Stuffed pig's stomach
Saumagen is the pride of the Palatinate, served at wine-village festivals and family dinners from the Haardt hills to Ludwigshafen. A cleaned pig's stomach is stuffed with diced pork shoulder, pork sausage meat, potato and carrot seasoned with marjoram and nutmeg, poached slowly, then sliced thick and fried until crusty. The stomach works only as a casing and is ordered from a butcher; if you can't get one, bake the same filling in a covered terrine in a water bath. Serve with sauerkraut and mashed potato. Chef's tip: fill the stomach only three-quarters full, or it bursts as the potatoes swell.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
A thick, tangy Ethiopian sauce of soft masoor lentils blended with onion, garlic, green capsicum, chilli and mustard. It's eaten cool or warm as part of a spread of injera and stews. Serve hot azifa with injera.
Suspiro a la limeña, 'the sigh of a Lima woman', is the city's grand dessert from colonial times, said to have been named by the poet José Gálvez for its sweetness. A thick manjar blanco, milk slowly cooked down to a silky caramel cream and enriched with egg yolks, is topped with a cloud of glossy Italian meringue flavoured with port and dusted with cinnamon. It is very sweet and very rich, so serve it in small glasses. Make it in the morning for the evening. Chef's tip: the manjar is ready when a spoon dragged across the bottom of the pan leaves a clear path for a moment; undercooked, it stays runny and the meringue sinks into it.
Kyiv cake was created in 1956 at the Karl Marx confectionery factory in Kyiv, and for decades a round box tied with string, bought at the station kiosk, was the souvenir every visitor carried home from the capital. Two crisp, chewy layers of nut meringue are sandwiched with a rich vanilla and cocoa buttercream and decorated with more cream. It contains no flour, so it is naturally gluten free, and no gelatine. Our home version uses hazelnuts, as the original did before cashews became the norm. Chef's tip: dry the meringue long and slow and let it cool in the switched-off oven; common mistake is pulling it out too early, when it is still soft inside, and then it turns sticky and collapses under the cream.
Breakfast in Shantou and Chaozhou often means a steaming bowl of kway chap from a market stall: squares of rice sheet simmered until soft and silky in a dark, gently spiced broth, with braised pork belly, tofu and eggs on the side. Teochew emigrants carried it to Singapore, where it became a hawker centre favourite, but the original is simpler, cheaper and very comforting on a cool morning. The broth tastes of soy, star anise and cinnamon, slightly sweet, and the rice sheets drink it up. Eat it with chilli vinegar, pickled mustard greens and plenty of white pepper. Chef's tip: braise the pork the night before; the flavours settle and you can lift the hardened fat off the top.
Suwon, south of Seoul in Gyeonggi province, once had one of the largest cattle markets in Korea, and its galbi houses grew up around that trade. The city's style is unusual: the long, butterflied short ribs are seasoned mainly with salt, garlic and sesame oil rather than the soy marinade most people know. Families and office groups grill them at the table over charcoal, snip them into pieces with scissors and wrap each bite in lettuce with ssamjang and raw garlic. At home a ridged griddle pan or a barbecue does the job well. Chef's tip: score the opened-out meat lightly in a criss-cross pattern on both sides, so the salt seasoning soaks in and the ribbon of meat stays flat on the grill.
Suya comes from the Hausa north, from Kano and Kaduna, but now every Nigerian city has a mai suya grilling beef over charcoal by the roadside once the sun goes down. Thin slices of beef are threaded onto skewers, rubbed with yaji, a fiery mix of roasted peanut powder, chilli, ginger and stock spices, and grilled until charred at the edges. It comes wrapped in newspaper with sliced raw onion, tomato and extra yaji for dipping. The common mistake is cutting the beef thick; it needs to be thin enough to see light through, so it cooks fast and stays tender. Chef's tip: put the beef in the freezer for 30 minutes first, and it will slice wafer thin with ease.
Kwati is a thick, warming soup of nine kinds of sprouted beans that the Newar families of the Kathmandu Valley cook on Janai Purnima, the August full moon also called Kwati Punhi, when the monsoon is at its height and people are said to need strength against the damp. The mix usually includes black gram, green mung, chickpeas, soybeans, field peas, kidney beans, cowpeas, field beans and rice beans, soaked and sprouted for two or three days beforehand, then cooked with ajwain, ginger, garlic, tomato and a pinch of timur. Markets in Asan sell ready-mixed kwati beans in the week before the festival. It is eaten in bowls with beaten rice or simply on its own. The mistake people make is skipping the sprouting, which leaves the soup heavy and the beans hard. Chef's tip: fry the ajwain until it crackles; its thyme-like warmth makes the beans easier to digest and is the flavour of the festival.
In Chettinad, kuzhi paniyaram is what happens to the last of the idli and dosa batter: it's mixed with shallots, chilli and curry leaves and cooked in a cast-iron pan full of round hollows until each ball is crisp and golden outside and soft as idli inside. Karaikudi households make them for evening tiffin and they're sold hot from street griddles in Madurai. Eat them straight from the pan with coconut chutney or a red tomato-onion kara chutney. Chef's tip: use batter that's a day or two old and slightly sour; it gives lighter, puffier paniyarams than fresh batter.
Kuyrdak is the first meal cooked when a sheep is slaughtered on a Kazakh farm, made quickly from the freshest cuts and the offal: lamb meat, liver, heart and kidneys fried in a kazan with onion and potatoes. Today it is an everyday dish in Almaty and the steppe villages, eaten hot from the pan with bread and strong tea. Every part is cut to the same size so it all cooks evenly. Overcooking the liver is the most common fault; it goes in last and should be just cooked through and still soft, not grainy. Chef's tip: soak the kidneys in salted cold water for 30 minutes to remove any strong smell.
Kuy teav is what Phnom Penh eats for breakfast: before 8 am the city's street stalls and markets are busy with people bent over bowls of it. It is a pork soup: a clear, slightly sweet broth simmered from pork bones with dried squid or shrimp and charred onion is poured over rice noodles, sliced pork, minced pork and prawns, and everyone finishes their bowl with lime, chilli, bean sprouts and fried garlic. Chef's tip: never boil the broth hard; keep it barely trembling so it stays crystal clear.
