Toasted flour butter rolls
Bakeries in Erzurum and Kars sell kete by the dozen for breakfast and long bus journeys: soft yeasted rolls coiled around a filling of flour toasted in butter until it smells of biscuits. Inside, the layers turn flaky and tender, and the crust is glazed with egg and sesame. They are eaten with strong tea, white cheese and olives, and keep well for a few days. Common mistake: under-toasting the flour for the filling; it should go a pale sandy gold and smell nutty, or the centre tastes raw. Chef's tip: roll the dough thin before spreading the filling and coiling it; thin layers bake into the flaky swirl that makes kete special.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
Mukari are soft, lightly sweet Zanzibari pancakes made from a yeasted rice flour and coconut milk batter scented with cardamom. They're cooked covered over a low heat so they puff up and stay spongy. Serve warm with tea.
Dharwad peda has been made in this north Karnataka town for well over a century, first by families who came from Uttar Pradesh, and it now carries a geographical indication tag. Unlike pale, smooth pedas elsewhere, it is cooked slowly until the milk solids caramelise to a deep brown and a grainy, almost crumbly texture, then rolled in powdered sugar. Pilgrims and travellers carry boxes home from Dharwad and Hubballi, and families buy it for weddings and exam results. Chef's tip: let the cooked mixture cool for ten minutes before you add the sugar for rolling; added while too hot, the sugar melts and the pedas go sticky.
Ndizi ya kuoka: small bananas halved and baked with lemon juice, brown sugar and cinnamon until soft and syrupy, then served with lightly sweetened cream and a grating of nutmeg. It's a quick, warm pudding. The book's Handy Hints say bananas are good for the heart.
Tangawizi is a warming Swahili drink of ginger boiled with cinnamon, clove and black pepper and sweetened to taste. It's hot, peppery and soothing on a cool evening or when you have a cold. Serve hot in small kahawa cups.
Kashata ya nazi is a simple Swahili sweet of desiccated coconut cooked with milk, sugar, evaporated milk and cardamom until thick, then pressed into a dish and cut into diamonds. It's chewy and sweet, and it keeps well. Store in an airtight container.
Dhokar dalna comes from the Bengali niramish (vegetarian) kitchen of widows and temple cooks, and it is still cooked in Kolkata homes for festive lunches and Saraswati Puja. Soaked chana dal is ground, cooked with ginger and asafoetida into a thick paste, set in a tray and cut into diamonds, which are fried and then dropped into a thin, fragrant gravy just before serving. The dhoka soak up the sauce like a sponge. Chef's tip: cook the dal paste until it leaves the sides of the pan in one mass; if it is too soft, the diamonds break in the gravy.
Dhuska is the breakfast of Ranchi and the whole of Jharkhand, fried fresh at roadside stalls from early morning. Rice and chana dal are soaked, ground to a thick, slightly coarse batter with green chilli and ginger, and ladled into hot oil, where each round puffs up crisp outside and soft and spongy inside. It is eaten with aloo-chana ghugni or a thin potato curry and a sharp coriander chutney, and it is a must at Jharkhandi weddings and Karma festival. Chef's tip: beat the batter hard for a couple of minutes before frying; the trapped air makes it puff without any soda.
Di san xian means 'three fresh things from the earth', and it is the best-known home dish of Dongbei, China's cold north-east, where potatoes, aubergines and peppers are the summer harvest. Each vegetable is fried until golden, then tossed in a sticky, garlicky soy glaze. It's rich and filling, and goes with rice or steamed buns. Chef's tip: fry the potato first and longest; it needs to be golden and fully tender before it meets the sauce, because it won't soften further in the wok.
Tambi ya nazi: soft vermicelli stirred into sweetened coconut milk with crushed cardamom, then baked briefly so it sets lightly. It's creamy, gently sweet and fragrant, and is often made for Eid. Serve hot, sprinkled with more cardamom.
