerala rice or tapioca. Chef's tip: once the fish is in, never use a spoon — hold the pot with a cloth and swirl it so the sauce coats the pieces without breaking them.
Along the beach road from Kuala Terengganu to Marang, roadside huts sell keropok lekor in paper bags, still hot from the wok. These are long, grey-white sausages of fish and sago starch, boiled until they float and then sliced and fried, so the outside puffs and crisps while the inside stays dense, bouncy and tasting clearly of the sea. Locals dip them in a sweet, garlicky chilli sauce and eat them with tea in the late afternoon. They freeze well after boiling, ready to fry any time. Chef's tip: knead the fish with ice-cold water; keeping the dough cold is what gives the springy bite.
Kespe is the plainest and most comforting of Kazakh soups: home-made egg noodles, cut thin with a knife, simmered in broth with potato, carrot and onion. The name comes from 'kesu', to cut. Grandmothers in villages around Karaganda and Pavlodar make it on winter evenings and for anyone feeling unwell, and in Kyrgyzstan the same soup goes by the same name. It is usually cooked in mutton broth; this version uses a well-browned vegetable broth. Chef's tip: dry the cut noodles for 20 minutes before cooking; they hold their shape and don't cloud the broth.
Ketoprak is a Jakarta cart dish, made to order: the seller grinds peanuts, garlic and chilli in a wide stone mortar, loosens them with water and sweet soy, then tips fried tofu, rice cake, rice vermicelli and bean sprouts on top. It is a cousin of gado-gado but simpler, with no egg-and-greens platter, and the raw-garlic sauce is the whole point. Eat it at lunch with plenty of crackers. Chef's tip: grind the garlic with the hot fried peanuts so the garlic mellows slightly; a raw paste made with cold nuts is harsh.
Ask for key wat at a restaurant in Addis Ababa and you get a bowl of tender beef drowned in a sauce so red it gives the dish its name: key means red in Amharic. It is everyday celebration food, cooked for Sunday lunch, weddings and the end of a fast, and it shares the slow-cooked onion base of doro wat but with chunks of beef and a sharper, more peppery heat. The sauce should be thick and glossy, with a layer of red oil on top. Spoon it over injera with a cooling plate of greens or lentils beside it. Chef's tip: cut the beef into small, even 2 cm cubes so it soaks up the sauce and becomes tender in under an hour and a half.
Eight small pizzas on a soft yogurt dough made with half wholewheat flour, spread with hot pizza gravy and loaded with capsicum, pineapple, onion, mushrooms, olives, sweetcorn, chilli flakes and both mozzarella and cheddar. The bases can be baked ahead and topped when the guests arrive. Cut into quarters and serve hot.
Khambir is the everyday bread of Ladakh: a thick, round wholewheat loaf with a dent pressed into the middle, browned on a griddle and finished in the heat of the kitchen stove. In homes in Leh and Kargil it appears at breakfast, torn into chunks and dipped into salty butter tea, or spread with apricot jam made from the region's dried apricots. The crust is chewy and toasty, the inside dense and slightly sour. Bakers in Leh's old town still sell it warm in the mornings. Chef's tip: let the dough rise until truly doubled; under-risen khambir is heavy and gummy in the middle.
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.
Khandvi are delicate, melt-in-the-mouth rolls from Gujarat, made by cooking gram flour with sour buttermilk until thick, spreading it paper-thin while hot and rolling it up. They're finished with a sizzling tempering of mustard seeds, sesame and curry leaves, plus fresh coconut and coriander. They're soft, tangy and gently spiced, and a favourite at Gujarati weddings and tea-time. They look tricky, but once you know when the batter is cooked, they're quick. Chef's tip: keep a plate by the stove and test the batter often; when a spoonful spread thin on the plate sets in 30 seconds and peels off in one piece, it's ready, and not a minute before.
Khanfaroosh are an old Emirati sweet, made by grandmothers in Ras Al Khaimah and Fujairah and served with Arabic coffee when guests arrive, at weddings and during Eid. A rice-flour batter rich with eggs, saffron, cardamom and rose water is shallow-fried in small rounds that puff up, golden-brown with a lacy edge and a soft, spongy middle. They are less sweet than they look and best eaten warm from the pan. Chef's tip: let the batter rest for 30 minutes so the rice flour softens; unrested batter fries up gritty.
Breakfast stalls from Chiang Rai to Mae Sai ladle this tangy red broth over soft rice noodles from dawn until it sells out, usually before noon. The soup is light but full-flavoured: pork ribs give body, cherry tomatoes give a fresh sourness, and dried cotton-tree flowers (dok ngiao) add a faint floral, earthy chew. Each diner finishes their bowl at the table with bean sprouts, shredded cabbage, crispy garlic and lime. Cubes of cooked pig's blood are traditional; they are optional here and left out by default. Chef's tip: blanch the ribs and throw that first water away, so the finished broth stays clear and clean-tasting.