Shchi is the oldest soup in Russian cooking, the one the proverb pairs with porridge: 'shchi da kasha, pishcha nasha' (shchi and kasha, that's our food). In villages from Vologda to Ryazan it was left to mellow in the warmth of the big masonry stove, and in summer and early autumn it is made with fresh young cabbage rather than the sour winter version. Unlike Ukrainian kapusniak there is no sauerkraut or millet here: just sweet cabbage, root vegetables, tomato, bay and dill, with a cold spoon of smetana stirred into each bowl. Chef's tip: shchi tastes better the next day, so make it a day ahead and reheat gently.
Svíčková is the dish Czech families make for weddings, name days and big Sunday lunches, and in Prague pubs it appears on the menu as the proud centre of the week. Beef is marinated for a day or two with root vegetables and spices, slow-roasted, and the vegetables are then blended into a smooth, sweet-sour cream sauce. It is always served the same way: sliced beef, a pool of sauce, bread dumplings, a spoonful of cranberry sauce, a twist of whipped cream and a slice of lemon. Many cooks under-season the sauce; it should taste clearly of vinegar, sugar and allspice, not just cream. The optional smoked bacon that flavours the vegetables is pork; leave it out and the sauce is still rich. Chef's tip: blend the sauce until completely velvety, then push it through a sieve; that silky finish is what makes svíčková special.
Kutia is the first dish tasted on Ukrainian Christmas Eve, once the first star appears in the sky: a bowl of whole wheat berries mixed with ground poppy seed 'milk', honey, walnuts and raisins. Families in Lviv, Ternopil and the villages of the west traditionally throw a spoonful at the ceiling for luck and set a bowl aside for departed relatives, and the head of the house greets the evening with it. It is eaten at room temperature, sweet, nutty and chewy, and the spoon must touch every guest's plate. Chef's tip: soak and grind the poppy seed until it turns white and milky; common mistake is using it whole, which leaves kutia gritty and grey instead of creamy.
Dabeli was born in Mandvi, a port town in Kutch, Gujarat, and spread from there to every street corner in Mumbai. Soft pav are split, spread with sweet tamarind and fiery garlic chutneys, and stuffed with a potato filling spiced with dabeli masala, a warming blend of roasted coriander, cumin, cinnamon, clove and dried chilli. Masala peanuts, pomegranate seeds, onion and sev add crunch and sparkle, and the buns are toasted in butter until crisp at the edges. Children love them for the sweetness, adults for the heat. Chef's tip: make the dabeli masala yourself and toast the whole spices until they just smell warm; shop-bought powders lack that fresh, smoky sweetness, and a jar keeps for a month.
Kuru fasulye is close to a national dish in Turkey: a pot of white beans stewed in a red, paprika-scented sauce, eaten with rice pilaf, pickles (turşu) and raw onion at home and in the bean restaurants of Istanbul's Süleymaniye district. Many versions start with lamb or sucuk; this one leans on good olive oil, sweet and hot pepper paste and slow cooking, so the beans become creamy inside and the sauce silky and rich. It is a winter Friday-night staple for lots of families and tastes even better reheated the next day. Serve with domatesli bulgur pilavı or plain rice, a wedge of onion and crusty bread. Chef's tip: add the salt only once the beans are almost tender; salting at the start keeps the skins tough however long you cook them.
Syrnyky are the Sunday breakfast of Ukrainian childhoods: small, thick pancakes made almost entirely of tvorih, the dry farmer's cheese sold at every market in Odesa and Lviv, held together with an egg and a little flour and fried until golden. Inside they should be soft and creamy, like a baked cheesecake, outside lightly crisp. They are served with sour cream and cherry jam, or honey. Tvorih is made with lactic culture rather than rennet, so it suits vegetarians; dry cottage cheese pressed through a sieve or quark also works. Chef's tip: if your cheese is wet, wrap it in a cloth and press it under a weight for an hour; common mistake is adding extra flour to rescue a wet mixture, which makes syrnyky dense and rubbery.
Szarlotka is the apple cake every Polish café and grandmother has a version of, from Zakopane mountain inns to the cake counters of Poznań. In the classic home style, a sweet, crumbly shortcrust (kruche ciasto) is pressed into a tray, filled with a thick layer of tart apples cooked briefly with cinnamon, and topped with the rest of the pastry grated over like crumble. It is served in squares, dusted with icing sugar, often warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or whipped cream. Sharp autumn apples such as Szara Reneta or Bramley give the right sour-sweet balance. Chef's tip: grate the frozen top layer of dough straight onto the apples; it bakes into a light, sandy crust instead of a heavy lid.
Kürtőskalács, or chimney cake, comes from the Székely Hungarian villages of Transylvania and is now sold at every Budapest Christmas market and summer festival, turning on spits over glowing coals. A strip of sweet yeast dough is wound around a wooden roller, rolled in sugar and baked until the sugar caramelises into a thin, crackling shell; you unwind the soft, steaming spiral as you eat it. At home you can bake it in the oven on foil-wrapped rolling pins or tins. Chef's tip: press the dough spiral firmly into the sugar before baking; loose sugar falls off, but pressed sugar melts into the glassy crust. A common mistake is leaving gaps between the strips, which makes the cake tear apart when you slide it off.
Kurthi, as horse gram is called in Jharkhand, grows on poor, dry upland soil where little else will, and it has fed the plateau's Adivasi and farming families for centuries. Cooked slowly into dal, it is dark, earthy and filling, with a slightly smoky taste, and it is eaten through the cold months with rice and a dry vegetable, as it is believed to warm the body. The tempering of garlic, dried chilli and smoking mustard oil is what makes it Jharkhandi. Chef's tip: mash a ladle of the cooked gram against the side of the pot; it thickens the dal without any flour.
Kurt is the snack of the steppe: thick, salted yogurt pressed into balls and dried until rock-hard, so it keeps for months in a saddlebag. Herders in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan make it in summer, when the animals give the most milk, and dry it on reed mats in the sun. Children suck on it like a sweet, adults crumble it into soups, or dissolve it in hot water to make a sour drink. Bazaars from Shymkent to Bishkek sell it in white, smoked and red-pepper versions. Chef's tip: drain the yogurt until it's as firm as cream cheese; if it's still wet the balls crack and turn mouldy before they dry.
Erkuai is Yunnan's everyday rice cake, made by steaming and pounding rice into a dense, chewy dough. In Kunming and Tengchong, morning vendors grill thin rounds of it over charcoal until they blister, brush on sweet bean sauce, chilli and sesame, and fold it round fried dough or spicy potato shreds. Real erkuai is hard to find abroad, so the rounds here are made from rice flour and steamed, which comes close. Chef's tip: keep the rounds covered while you work, because the surface dries out and cracks quickly.