In Dakar a dibiterie is a smoky little shop where lamb is grilled over charcoal and sold by weight, wrapped in paper with raw onion, mustard and a pinch of spice salt; people eat it late in the evening, often after prayers or a football match. At home you get close with lamb chops or shoulder steaks, a quick marinade and a very hot grill. The mistake is moving the meat too much: leave it until it chars and releases on its own. Chef's tip: toss the sliced onions with salt and vinegar while the lamb marinates; they soften and lose their harsh bite in 20 minutes.
A Mombasa street favourite: potatoes cooked in a thin, garlicky tomato and raw mango sauce, ladled into bowls and piled with crushed potato crisps, crunchy sev and a fresh coconut and mango chutney. Everyone builds their own bowl to taste. Serve straight away so the crisps stay crunchy.
Champurrado is a chocolate atole, the thick, hot corn drink Mexicans have drunk since before the Spanish arrived. Masa harina is whisked into water and milk with Mexican chocolate (stone-ground with sugar and cinnamon) and piloncillo, a dark unrefined cane sugar, and cooked until velvety and spoon-coating. It is drunk on cold mornings with tamales or conchas, and above all during Día de Muertos and Christmas posadas. Chef's tip: always dissolve the masa harina in cold liquid before it meets the hot pot, and whisk constantly once it's in; dumped into hot milk it seizes into lumps.
Dimlama is what Uzbek families cook at the end of summer, when the markets of the Fergana Valley are piled with cabbage, aubergine, peppers and tomatoes. Everything goes into one heavy pot in layers, lamb at the bottom, and the lid stays on for nearly two hours while the vegetables slowly give up their juice and become the sauce. There is no added water, so the flavour is deep and sweet. People eat it straight from shallow bowls with non bread. The biggest error is lifting the lid to check; the steam escapes, the vegetables stew dry and the bottom can catch. Chef's tip: seal the lid with a damp tea towel or a strip of foil so no steam gets out.
In the Champaran district of north-west Bihar, near the Nepal border, mutton is cooked in an ahuna or handi: a clay pot packed with raw meat, whole bulbs of garlic, onions, mustard oil and spices, sealed shut with dough and left for hours on a slow charcoal fire. Nobody adds water and nobody stirs; the meat cooks in its own juices and the garlic turns soft and sweet. Roadside dhabas on the highways out of Motihari made it famous, and it is now cooked at family picnics and parties right across Bihar, eaten with rice or rotis. This home version uses a heavy pot sealed with foil and a lid. Chef's tip: shake the pot instead of opening it; every time the lid comes off, steam escapes and the meat dries out.
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.
Diri djon djon comes from northern Haiti, around Cap-Haïtien, where the tiny black djon djon mushrooms are gathered and dried. Soaked in hot water, they give an inky liquid that turns rice a striking grey-black and makes it taste deeply earthy and savoury. It's the rice for weddings, baptisms and big Sunday lunches, cooked with epis, cloves and green peas or butter beans, a whole scotch bonnet laid on top for perfume. Dried djon djon is sold in Haitian and Caribbean shops and online. Chef's tip: avoid djon djon stock cubes, which are often made with chicken fat and add little real flavour; use the dried mushrooms, and add a few dried shiitake for even more depth.
Diri kole ak pwa, rice 'stuck together' with beans, is the plate Haitians call their national dish, cooked in homes from Jacmel to Gonaïves and served most days of the week. Unlike rice and peas from elsewhere in the Caribbean, there's usually no coconut milk: red beans are simmered first, then their dark, savoury cooking liquid goes into the rice with fried epis, thyme and cloves, so the grains turn a rich reddish-brown and taste of beans all the way through. A whole scotch bonnet adds fruity heat without fire. Chef's tip: fry the drained beans in the epis until their skins blister and catch slightly; that browning gives the rice its deep, almost smoky taste.
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.
No Lao meal is complete without a jeow, a pounded dip eaten by pinching a ball of sticky rice and dragging it through. Jeow mak len, made from tomatoes charred over the coals until their skins split, is the everyday one from Vientiane to the villages of the north, smoky, garlicky and as hot as you dare. It's served alongside grilled vegetables, raw cucumber and long beans, and keeps well for a few days. Chef's tip: grill everything until it is genuinely blackened in patches; the burnt bits are the flavour, so don't peel all the skin away.