Khao jee pâté is the breakfast sandwich of Vientiane, sold from glass-fronted carts on street corners since the French era left Laos its love of baguettes. It is a pork sandwich: a crisp, light baguette is warmed over charcoal, spread with pork liver pâté and filled with Lao-style cold cuts (pork sausage or ham), pickled papaya or carrot, cucumber, herbs, chilli sauce and a splash of Maggi-style seasoning. Pregnant people should avoid pâté because of listeria risk. Chef's tip: warm the bread until the crust crackles; a soft baguette makes a soggy sandwich.
Around Pratunam market in Bangkok, the khao man gai stalls are easy to spot: a queue, pale poached chickens hanging in a glass cabinet, and a cook slicing with a cleaver at speed. Like its Hainanese ancestor, the dish pairs silky chicken with rice cooked in the bird's fat and broth, but the Thai plate stands apart for its sauce, a punchy mix of fermented soybeans (tao jiao), ginger, garlic, chilli and vinegar, and for the little bowl of clear broth with winter melon served on the side. Bangkok eats it for breakfast, lunch or a late supper, always with cucumber slices and coriander. Chef's tip: plunge the cooked chicken into iced water for 10 minutes; the skin firms to a jelly-like snap and the meat stays juicy.
Khao piak sen is the soup Laotians crave on a cool morning or when they feel unwell, and roadside shops in Vientiane and Luang Prabang sell it from dawn. The noodles are cut by hand from a soft rice and tapioca dough and cooked straight in the broth, so their starch turns the soup thick, slippery and comforting. Instead of the usual chicken stock, this version builds a deep broth from dried shiitake, charred onion and ginger, and finishes it with crisp fried garlic, spring onion and coriander. Chef's tip: dust the cut noodles well with tapioca starch and keep them apart; they stick together into a clump in seconds if left in a pile.
Khao poon is celebration food in Laos, ladled out at weddings, baci ceremonies and big family gatherings, and sold at morning markets in Vientiane by women with huge steaming pots. Fine round rice noodles sit under a spicy, red-tinged broth of coconut milk, lemongrass and galangal, and everyone adds their own shredded cabbage, banana blossom, beansprouts, mint and lime. The usual chicken or fish is swapped for golden fried tofu and bamboo shoots. Chef's tip: fry the red chilli paste in the coconut cream until oil seeps out in red drops on the surface; that's when the colour and heat are fully released.
Every traditional Assamese lunch begins with khar, a mouthful of it mixed into the first ball of rice to settle the stomach. The defining ingredient is khar itself, an alkaline liquid filtered from the ash of dried bhim kol (seeded banana) peels; it gives the dish its soft, slightly soapy, earthy taste. Raw papaya and a handful of lentils are cooked in it with mustard oil, garlic and green chilli until silky. At home in Guwahati or Jorhat it is made several times a week. Chef's tip: outside Assam, use a small pinch of bicarbonate of soda in place of khar; too much tastes metallic, so start with ⅛ tsp.
Khash is a winter ritual in Armenia: friends gather in the early morning between November and March, often at the weekend, to share bowls of plain broth made from beef feet that have cooked all night. Everyone seasons their own bowl at the table with crushed garlic and salt, crumbles dried lavash into it and eats with radishes, pickles and fresh herbs. The broth is rich, sticky with gelatine and deliberately unseasoned in the pot. Skimping on the cleaning and soaking is the classic error; it leaves the broth grey and smelling of the farmyard instead of clean and milky-white. Chef's tip: ask the butcher to clean the feet and saw them into pieces for you.
Lumpiang sariwa ('fresh lumpia') is the unfried cousin of the crisp Filipino spring roll, served at fiestas, family gatherings and as a substantial afternoon merienda around Manila and the Tagalog provinces. A thin, soft egg crepe is wrapped around a lettuce leaf and a warm sauté of sweet potato, jicama, carrot, green beans, cabbage and tofu, then covered in a glossy brown garlic sauce and a shower of crushed peanuts. In Negros the filling is heart of palm (ubod) instead. It is eaten with a knife and fork, or carefully by hand. Chef's tip: make the crepes thin enough that you can almost see light through them; thick ones turn rubbery and hide the filling.
In the lanes of Old Delhi, breakfast often means a leaf plate of khasta kachori broken into a hot, thin potato curry, with a dollop of pickle and a cup of chai. The kachoris are large and flat with a peppery filling of coarsely ground urad dal, fried slowly until they blister and puff, and the aloo sabzi is fiery with chilli and sharp with tomato and dried mango. It's a weekend dish, filling enough to last until lunch. Chef's tip: break the boiled potatoes by hand rather than chopping them; the rough edges melt into the gravy and thicken it naturally.