Injera is the soft, spongy, slightly sour flatbread eaten with Ethiopian stews: you tear it and scoop the food up with it. This home version uses rice and plain flour fermented with a home-made starter over a few days, then cooked on one side until covered in tiny holes. Serve rolled and sliced with missir wat, azifa and atter kik. Any fermented batter left over keeps in the fridge for the next batch.
Kūmara, the sweet potato the Māori brought to Aotearoa centuries ago, is grown mostly around Dargaville in Northland, and a big bowl of roasted kūmara salad turns up at just about every New Zealand barbecue, 'bring a plate' gathering and Christmas lunch. Chunks of red-skinned kūmara roast until sticky and caramelised, then get tossed while warm with red onion, baby spinach, salty feta and toasted pumpkin seeds in a sweet-sharp honey and mustard dressing. Chef's tip: give the kūmara plenty of room on the tray and a hot oven; crowded pieces steam and go soft instead of browning at the edges.
Around four in the afternoon in Belém, capital of Pará, the tacacazeiras open their street stalls and people queue for tacacá, served scalding hot in a cuia, a bowl made from a dried gourd. The broth is tucupi, the sour yellow juice of wild manioc, with a spoonful of tapioca gum, dried shrimp and jambu, an Amazon herb whose leaves make your lips and tongue tingle and go pleasantly numb. You drink the broth straight from the bowl and pick out the rest. Tucupi is sold cooked and bottled (or frozen) in Brazilian shops; it must be properly boiled before eating, which is explained in the steps. Chef's tip: soak and briefly boil the dried shrimp before they go in; straight from the bag they make the broth far too salty.
Tacacho is the breakfast of the Peruvian Amazon, from Tarapoto to Iquitos: green plantains roasted over coals, mashed with fat and salt and shaped into balls. There it comes with cecina (smoked pork) and is mashed with lard and crackling; this vegan tacacho uses good oil and a pinch of smoked paprika for the same savoury, smoky depth. The balls are dense, chewy and starchy, crisp at the edges where the plantain charred, and they are eaten hot with a fiery chilli sauce or alongside stews. Use plantains that are fully green and firm. Chef's tip: mash the plantains while they are still very hot; as green plantain cools its starch sets and it won't bind into a smooth ball.
Kulwa (also called tibsi in parts of the Horn) is the fast, sizzling beef dish that Eritrean restaurants in Asmara and Massawa bring to the table in a hot clay dish: small strips of beef fried hard with onion, green chilli, a sprig of rosemary and a spoon of spiced butter, with a dusting of berbere. It is eaten with injera or bread as a weekend treat. The mistake is overcooking the beef until dry: it needs only a few minutes over high heat. Chef's tip: let the pan get really hot before adding the meat, and serve it still sizzling.
No South African braai is finished without braaibroodjies, the sandwiches that go onto the grid once the coals have died down, from Cape Town to the Highveld. White bread is buttered on the outside and filled with cheddar, tomato, onion and a thin smear of apricot jam, a sweet-and-savoury combination every South African swears by. They come off the fire smoky, crisp and oozing. A frying pan or griddle works when there's no braai. Chef's tip: toast them over gentle, ashen coals and turn often; fierce heat burns the bread before the cheese inside has melted.
Tacu tacu was born in the Afro-Peruvian kitchens of Lima, as a thrifty way to turn yesterday's beans and rice into something new; today it appears on the menus of smart criollo restaurants too. Mashed canario beans and rice are fried with garlic, onion and ají amarillo, then shaped in the pan into a long, crisp-edged cake, soft inside and golden outside. It is a hearty lunch for two with a sharp salsa criolla of onion and lime, and often a fried ripe plantain on the side. Canario beans are pale yellow and creamy; pinto or cannellini beans work well. Chef's tip: use cold, day-old rice and beans; warm, freshly cooked ones are too soft to hold their shape and the tacu tacu falls apart.
No Armenian summer weekend at the dacha passes without a khorovats, the charcoal grill fired up in the garden from Dilijan to Lake Sevan. Alongside the skewers, whole aubergines, peppers and tomatoes are grilled until black and collapsing, then peeled and chopped with raw onion, garlic and herbs into a smoky, juicy salad. Served on its own with lavash, salty cheese and pickles, it makes a full meal, and it is one of the dishes that Armenians say tastes of summer itself. It works on a barbecue or straight on a gas flame. Chef's tip: grill the vegetables whole, without oil and without cutting them; the skins burn and peel away, while the flesh steams inside and soaks up the smoke.
Kulajda comes from South Bohemia, the land of carp ponds and pine forests around České Budějovice and Český Krumlov, where families come home from the woods in late summer with baskets of porcini. It is a thick, pale, gently sour soup of potatoes, mushrooms, cream and plenty of dill, finished with vinegar and served with a soft poached egg floating in each bowl. It is eaten as a filling lunch on its own with a slice of rye bread. Chef's tip: add the vinegar off the heat and taste as you go; the soup should be clearly tangy but never sharp, like a good pickle brine softened by cream.
Ask for spaghetti bolognese in Bologna and you will get a polite smile: at home the ragù goes on wide ribbons of fresh egg tagliatelle, or into lasagne, never on thin spaghetti. It is a Sunday-lunch sauce, made with beef and pork mince, a little pancetta, a soffritto of onion, carrot and celery, white wine, milk and only a spoonful or two of tomato, then left to murmur for three hours until it turns deep, savoury and almost creamy. Freshly made tagliatelle are traditional, but good bought fresh or dried egg tagliatelle are absolutely fine. Grated parmigiano goes on at the table, and the ragù keeps for three days in the fridge or three months in the freezer. Chef's tip: make the ragù a day ahead; it thickens and tastes rounder after a night in the fridge, and reheating it gently with a splash of water brings it back to life.
Nowhere in Turkey is far from a glass of çay. Tea from the slopes of Rize on the Black Sea coast is brewed in a stacked double teapot, the çaydanlık, and poured into small tulip-shaped glasses all day long: at breakfast with simit and cheese, in shops when you haggle, after every meal. The strong brew sits in the top pot and each glass is diluted to taste with hot water from the bottom, so one person drinks it dark (koyu) and another light (açık). It should be clear, the colour of a ruby or rabbit's blood (tavşan kanı), never cloudy. Serve it with sugar cubes on the side, not milk. Chef's tip: steam the dry leaves in the top pot for a few minutes before adding any water; the warm leaves open up and give a rounder, deeper colour.