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.
Dobos torta was created in Budapest in 1885 by the confectioner József C. Dobos, and it is still the cake Hungarians order in old coffee houses on Andrássy Avenue and bake for name days and big birthdays. Six thin sponge layers are stacked with a rich chocolate buttercream, and the top layer is glazed with hard amber caramel, cut into wedges and set at an angle like a fan. It is a project cake, but each stage is simple and the finished torte keeps for days. Chef's tip: mark the caramel into wedges with an oiled knife within the first minute; once it sets, it shatters instead of cutting.
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.
Jeyuk bokkeum is the backbone of the Korean lunch: almost every baekban (set-meal) restaurant near offices and building sites serves it with rice, soup and little side dishes, and it is just as common at home on weeknights. Thin slices of pork are fried hard in a sauce of gochujang, chilli flakes, garlic and ginger until the edges catch and caramelise. Eat it over rice, or wrap a piece in a lettuce leaf with a slice of raw garlic. Chef's tip: fry the pork on its own first until the fat runs, then add the sauce; you get smoky, sticky edges instead of boiled meat.
Jhalmuri is the snack Kolkata eats on the move: outside Howrah station, along the Maidan, on suburban local trains, where a vendor tosses puffed rice in a tin with raw mustard oil, chopped onion, cucumber, green chilli and a fistful of chanachur, then tips it into a cone of newspaper. The sharp, nose-tingling mustard oil is what separates it from Mumbai's bhel; there is no sweet chutney at all, only salt, lime and heat. Eat it the minute it is mixed, while it still crackles. Chef's tip: warm the puffed rice in a dry pan for a couple of minutes first; even fresh muri crisps up noticeably.
Jhangora is barnyard millet, a hardy grain that grows on the high fields of Garhwal and Kumaon, and this kheer is how most hill families turn it into something special. It cooks faster than rice kheer and ends up softer and silkier, with a light, nutty taste. Because millet isn't a cereal grain, it's eaten on Navratri and Ekadashi fasts, when you'll find bowls of it at temples and in homes from Rishikesh to Chamoli. It is just as good chilled the next day. Chef's tip: soak the millet for 20 minutes before cooking; it softens evenly and you won't be left with hard little grains in the pudding.
Juju dhau means king of curds in the Newar language, and it belongs to Bhaktapur, the old brick-and-temple city east of Kathmandu, where it is sold in round clay bowls from shops around Durbar Square and taken home by the stack. Full-fat milk, traditionally buffalo milk, is boiled down by a third until it is rich and faintly caramel, sweetened, then set overnight in unglazed clay pots that soak up the whey, leaving a custard-thick, creamy yogurt with a pale golden skin. No wedding, festival or important meal in the Valley ends without it, and it is eaten on its own with a small spoon. People often rush the reduction, and the yogurt then sets thin and sour. Chef's tip: if you don't have clay pots, set it in ceramic ramekins and pour off any whey after setting; and keep it warm and undisturbed, wrapped in a blanket, so it sets in one smooth layer.
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.
Doh khlieh is the cool, sharp side dish that sits next to jadoh on almost every Khasi table in Meghalaya. Tender boiled pork is chopped small and tossed with raw onion, ginger, green chilli and lime, so it is fresh and fiery rather than rich. In Shillong it is eaten at lunch and at gatherings, and some families add boiled pork brain, which this version leaves out. Chef's tip: chop the pork while it is still slightly warm; it takes up the lime and ginger much better.
The name says it plainly in Khasi: 'doh' is meat and 'neiiong' is black sesame. In the Khasi Hills around Shillong this near-black pork curry is cooked for family feasts and Sunday meals, and its roasted, nutty flavour is unlike any other curry in India. The sesame is toasted and ground into a paste that thickens the gravy and coats the pork. Serve with plain rice or jadoh. Chef's tip: pork belly gives the silkiest result; mix it half and half with shoulder if you prefer it less rich.
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.