Khatkhatem is the vegetable stew Goan Hindu families cook for Ganesh Chaturthi and wedding feasts, when onion and garlic are kept out of the kitchen. It takes whatever the monsoon garden gives: pumpkin, sweet potato, raw banana, corn on the cob, drumsticks, yam and the long Goan cucumber, simmered with a little toor dal in a ground paste of coconut, red chillies and coriander seeds. The flavour comes from tirphal, a dried berry from the Western Ghats with a woody, citrusy, slightly numbing bite. Serve it with rice and a crisp papad as part of the festive spread. Chef's tip: add the vegetables in stages, hardest first; khatkhatem should have every vegetable tender but whole, not a mush.
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.
Khobz is the round, flat loaf that sits on every Moroccan table, used instead of cutlery to scoop up tagine and salads. In the older quarters of Fez and Marrakech families still shape their dough at home and carry it on wooden boards to the neighbourhood wood-fired oven, the ferran; at home it bakes perfectly on a hot tray. The semolina and wholemeal give it a slightly nutty taste and a soft, chewy crumb with a thin crust. It keeps for a day wrapped in a cloth and is wonderful toasted. Chef's tip: prick the top all over before baking so it rises evenly and stays flat instead of puffing like a pitta.
Khorkhog is the feast of the Mongolian countryside, cooked when a herding family welcomes guests: a sheep is cut into pieces and sealed into a milk churn with hot river stones, onion, carrot and potato, and the churn is set over the fire until the meat is tender and smoky. Guests pass the hot, greasy stones from hand to hand for good health. This home version cooks the lamb in a heavy sealed casserole in the oven, which gives the same tender meat and rich juices; please don't heat stones in a kitchen pot, which is dangerous. The mistake is adding water: the lamb steams in its own juice with only a little liquid. Chef's tip: use lamb on the bone, such as neck or shoulder, for the deepest flavour.
Ask for this at a rice-and-curry shop in Phuket or Hat Yai and it comes as a small, dark heap beside your rice, smelling of lime leaf and black pepper and hot enough to bring tears. There is no sauce at all: minced pork or beef is fried with a turmeric-heavy southern paste until every crumb is dry, separate and coated in spice. The heat is fierce, so it is always eaten with jasmine rice, sliced cucumber, raw long beans and herbs to cool the mouth. It also keeps well for a couple of days and is excellent cold in a lunchbox. Chef's tip: keep stirring and pressing the meat against the hot wok at the end; the name means 'roll and roast', and that last dry-frying is what makes it.
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.
Khura are the buckwheat pancakes of the Monpa people of Tawang and West Kameng, high in Arunachal Pradesh, where buckwheat grows better than wheat. A thick, egg-enriched batter of buckwheat flour is cooked into soft, spongy pancakes for breakfast, eaten with butter tea, chilli-cheese chutney (chamin) or vegetable curry. They are earthy, slightly sour and filling on a cold morning. Chef's tip: let the batter stand for 20 minutes; buckwheat absorbs water slowly and the pancakes hold together much better.
Khuushuur are the flat, crescent-shaped pasties sold hot from stalls at Naadam, the July festival of wrestling, archery and horse racing, and fried in Mongolian homes all summer: thin dough round a filling of minced mutton, onion and garlic, fried until blistered and crisp. People hold them in a napkin and bite through to the juicy filling. The mistake is rolling the dough thick; it should be thin so it crisps quickly while the meat cooks. Chef's tip: press out all the air before sealing, or the pasties balloon and burst in the oil.
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.
Kik alicha is the gentle golden stew on Ethiopian platters: 'alicha' means a mild dish made without berbere, so it is coloured with turmeric instead and flavoured with garlic, ginger and onion. Cooks in the Amhara highlands and in Addis make it all through the fasting seasons, and it sits next to fiery shiro and misir wat to cool things down. Yellow split peas are simmered until they collapse into a thick, smooth purée. Chef's tip: stir it regularly towards the end; split peas thicken suddenly and catch on the bottom of the pan.
Breakfast on the east coast, in Kuala Terengganu and Kota Bharu, very often means nasi dagang: soft, slightly sticky rice steamed twice with coconut milk, ginger and fenugreek seeds, wrapped in paper with a ladle of gulai ikan tongkol, a gentle tuna curry. The rice is fragrant and a little chewy from the glutinous grains mixed in, while the curry is mellow, coconutty and sour from dried tamarind slices. Stalls sell it from dawn, with hard-boiled eggs and cucumber pickle on the side. It also makes a fine weekend brunch at home. Chef's tip: soak the two kinds of rice overnight so the grains steam evenly and turn plump rather than chalky.
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.
Showing 72 of 7,762 recipes
Show more recipesPage 625 of 863
Indian
Spanish
Italian
American
Chinese
Mexican
Brazilian
Japanese
Paraguayan
Ukrainian
Ethiopian
German
Filipino
Mauritian
Turkish
Hungarian
Persian
Pakistani
Korean
Polish
Bulgarian
Singaporean
Kazakh
Ivorian
Malaysian
Ghanaian
Indonesian
Puerto Rican
Thai
Lao
Armenian
Moroccan
Mongolian
Nigerian
Cuban