After dark in Colombo you hear kottu before you see it: the rhythmic clang of two steel blades chopping roti on a hot flat-top at every street stall from Pettah to Wellawatte. Shredded godamba roti is stir-fried with leeks, carrot, cabbage, onion, chilli and egg, then moistened with a spoonful of spicy curry gravy so it's soft, smoky and messy in the best way. Stalls usually ladle on chicken curry gravy; we make a quick vegetable curry sauce instead, and the egg keeps it vegetarian rather than vegan. Leftover parathas or frozen flaky flatbreads stand in well for godamba roti. The common mistake is overcrowding a small pan, which steams everything; cook in two batches if your pan is under 30 cm. Chef's tip: chop the roti into strips while it is still slightly warm, then let it dry for 10 minutes so it fries rather than turns mushy.
Kuku sabzi is a deep green, herb-packed egg cake that Iranian families make for Nowruz, the New Year on the first day of spring, often alongside sabzi polo. It is more herb than egg: just enough egg binds a heap of parsley, coriander, dill and chives, with crunchy walnuts and little sour barberries. It is eaten warm or cold, cut into wedges, tucked into lavash with yogurt and radishes, and it travels well to the Sizdah Bedar picnic thirteen days later. Chef's tip: cook it slowly with the lid on; high heat browns the base before the middle sets.
Kuku paka is a Mombasa and Lamu speciality with Indian roots, cooked for weddings and Eid along the Kenyan coast: chicken is marinated in ginger, garlic and chilli, charred over charcoal or under a grill, then simmered in a smooth coconut sauce with turmeric and lime. The grilling gives the sauce its smoky note. The mistake is adding thick coconut milk too early and boiling it hard, so it splits; simmer gently. Chef's tip: add halved boiled potatoes or boiled eggs to the sauce, as many coast families do, to stretch it for more people.
Seri muka is one of the most loved kuih in Melaka and all over Malaysia, sold in neat diamonds at morning markets and Ramadan bazaars. The base is glutinous rice steamed in coconut milk and pressed firm; the top is a silky, green custard of pandan juice, eggs and coconut milk, steamed until it just sets. Each bite is salty-sweet, chewy then smooth. Chef's tip: rough up the top of the hot rice with a fork before pouring on the custard, so the two layers stick together instead of sliding apart.
Kuih lapis is the striped, bouncy cake piled on trays at Malaysian pasar malam (night markets) and laid out for guests at Hari Raya, Deepavali and Chinese New Year open houses. It's built from a thin coconut-milk batter of rice flour and tapioca starch, steamed one layer at a time, so each slice shows nine neat stripes, and children everywhere peel them off one by one. The texture is soft, springy and slightly chewy; the flavour is gentle coconut and pandan. It takes patience rather than skill. Chef's tip: steam the empty tin for 5 minutes before the first layer, so it sets evenly from the bottom.
Tahu gejrot is street food from Cirebon on the north coast of West Java, where vendors carry their kit on a shoulder pole and serve it in little clay plates called cobek. Hollow fried tofu puffs are snipped into pieces and drenched in a runny palm sugar and tamarind sauce, poured over freshly crushed garlic, shallot and bird's eye chilli. It's a mid-afternoon snack: sweet, sour, garlicky and as hot as you can take it, with the puffy tofu soaking up every drop. Chef's tip: crush the garlic, shallot and chilli raw in the serving bowl and pour the sauce over while it's still warm, so the aromatics bloom without losing their bite.
Tahu telur is a night-market favourite in Surabaya, East Java: cubes of tofu are stirred into beaten egg and fried in a small wok so the omelette rises into a thick, crisp-edged tower. It is topped with bean sprouts, cucumber and a dark sauce of peanuts and sweet soy. Sellers in Surabaya stir shrimp paste (petis) into the sauce; this vegetarian version uses a little extra garlic and kecap manis instead. Eat with rice or lontong for a filling supper. Chef's tip: use a small, deep pan so the egg piles up around the tofu instead of spreading thin.
Pie tee are thin, crunchy fried cups shaped like little top hats, made with a brass mould dipped in batter and plunged into hot oil. Peranakan cooks in Melaka and Penang fill them with finely shredded jicama and carrot braised in garlic, then top them with egg, coriander and a dot of sweet chilli sauce. They are a festive starter for Chinese New Year and weddings. Prawns usually crown each cup; this version uses fine strips of omelette. If you have no mould, shop-bought cups are fine. Chef's tip: heat the mould in the oil before each dip; a cold mould won't hold the batter.
Around Lake Llanquihue, in Frutillar and Puerto Varas, German settlers of the 1850s left Chile a love of kuchen, now served with coffee in every café of the south. The Chilean twist is the fruit: murta (Chilean guava), a small, red, perfumed berry that grows wild there in autumn. A buttery base holds the berries in a light custard under a crumble of butter and sugar. Outside Chile, cranberries with a few blueberries give a similar sharp-sweet balance. Chef's tip: blind-bake the base for 10 minutes first; a pre-set base stays crisp under the wet custard.
Krupnik is a thrifty, warming soup from every Polish grandmother's kitchen, from the villages of Podlasie to city milk bars, and it is the soup people make when someone in the house has a cold. Pearl barley (kasza jęczmienna), carrot, celeriac, parsley root and potato simmer in a broth of smoked pork ribs, which gives it a gentle smoky depth; this version contains pork. Dried mushrooms add an earthy note. Chef's tip: rinse the barley well and add it early; it releases starch that gives krupnik its slightly creamy body.
Almost every Khmer kitchen, from Phnom Penh flats to village houses around Siem Reap, starts the day's cooking by pounding kroeung in a heavy stone mortar. This is the yellow kind, coloured with fresh turmeric and built on lemongrass, galangal, makrut lime leaf, garlic and shallot; it goes into amok, samlor korko, noodle curries and stir-fries. Homemade, it smells brighter and more citrusy than any jar, and a batch keeps for a week in the fridge or months in the freezer. Chef's tip: slice the lemongrass into paper-thin rounds across the grain before it goes near the mortar or blender; long fibres never break down and leave the paste stringy.
In Sweden köttbullar turn up everywhere from Stockholm school canteens to the Christmas julbord, and most families keep a bag of homemade ones in the freezer for busy weeknights. These are small, soft and lightly spiced with allspice, made from a mix of beef and pork, so this recipe contains pork. They come to the table in a pale, peppery cream gravy with buttery mashed potato, sharp lingonberry jam and quick pressed cucumber. The usual slip is rolling them too big and packing them tight: they should be the size of a walnut and shaped with wet hands, never squeezed. Chef's tip: soak the breadcrumbs in milk for a full five minutes before mixing in the meat; that panade is what keeps them tender.