Dolma batata belongs to the Algiers home kitchen, where it is a Ramadan favourite and a Friday dish: hollowed potatoes filled with beef mince, onion, parsley and cinnamon, fried until golden, then simmered in a pale sauce (marqa beida) of onion, chickpeas, black pepper and cinnamon. The sauce stays white because no tomato goes in. The mistake is hollowing the potatoes too thinly, so they split in the pot; leave walls about 1 cm thick. Chef's tip: fry the scooped-out potato flesh and add it to the sauce to thicken it.
Jianbing guozi began in Tianjin and is now Beijing's favourite breakfast on the go: a crêpe spread on a round griddle, cracked over with egg, brushed with sauces and folded round a crunchy fried cracker. Vendors make one in two minutes; at home a large non-stick pan works. The batter mixes mung bean and wheat flour for a tender, slightly nutty pancake. Chef's tip: spread the batter thin and fast while the pan is hot, then lower the heat before adding the egg so the crêpe stays pliable.
Across Turkey, from Anatolian village kitchens to Istanbul lunch counters (esnaf lokantası), a pot of bulgur pilaf sits beside beans, stuffed vegetables and yogurt as reliably as bread does. Coarse bulgur (pilavlık bulgur) is cooked with onion, sweet pepper paste, grated tomato and a green pepper until every grain is separate, tender and lightly reddish. It is nuttier and chewier than rice pilaf and ready in half an hour, which is why so many families make it on weeknights. Spoon it next to kuru fasulye, cacık or a simple salad, or eat a bowl on its own with a dollop of yogurt. Chef's tip: once the water is absorbed, lay a clean tea towel under the lid and let the pilaf rest off the heat for 10 minutes; the towel catches the steam so the grains turn fluffy instead of wet.
A soft, savoury pie of blended boiled maize folded into a peppery white sauce and baked until golden on top. It's mild and comforting, a little like a corn pudding, and children love it. The eggs are optional: they make it set firmer. Serve hot with a salad or tomato stew.
Domoda is the stew that most families in the Gambia, from Banjul to the riverside villages upcountry, cook several times a week. Beef is browned and simmered with tomato and onion, then smooth peanut butter is stirred in until the sauce turns thick, glossy and rich, with pumpkin and sweet potato melting into it. It is spooned over white rice with a squeeze of lime, and a scotch bonnet floats in the pot for whoever likes it hot. The mistake to avoid is adding the peanut butter too early and leaving it unstirred, as it catches and burns on the bottom; add it once the beef is nearly tender and stir often. Chef's tip: whisk the peanut butter with a ladle of hot broth before it goes in, so it melts smoothly instead of forming lumps.
In north-east China, a big platter of this arrives at almost every family dinner and restaurant table, often next to the stews and dumplings. Wide, glassy sheets of mung-bean starch sit on a bed of shredded cucumber, carrot and cabbage, with a sesame, garlic and vinegar sauce and a dab of mustard poured over at the table. It's cool, slippery and crunchy. Look for dried la pi sheets or wide mung-bean noodles in Chinese supermarkets. Chef's tip: the sheet noodles must be fully cold before mixing, or they go soft and sticky.
Slices of sweet potato dipped in batter, coated in breadcrumbs and fried until crisp, arranged around lettuce, grated carrot, tomato and sliced hard-boiled egg. The book's Handy Hints say sweet potato is good for the eyes and lifts the mood. Serve with tomato sauce, chilli sauce and mayonnaise; leave out the eggs (and use egg-free mayonnaise) for an egg-free salad.