Kotlety are what a Russian grandmother makes on an ordinary Tuesday and what Soviet school canteens served at lunch: soft, oval patties of minced pork and beef, fried golden and finished with a splash of water under a lid. They contain pork. Bread soaked in milk is the secret to their tenderness; the patties stay juicy enough to eat cold the next day in a sandwich. Serve them with mashed potato or buckwheat (grechka), a few pickles and a spoon of the pan juices. The mistake most people make is leaving out the soaked bread or using breadcrumbs instead, which gives dense, dry burgers rather than kotlety. Chef's tip: wet your hands with cold water before shaping each patty, so the soft mince doesn't stick and the surface stays smooth.
Kotlet schabowy is the Polish Sunday dinner, served in homes and milk bars from Warsaw to Wrocław, usually with buttery dill potatoes and mizeria (cucumber in soured cream) or braised cabbage. It is a pork dish: slices of boneless pork loin are pounded thin, dipped in flour, egg and breadcrumbs and fried in lard or oil until crisp and golden. Chef's tip: pound the meat between sheets of cling film to an even 5 mm; even thickness means the coating browns just as the meat is done.
When the winter coriander in the Nashik markets comes in huge, fragrant bunches for a few rupees, Maharashtrian kitchens make kothimbir vadi. A batter that is mostly fresh coriander, held together with gram flour and sesame, is steamed into a cake, cut into squares, then shallow-fried until each piece has a crunchy shell and a soft, herby middle. It's a tea-time snack in Pune homes, a side on the festive thali and a favourite in tiffin boxes because it's good at room temperature. Serve with green chutney or tomato ketchup. Chef's tip: dry the coriander well after washing; wet leaves make the batter loose and the vadi soggy.
Koshari is the dish of Cairo's streets: whole shops, from Abou Tarek downtown to small corner counters, sell nothing else, and office workers queue for a metal bowl of it at lunchtime. Brown lentils and rice are cooked together, then piled with macaroni, vermicelli and chickpeas, drowned in a sharp cumin-tomato sauce and finished with dakka (garlic vinegar), shatta (chilli sauce) and a heap of dark fried onions. It is cheap, filling and naturally vegan, and every Egyptian eats it differently, so put the sauces on the table. Chef's tip: fry the onions first and cook everything else in their oil; that onion-scented oil is what makes koshari taste like the shops' and not like a plate of separate leftovers.
Sunday lunch in a Bengali home in Kolkata often means kosha mangsho: goat on the bone, fried patiently in mustard oil until the masala turns almost mahogany and clings to every piece. The word 'kosha' describes that long stirring over the heat, and it is what separates this dish from an ordinary mutton curry. Families eat it with luchi or plain rice, and it also turns up at Durga Puja feasts and wedding dinners. Chef's tip: buy bone-in goat or mutton shoulder cut into curry pieces; the bones and a little fat give the gravy its body.
Every morning, breakfast shops on almost every block in Taiwan (zǎocān diàn) pour thin, chewy crêpes onto a flat griddle, crack an egg over them and roll them up into a soft log in under a minute. Customers order them plain, with corn, with cheese, or with basil, alongside a cup of soy milk or milk tea. The batter uses some tapioca starch, which gives that bouncy, slightly stretchy bite. Chef's tip: spread the egg over the crêpe while the top of the batter is still a little tacky; they bond into one layer and don't split apart when you roll.
On summer evenings in Tainan and at old shops near Taipei's temples, douhua is ladled in wobbling scoops from a wooden bucket into bowls of cool syrup, then topped with soft-boiled peanuts, red beans or taro balls. In winter the same pudding is served warm with a sharper ginger syrup. It is just soy milk set into the most delicate curd, softer than any tofu you buy. Chef's tip: use a plain, unsweetened soy milk with at least 7% soy solids (or make your own); thin supermarket soy milk won't set properly.
No Karnataka festival lunch on a banana leaf is complete without a spoonful of kosambari at the top left corner. This raw salad of soaked split moong dal, cucumber, carrot and fresh coconut, sharpened with lemon and finished with a mustard-seed tempering, is especially made for Ram Navami, when it is offered in temples with panaka (jaggery water), and for Ugadi and weddings. It is crunchy, cool and refreshing, and packed with protein. Chef's tip: add the salt and lemon only just before serving; salted cucumber weeps water and turns the salad soggy within half an hour.
Koraishutir kochuri is a winter treat in Kolkata and across West Bengal, made when sweet new-season peas arrive in the markets. Soft maida dough is filled with a smooth, gingery green pea paste, rolled thin and fried until it puffs into a pale golden pillow with a green blush showing through. It's a Sunday breakfast or a festive snack, classically served with aloor dom (Bengali spiced potatoes) or cholar dal and a sweet to finish. Chef's tip: cook the pea paste until it's dry enough to roll into a ball that doesn't stick to your fingers; a wet filling tears through the thin dough as you roll.
Kopi is the strong, thick coffee poured from long-spouted pots at kopitiams all over Singapore. The beans are dark-roasted with sugar and margarine, which gives a bittersweet, almost chocolatey brew, and the classic cup is sweetened with condensed milk. Order it like a local: kopi-o is black with sugar, kopi-c has evaporated milk, and kopi peng is iced. At home, a dark-roast robusta or espresso blend in a cloth sock or cafetière gets close. Chef's tip: pour the coffee back and forth between two jugs a few times; it cools slightly, aerates and gets the smooth, frothy kopitiam texture.
Kontomire stew comes from the Ashanti region around Kumasi, where young cocoyam (taro) leaves are picked from farms and cooked down with palm oil, tomatoes and ground agushie (egusi) seeds. It is a thick, dark green, nutty stew eaten with boiled yam, ampesi (boiled plantain) or rice. Many families add smoked fish or salted fish; this version uses boiled eggs instead, which is also common. Spinach is the best stand-in when fresh cocoyam leaves are not available. Chef's tip: cocoyam leaves must be cooked thoroughly; under-cooked ones leave an itchy, scratchy feeling in the throat.
Kompot is the drink of Russian summers: a big pan of water with whatever the garden or market offers, apples, cherries, redcurrants, strawberries, plums, simmered for a few minutes, lightly sweetened and served cold from the fridge. It is what children drink with lunch at school canteens and summer camps from Moscow to Novosibirsk, and dacha cellars are lined with three-litre jars of it bottled for winter. The fruit at the bottom of the glass is everyone's favourite part. Chef's tip: switch off the heat as soon as it boils and let the fruit steep as it cools; long boiling makes it taste stewed and dull.
Kolokithokeftedes are what happens to a glut of courgettes in a Greek summer: grated, squeezed, mixed with feta, spring onion, mint and dill, and fried into crisp little patties. Tavernas serve them as a meze with a bowl of tzatziki, and at home they are a light dinner with salad. Outside they are golden and crunchy; inside they stay soft and herby. Use feta labelled vegetarian. Chef's tip: squeeze the salted courgette until it's almost dry; wet courgette is the usual mistake and makes fritters that spit, soak up oil and fall apart.
Ask anyone from Kuching what they miss most and the answer is usually kolo mee, a bowl that looks almost too simple: curly, springy egg noodles tossed in fragrant shallot oil, a little soy and white pepper, then crowned with savoury minced pork and slices of char siu. There is no thick gravy and no chilli on top; the flavour is clean, porky and aromatic, and the texture is the whole point, each strand bouncy and separate. Stalls often add a dash of red char siu oil for the 'red' version. It is eaten at any hour with a small bowl of clear soup and pickled green chilli on the side. Chef's tip: cook the noodles in small portions in a big pot of fiercely boiling water and shake them really dry; any leftover water dilutes the shallot oil.
In Kolkata, aloo dum is the partner of luchi: hot puffed puris at a Sunday breakfast, or at the sweet shops and roadside stalls that sell 'luchi-alur dom' as a plate. Bengali aloo dum is thicker, sweeter and more gingery than its Kashmiri cousin, with no yogurt or fennel, and the potatoes are fried until their skins crinkle before they go into the gravy. A little sugar balances the chilli, and a final pinch of roasted cumin-coriander powder gives it the smell of a Bengali kitchen. Chef's tip: prick each boiled potato with a fork so the gravy gets inside.
In Tunisia a tajine is not a stew but a thick baked frittata, and tajine malsouka is the festive one: eggs, cheese and filling baked between layers of malsouka pastry so the top and bottom turn crisp and golden. It is served at Ramadan, weddings and Eid, cut into squares. Chicken is the usual filling; here spinach, potato and white beans give it body. Chef's tip: brush every pastry sheet with butter, edge to edge; dry corners burn in the oven.
In Kolhapur, in the far south of Maharashtra, Sunday lunch at a khanaval (a family-run eating house) means mutton cooked one way and served two: a thin, blazing-red tambda rassa and a soothing white pandhra rassa made from the same stock. Diners sip the white one between spoonfuls of the red, with bhakri, rice and raw onion on the side. The heat comes from Kolhapur's own chilli blend and a dark-roasted coconut and onion masala. Chef's tip: roast the dried coconut and the onions until they are properly brown, almost mahogany; that roasting, not extra chilli, is what gives the rassa its deep colour and smoky taste.
Kol posola is the pale inner core of the banana plant, chopped and cooked down with mustard oil, ginger and green chilli until it is soft, juicy and faintly sweet. In Assamese villages, where banana plants grow in every yard, it is cheap everyday food, and it is also a favourite on Bihu tables and in Assamese thalis in Guwahati restaurants. It has a mild, cucumber-like flavour and is prized as a cooling, cleansing food. Chef's tip: as you chop the stem, twirl a finger or a skewer through the slices to catch and pull away the fine fibres; otherwise they stay stringy.
Kokoda (said "ko-kon-da") is Fiji's answer to ceviche, made in villages on Viti Levu and served at Suva's restaurants and family feasts in a half coconut shell: cubes of white fish soaked in lime juice until they turn white, then mixed with fresh coconut cream, onion, tomato, chilli and a little cucumber. Lime "cooks" the look of the fish but does not kill bacteria or parasites like heat does, so this is written as a safer version: use only very fresh fish that has been frozen first (sold as sashimi or sushi grade), keep everything cold and eat it within 2 hours. Raw or lime-cured fish is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system; for them, use the lightly poached option in the steps. The mistake is leaving the fish in lime too long, which turns it chalky; 15–20 minutes is enough. Chef's tip: drain off the lime juice before adding the coconut cream so the dish stays creamy, not sour.
Walk through Dotonbori in Osaka on any evening and you'll see cooks flicking dozens of batter balls around a cast-iron plate with metal picks. Stalls in the city have sold them since the 1930s, and they turn up at every summer festival, eaten from a paper boat with a cocktail stick. The outside is crisp, the inside almost molten, with a chewy piece of octopus at the centre. You need a takoyaki pan, either a stovetop cast-iron one or an electric plate. Chef's tip: fill the cups right to the top and let the batter flood across the whole plate, as the overflow is what you fold in to make each ball round.
Taktouka is the pepper partner to zaalouk, served side by side on the salad plates of Moroccan homes and cafés, especially around Casablanca and the north. Grilled green peppers are peeled and cooked down with tomato, garlic and cumin until soft and jammy, then eaten lukewarm with bread or as a side to tagines and grilled vegetables. It is cheap, quick and keeps for three days in the fridge. Chef's tip: use the thin-skinned, slightly bitter green peppers if you can find them; they give a more authentic flavour than sweet bell peppers.
Kokis are the lacy, wheel-shaped crisps that every Sri Lankan family fries in the days before Sinhala and Tamil New Year in April, piled onto the Avurudu table beside kavum, kiri bath and banana. A thin batter of rice flour, thick coconut milk, egg and a little turmeric is picked up on a hot brass kokis mould, dipped into the oil, and shaken free as it sets, so each one is light, salty-sweet and shatteringly crunchy. They're a cousin of the rosette cookie but savoury rather than sugary. The usual mistake is dipping the mould right under the batter, so the kokis sticks and won't release; dip it only three-quarters of the way up its sides. Chef's tip: heat the mould in the oil for a full minute before the first dip, and return it to the oil between every kokis; a cold mould won't pick up batter.
Koki is a dense, orange-red bean cake from the Douala and Bakweri country of Cameroon, made from skinned black-eyed beans blended with red palm oil, chilli and greens, then wrapped in banana leaves and steamed for hours. It is weekend food and market food, eaten with boiled plantain, cassava or ripe banana. It is related to Nigerian moi moi but heavier, richer with palm oil and full of cocoyam leaves or spinach. Chef's tip: warm the palm oil just until liquid before beating it in; poured in cold and solid it leaves streaks of fat instead of an even orange colour.