Doogh is the salty, fizzy yogurt drink served in tall glasses with lunch across Iran, and above all with kebab and rice at the chelow-kababi restaurants of Tehran. Bottled sparkling doogh from the mineral springs of Abali, in the mountains east of the capital, is the famous one; at home it is mixed from yogurt, cold water and soda water with crumbled dried mint, and sometimes wild pennyroyal (kakuti) or rose petals. Its bubbles and mint set it apart from plainer, still yogurt drinks. It is cooling and good with rich, herby food. Chef's tip: add the sparkling water last and stir gently, or the fizz disappears before it reaches the glass.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Watalappan came to Sri Lanka with the island's Malay and Muslim communities, and no Eid table in Colombo, Beruwala or Kandy is complete without it; it now turns up at weddings and birthdays across every community. Thick coconut milk and eggs are sweetened with kithul jaggery, the dark palm sugar from the fishtail palm, and spiced with cardamom, nutmeg and a little clove, then steamed until it sets into a wobbly, honeycombed custard the colour of toffee. Cashews scattered on top add crunch. Dark muscovado sugar works if you can't find kithul jaggery. The common mistake is steaming it on a fierce boil, which makes it full of large holes and watery; a steady, gentle simmer gives a smooth set with the fine honeycomb that's prized. Chef's tip: strain the mixture through a sieve before steaming to remove any stringy egg and jaggery grit.
Ambasha is the round, slightly sweet festival bread of Tigray and Amhara, baked for holidays such as Easter (Fasika) and Meskel and for welcoming guests. The dough is scented with fenugreek, cardamom and coriander seed, and before baking the top is cut with a knife into a wheel-like pattern, so it comes out of the oven looking like a decorated plate; it is brushed with niter kibbeh and berbere and served torn into pieces with coffee. Chef's tip: cut the pattern deep (about 1 cm), or it disappears as the bread rises in the oven.
Wattakka (pumpkin) curry is one of the soft, sweet dishes on a Sri Lankan buth (rice) spread, and in villages around Kurunegala it often appears at Poya day almsgivings, when temple meals are always meat-free. The pumpkin is cooked in its skin with dark roasted curry powder, cinnamon, a pinch of fenugreek and pandan, then thickened with coconut milk and a spoonful of ground mustard, which gives it a gentle tang. Some cooks also add toasted coconut paste (kalu pol); we keep it simpler. The common mistake is cutting the pumpkin too small, so it dissolves into mush before the gravy is ready; keep the chunks about 4 cm. Chef's tip: leave the skin on butternut or Kent pumpkin; it holds each piece together and softens completely as it cooks.
Golden fritters of coarsely ground black-eyed bean and green gram lentils with fenugreek, spinach, coriander, spring onion and chilli. They're crunchy outside and fluffy inside, and they go into Zanzibar mix and Coastal Mombasa mix too. Serve hot with coconut chutney.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
In Poland, zupa pomidorowa is famously Monday's soup: on Sunday the family drinks rosół, and the next day the leftover broth becomes tomato soup with rice or thin noodles and a swirl of soured cream. Children across the country rank it as their favourite school-canteen dish. It is creamy, mild and a little sweet, nothing like a spicy Mediterranean tomato soup. This version starts from vegetable stock (the traditional base is chicken broth) and builds the flavour with carrot, celery root and tomato paste fried in butter. Serve it with rice cooked in the pot or with makaron (fine noodles). Chef's tip: fry the tomato paste in butter until it darkens one shade; raw paste tastes tinny and that one minute makes the soup taste like it simmered for hours.
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.
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.
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.
Butter tarts are fiercely loved in Ontario, where towns along the 'Butter Tart Trail' near Midland and Wellington County hold contests, and where Canadians argue about whether raisins belong in them. Small, flaky pastry cups hold a filling of brown sugar, butter, egg and syrup that bakes into a gooey, caramel-like centre with a crackled top. This version adds a little maple syrup and leaves raisins optional. Chef's tip: bake only until the filling bubbles and the edges are set but the centre still jiggles; runny is the goal, but overbaked tarts turn sugary and hard.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Obanzai is what Kyoto calls its everyday home cooking: thrifty, seasonal side dishes that families keep in the fridge and that small restaurants line up in bowls along the counter. Takiawase, 'simmered together', is one of its finest. Each vegetable is cooked separately in a pale, delicate broth, so the kabocha stays orange, the daikon turns translucent and the carrot keeps its colour, then they are arranged side by side in one dish. Kyoto cooks season with light-coloured usukuchi soy, which is saltier than regular soy but doesn't darken the food. Serve it warm or at room temperature with rice and miso soup. Chef's tip: let everything cool in its broth. The vegetables soak up most of their flavour as they cool, not while they boil.