Tallarín saltado is the noodle cousin of lomo saltado, a chifa favourite from Lima where Chinese wok technique meets Peruvian ingredients. Spaghetti-style wheat noodles are tossed over a fierce heat with mushrooms, pak choi, red onion, tomato, ginger and ají amarillo, then glossed with soy sauce and a splash of vinegar. The noodles soak up the smoky, tangy sauce while the vegetables stay crisp. Peruvians use plain spaghetti from the shop on the corner, and so can you. Chef's tip: cook the noodles a minute short of the packet time and rinse them in cold water; they finish cooking in the wok and won't turn soft or clump.
Every 1 January, Haitian families from Port-au-Prince to Brooklyn wake up to soup joumou. It marks independence from France on 1 January 1804: under French rule, enslaved Haitians cooked this pumpkin soup but were forbidden to eat it, so the free people of the new nation made it their own as a dish of freedom. In 2021 it was added to UNESCO's list of the intangible cultural heritage of humanity. The base is a velvety purée of joumou (Caribbean pumpkin) with epis, and in it simmer chunks of carrot, potato, cabbage, celery and turnip, with pasta and a squeeze of lime. It's usually made with beef; this vegetable version is full and golden, rich enough for the day. Chef's tip: roast half the pumpkin before puréeing it; the caramelised edges give the soup the depth that slow-cooked meat usually provides.
Turon is the afternoon snack sold by vendors on every Filipino street corner, school gate and jeepney stop around three o'clock, often next to banana cue on bamboo skewers. A slice of saba banana and a strip of ripe jackfruit are rolled in a thin spring roll wrapper with brown sugar, then fried in oil that has more brown sugar sprinkled in it, so each roll comes out wrapped in a crackly, glassy caramel shell. It is eaten hot with your fingers, when the banana inside has turned soft and sticky. Saba is a short, firm cooking banana; ripe plantain is the closest substitute. Chef's tip: roll them tightly with no air pockets, or the caramel blows holes in the wrapper.
Túrós csusza is a simple dish of wide pasta squares tossed with crumbly túró curd cheese and sour cream, loved across Hungary and especially in the Danube villages, where it is served as a filling main after a bowl of fish soup. At home it is a Friday or end-of-the-month supper made from what is in the fridge. Traditionally it is topped with crisp pork crackling; here, fried onions and a little smoked paprika give the same crunch and savouriness. The flavour is mild, tangy and comforting. Chef's tip: toss the cheese into the pasta while it is still steaming so the túró warms through, but serve the sour cream cold on top for contrast.
A spicy Ethiopian stew of masoor lentils cooked down with browned onions, garlic, ginger, fresh tomato and tomato paste, and finished with red chilli and black pepper. It's thick, rich and hot. Serve with injera, alongside atter kik and azifa.
Kushikatsu belongs to Shinsekai, the neon-lit old entertainment district at the foot of Osaka's Tsutenkaku tower. Since the 1920s, labourers have stood at its counters eating skewers fried to order, dunked in a shared steel pot of thin, fruity sauce. The famous house rule, 'no double dipping', is printed on signs everywhere. Vegetables are as popular as meat there: lotus root, shiitake, onion, asparagus and, a local favourite, chewy mochi and cheese. Have a plate of raw cabbage leaves on the side; they're free at every shop and used to scoop extra sauce. Chef's tip: use fine panko, or blitz ordinary panko briefly. Fine crumbs give the thin, crunchy jacket that Osaka shops are known for.
Lagman came to the Ferghana Valley with Uyghur and Dungan cooks, and in Andijan and Namangan it is still made the old way: a soft dough oiled, rested and pulled by hand into long, springy noodles, then topped with a stew of peppers, radish, green beans and tomato called vadja. Ferghana lagman is usually 'dry' (quwurma), the sauce thick enough to cling, rather than a soup. Locals eat it at lunchtime from noodle houses near the bazaar, with a dash of vinegar and chilli oil at the table. This version uses only vegetables. Chef's tip: oil the dough ropes generously and let them rest a full 30 minutes; well-rested dough stretches to arm's length without snapping.
A mild, golden Ethiopian lentil sauce (kik alicha) of split bengal gram lentils simmered with onion, ginger, garlic, a pinch of turmeric and green chilli until thick and creamy. It's gentle and soothing next to the fiery missir wat. Serve hot with injera.
In an Uzbek chaikhana, from Tashkent's shady teahouses to the courtyards of Khiva, the first thing to arrive is a teapot of kok choy, green tea, with small bowls (piala) and a plate of raisins, almonds and sweets. The host performs qaytarish: pours a bowl, tips it back into the pot, and repeats three times to blend the brew, then serves each guest a bowl only half full, a sign they should stay and be topped up. Green tea is drunk with plov to cut the oil, and all through hot summer days. Chef's tip: use water just off the boil (about 90°C) and warm the pot first; boiling water straight from the kettle makes Chinese green tea taste harsh.
Ambon's fish markets sell ikan asar, tuna smoked over coconut husks, and one of the best things to do with it is kohu-kohu. Flakes of the smoky fish are tossed with crisp shredded long beans, bean sprouts, lightly toasted coconut, raw shallot, chilli and plenty of lime, making a salad that is crunchy, smoky, sour and hot all at once. It's a staple at Maluku family meals, often served next to papeda and fish soup or simply with rice. Chef's tip: mix it no more than an hour before eating; fresh coconut goes limp and sour if it sits around, and the salad loses its crunch.
Kootu sits halfway between a dal and a vegetable dish, and in Tamil homes it is the mild, kind side on a lunch plate next to a sharp rasam or a fiery kuzhambu. Chopped vegetables such as chow-chow, snake gourd, cabbage or pumpkin are cooked with moong dal until soft, then thickened with a paste of fresh coconut, cumin and a little green chilli. It's the dish many Tamil grandmothers give children and anyone recovering from a fever. Spoon it over rice with ghee or serve it alongside sambar and poriyal. Chef's tip: grind the coconut paste with the cumin raw, not toasted; the fresh, sweet cumin flavour is what makes kootu taste like kootu.
Koba is the street sweet of Madagascar's highlands, sold in thick slices from huge logs wrapped in banana leaves at markets and taxi-brousse stops around Antananarivo and Antsirabe. Koba ravina is a dense block of ground peanuts, rice flour and brown sugar; koba akondro adds ripe banana and is softer. This home version makes small parcels that steam in an hour and a half instead of a whole day. Chef's tip: wrap the parcels tightly; loose parcels let water in and the koba turns sticky instead of firm.
Tang yuan are eaten all over China at the Lantern Festival, on the fifteenth day of the Lunar New Year, and in the south also at the winter solstice; their roundness stands for family togetherness. The dough is glutinous rice flour, the classic filling black sesame, sugar and fat, served in a light ginger syrup. Lard is traditional in the filling; coconut oil sets just as firmly and keeps them vegan. Chef's tip: chill the filling until firm and roll it into balls before you start the dough; cold filling is far easier to wrap.
Klepon are the jajan pasar, or market cakes, of Java: sold in the morning from baskets lined with banana leaves, bright green from pandan and dusted with grated coconut. Bite one and a pocket of molten palm sugar floods your mouth, so Javanese eat them whole. Malaysians and Singaporeans know the same sweet as onde-onde, made for festive tea tables, so this page covers both. Chef's tip: seal the balls with no cracks and drop them into gently boiling water — the moment they float, give them one more minute, and the sugar inside will be fully molten.
Kladdkaka, literally 'sticky cake', is the chocolate cake Swedish teenagers learn to make first, because it needs one pan, no mixer and no raising agent. The outside bakes to a thin, crackly crust while the centre stays fudgy and almost molten, somewhere between a brownie and a chocolate pudding. In Sweden it turns up at birthday parties, after Friday tacos and at summer cottages, cut into wedges and served with lightly whipped cream and a few raspberries or lingonberries. Cocoa, not bar chocolate, gives it its classic flavour. Chef's tip: take it out when the middle still wobbles like set jelly; it firms up as it cools and a fully set kladdkaka is just a dry chocolate cake.
Sichuan dan dan noodles are eaten almost dry, with just a spoonful of sauce, but Chinese chefs cooking in post-war Tokyo turned them into a full bowl of soup for Japanese diners. Today tantanmen sits on the menu of almost every Chinese-style restaurant and many ramen shops across Japan, and it sells best in the cold months. The broth is rich with sesame paste, softened with soy milk and lit up with chilli oil, then crowned with savoury fried pork. Pak choi adds a fresh, crunchy contrast. Chef's tip: fry the pork until it is properly brown and a little crisp before seasoning, so it keeps some bite in the soup instead of turning soft.
Kitfo comes from the Gurage people south-west of Addis Ababa, and it is the dish Ethiopians order at special kitfo houses or make for Meskel, the September feast of the True Cross. Lean beef is finely minced and stirred with warm spiced butter and mitmita, a hot chilli and cardamom powder. In Ethiopia it is often eaten raw (tire) or barely warmed (leb leb), but raw or lightly warmed minced beef is not safe for home cooks: this version is cooked to 71 °C, which keeps the buttery, fiery flavour with a soft, crumbly texture. Serve with ayib, braised greens and injera or kocho. Chef's tip: mince the beef yourself from a single lean cut if you can, and keep it fridge-cold until the moment it goes into the pan.
Kisra (kisra rahifa) is the daily bread of northern and central Sudan: a sorghum batter left to sour for a day, then wiped across a very hot iron plate in a single sweep so it cooks into a lacy sheet as thin as paper. In homes it is made early each morning and stacked in folded layers to eat with mullah stews, especially during Ramadan. A wide crêpe pan and a plastic scraper or spatula work at home. Chef's tip: the pan must be hot enough that the batter sets the moment it touches; if it is too cool the sheet sticks and tears.
Kısır comes from southeastern Turkey but is now the dish women across the country bring to 'altın günü', the afternoon gatherings where friends meet at each other's homes over tea. Fine bulgur is softened with hot water and kneaded with tomato and pepper paste until rosy, then mixed with spring onion, parsley, mint, lemon and pomegranate molasses. It is served at room temperature, often wrapped in crisp lettuce leaves. The typical mistake is pouring in too much water, which turns the bulgur mushy; use just enough to cover. Chef's tip: knead the pastes into the warm bulgur with your hands for a full minute so every grain turns red and the flavour goes right through.
In Akita, in Japan's snowy north-west, the new rice harvest in October marks the start of kiritanpo season, and the town of Odate holds a festival for it every autumn. Freshly cooked rice is half-pounded, pressed around sticks and toasted, then cut up and dropped into a soy-seasoned chicken broth with burdock, maitake mushrooms and crunchy Japanese parsley called seri. Locals use the region's Hinai-jidori chicken; any good free-range bird works. The toasted rice soaks up the broth but keeps a little chew. Chef's tip: toast the rice sticks until dry and golden in patches all over, as a crisp outer skin keeps them from dissolving in the pot.
Kiri bath is the first food eaten at Sinhala and Tamil New Year (Aluth Avurudu) in mid-April, cooked at the exact auspicious time the astrologers announce, and it also starts the first day of each month, birthdays and new jobs across Sri Lanka. White rice is boiled until very soft, then cooked again with thick coconut milk and salt until it sets into a creamy slab that is cut into diamonds. It's eaten with lunu miris, a fierce red onion and chilli paste, or with jaggery and bananas for the sweet-toothed. Lunu miris often contains Maldive fish; ours doesn't. The common mistake is adding the coconut milk before the rice is completely soft: the grains stay hard. Chef's tip: press the hot rice flat with a banana leaf or the back of a spoon dipped in coconut milk; it stops sticking and gives the classic glossy top.
Taralli are the crunchy rings found on every table in Puglia: with a glass of wine before dinner, in bags on the beach, or dunked in coffee. They are made with olive oil and dry white wine, no yeast or butter, and boiled briefly before baking, which gives them their shiny skin and fine, crumbly bite. Fennel seed is the classic flavour; black pepper or chilli are common too. They keep for weeks in a tin. Chef's tip: lift them out of the water the moment they float; longer boiling makes them hard and glassy instead of crumbly.
Tarator is what Bulgarians eat on hot July days, from the Black Sea resorts of Varna and Burgas to Sofia lunch counters: a cold, thin soup of tangy yogurt and water with grated cucumber, garlic, dill and crushed walnuts, a drizzle of sunflower oil on top and sometimes an ice cube floating in the bowl. It is served as a starter or drunk from a glass beside a plate of grilled vegetables. Chef's tip: use full-fat, sour, set yogurt and thin it to the consistency of single cream; making it too thick is the usual mistake, and it should be sippable.
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