Shorpo is the soup that keeps Kyrgyz herders warm in the summer pastures around Issyk-Kul and in yurts high in the Tian Shan: big pieces of lamb on the bone simmered slowly with whole potatoes, carrots and onion until the broth is clear and golden. The meat and vegetables are often served on a plate and the broth in bowls, with fresh herbs and bread torn into it. It is simple, so the quality of the lamb matters. Letting it boil hard is the usual mistake; a rolling boil makes the broth cloudy and the meat stringy. Chef's tip: start the lamb in cold water and skim patiently for the first 15 minutes.
Named after the city of Nanaimo on Vancouver Island, these three-layer bars have been Canada's favourite tray bake since the 1950s, when the recipe appeared in local community cookbooks. A crumbly base of biscuit crumbs, cocoa, coconut and nuts is topped with a thick yellow custard-flavoured buttercream and a snap of dark chocolate. They're made for church sales, Christmas cookie tins and coffee breaks, and need no oven. Chef's tip: dip the knife in hot water and wipe it between cuts; it slices through the chocolate cleanly without cracking it.
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.
Across the Dominican Republic, from Santo Domingo office canteens to family kitchens in Santiago, the midday meal is la bandera, named after the flag: white rice, red beans stewed with squash, and braised chicken. It is eaten almost every weekday, often with a green salad and fried plantain. Dominican cooks start the chicken by caramelising sugar in the oil, which gives the sauce its deep brown colour, and they prize the concón, the crisp layer of rice at the bottom of the pot. The mistake to avoid is letting the sugar go past dark amber; burnt sugar makes the whole stew bitter. Chef's tip: marinate the chicken with lime, garlic and oregano the night before; it takes on far more flavour than a quick 30 minutes.
La Paz batchoy was born in the market of La Paz, a district of Iloilo City on Panay, where stalls ladle it out from early morning to late at night. It is a pork noodle soup through and through: fresh egg noodles (miki) in a deep pork-bone broth seasoned with a little shrimp paste, topped with sliced pork, liver, crushed pork crackling (chicharrón) and lots of fried garlic. Locals often crack a raw egg into the bowl and ask for extra broth. It is a warming, savoury bowl for rainy afternoons. Chef's tip: make the broth the day before and chill it; the fat sets on top so you can lift most of it off and fry the garlic in it.
Laal maas grew out of the Rajput hunting tradition in the desert country around Jodhpur and Jaisalmer, where game was cooked with plenty of garlic and red chillies to carry it. Today it's made with goat or lamb and is the dish Rajasthanis cook for a winter feast, served with bajra roti or plain rice and a bowl of yogurt to cool things down. The fierce colour comes from Mathania chillies, grown near Jodhpur, which are deep red, aromatic and properly hot. Some cooks finish it with a burning coal set in the pot to give it a smoky edge, an optional step included here. Chef's tip: soak and grind the dried chillies to a paste instead of using chilli powder; it gives the deep red colour and a rounder heat that doesn't scorch.
Lablabi is the working breakfast of Tunis, served from steaming cauldrons in tiny shops near the medina and the markets from dawn, and eaten all over Tunisia on cold winter mornings. Torn day-old bread goes into the bowl first, then hot chickpeas and their garlicky broth, and everyone dresses their own with harissa, cumin, olive oil, lemon and capers; many add a soft-poached egg that is broken through the bread. Chef's tip: let the bread soak for a minute before you stir in the harissa, so it turns soft and spoonable but not mushy.
Labneh is the thick, tangy strained yogurt that Lebanese, Syrian and Palestinian families spread on a plate every morning, swirl with olive oil and scatter with za'atar, the wild-thyme, sumac and toasted sesame mix of the Levant. It sits beside olives, cucumber, tomato and warm khubz at breakfast in Beirut and on the mezze table at night, and the firmer version is rolled into small balls and kept in jars of olive oil for weeks. Here salted yogurt hangs for a full day until it is as thick as cream cheese, then goes out two ways: spread in a dish, and rolled into balls. A common mistake is using low-fat or set yogurt with gelatine; it gives a thin, chalky labneh, so choose full-fat plain yogurt with only milk and cultures. Chef's tip: stir the salt in before straining, not after, because it draws out more whey and seasons the yogurt all the way through.
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.
Labra is the vegetable dish of Durga Puja bhog: in community pandals across Bengal it is ladled out beside khichuri and a sweet tomato chutney to hundreds of people sitting in rows. It is a loose jumble of pumpkin, potato, aubergine, radish, sweet potato, raw banana and spinach stalks, cooked with panch phoron and ginger until some pieces melt and others hold. No onion or garlic goes in, because it is temple food. Chef's tip: add the vegetables in order of hardness, so the pumpkin goes soft and sweet while the radish and banana keep their shape.
Skyu is what Ladakhi families in Leh and the villages along the Indus cook when the passes close and fresh vegetables run short: a thick stew of turnip, potato and carrot with little cups of wheat dough pressed with the thumb, a bit like orecchiette. It is filling, gently peppery and made in a single pot on the kitchen stove that also heats the house. Some homes finish it with a splash of milk or a crumble of dried cheese; this version keeps it plant-based and lets the vegetables flavour the broth. Chef's tip: press each piece of dough thin enough to see the thumbprint clearly; thick pieces stay doughy in the middle.
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.
Lahmacun belongs to south-east Turkey, especially Gaziantep and Şanlıurfa, where bakeries slide dozens at a time into wood-fired ovens and people eat them on the street at any hour, often with a cold ayran. The dough is rolled almost see-through and spread with a raw paste of minced lamb, onion, peppers, tomato and herbs that cooks in minutes in fierce heat. To eat, squeeze lemon over, add a handful of parsley and onion, roll it up and fold. Chef's tip: blitz the topping vegetables to a fine paste and squeeze out the excess juice, so the meat spreads in a thin, even layer that bakes crisp rather than soggy.
Chargha is a Lahore speciality, sold from the busy food streets of Lakshmi Chowk and the old city, where whole birds are coated in a red, tangy masala, steamed in big pots and then dropped into hot oil to order. It is the centrepiece of wedding dinners and Saturday-night family outings, and makes an impressive home dinner for guests. Steaming keeps the meat moist and cooked through before frying gives it a crisp, spicy skin. Serve it with naan, raita, salad and a squeeze of lime. Chef's tip: slash the chicken deeply to the bone so the masala and steam reach the thickest parts.
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.
Lahpet thoke is how Myanmar welcomes a guest: a lacquered tray of pickled tea leaves surrounded by fried beans, peanuts, sesame and garlic, offered after meals, at weddings and at monk feasts from Mandalay to Yangon. Mixed into a salad with cabbage, tomato, chilli and lime, it becomes the country's most famous dish: bitter, sour, salty and crunchy at once, with a gentle caffeine lift. Ready-made lahpet sometimes contains fish sauce and the crunchy mix often has dried shrimp, so this version quick-pickles loose green tea at home. Chef's tip: soak the tea in several changes of hot water and squeeze it hard each time; that's what tames the bitterness.
Laing is the pride of Bicol, the chilli-loving region at the southern tip of Luzon. Dried taro leaves are simmered for close to an hour in coconut milk with ginger, lemongrass and siling labuyo until they collapse into a dark, creamy, spicy mass, then finished with thick coconut cream. Bicolano cooks usually add pork or dried fish and shrimp paste; this vegetarian version leans on extra ginger and a little salt and stays rich. Eat it with plain rice, often as a Friday or Lenten dish. Chef's tip: lay the leaves on top of the coconut milk and don't stir until they have soaked it up; stirring raw taro leaves early is said to leave an itchy taste.
Kaimati are bite-size Swahili doughnuts: a yeasted cardamom and coconut batter dropped by the spoonful into hot oil, then dipped in a fragrant saffron, cardamom and rose syrup while still hot. They're crisp outside and soft inside. Serve with tea.
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.
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