Raspberry cone candies
Cuberdons are the purple, cone-shaped sweets sold from handcarts on the Groentenmarkt in Ghent, where locals call them neuzekes, 'little noses'. A thin, firm sugar crust encloses a syrupy raspberry centre, and they only stay that way for about three weeks before the inside crystallises, which is why they have never become an export. They are made with gum arabic, not gelatine, so they suit vegetarians and vegans. Making them at home is a fun weekend project: the syrup is poured into cone-shaped hollows pressed into a tray of dry cornflour, which slowly draws moisture out and forms the crust. Chef's tip: use a sugar thermometer and be exact; just a few degrees too low and the cones never form a crust, a few too high and they set solid all the way through.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
The famous coast street snack: paper-thin dough wrapped around a samosa chapati, spiced onion and capsicum filling and a beaten egg, folded into a square parcel and fried slowly until crisp and golden. Make them just before serving. Serve hot with a crunchy carrot, cabbage and cucumber salad and red chilli and tamarind chutneys. Contains egg.
Foutou is the pounded staple of the Baoulé country around Bouaké and Yamoussoukro: boiled plantain, often mixed with cassava, pounded in a wooden mortar into a smooth, stretchy, slightly sweet ball. It is eaten with the fingers, pulled off in pieces and dipped into sauce graine (palm nut), sauce arachide or okra sauce. A food processor followed by a short knead does the job at home. Chef's tip: pound while everything is steaming hot; cold plantain will not come together and stays lumpy.
Madeleines come from Commercy, a small town in Lorraine, where they've been sold in boxes to travellers since the 1700s, and Proust made them famous dipped in lime-blossom tea. These little scallop-shaped sponges are crisp and golden at the edges, soft and buttery inside, and should have a proud hump on the back. French children eat them for goûter, the after-school snack, and they are best within an hour of baking. You'll need a madeleine tin. Chef's tip: chill the batter and the buttered tin before baking; putting room-temperature batter in a warm tin is the common mistake and the madeleines come out flat with no hump.
Vichyssoise is a creamy leek and potato soup served cold, named after the spa town of Vichy and made famous by a French chef in New York in 1917, who based it on his mother's hot potage. In France it's made in hot weather, when a bowl of something cool and silky is all anyone wants, and served in small portions as a starter, sprinkled with chives. It needs only a few ingredients, so the leeks must be cooked gently to keep the colour pale and delicate. Chef's tip: let the leeks soften without browning; colouring them is the common mistake that turns the soup grey-beige and bitter.
Fonio is a tiny ancient grain grown in the Sahel and in southern Senegal's Casamance and Fouta regions, where it is steamed like couscous and eaten with a vegetable or peanut sauce. It cooks in minutes and has a light, nutty taste, which has made it popular again in Dakar restaurants. Here it is fluffed with a little oil and topped with a quick stew of courgette, carrot, aubergine and tomato. Chef's tip: wash fonio in several changes of water and drain it in a fine sieve; it often carries fine sand, and gritty fonio is the most common complaint.
In Brittany, a galette is a large, lacy pancake made from buckwheat flour, water and salt: nutty, a little earthy and crisp at the edges. Crêperies all over the region fold them around savoury fillings and serve them with a bowl of dry cider. This one is filled with garlicky mushrooms, melted cheese and chives, folded into a square so the centre shows. Pure buckwheat is naturally gluten free, but check the packet, as some is milled alongside wheat. Emmental and Gruyère are usually made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian alternative. Rest the batter if you have time: it can be made the night before. Chef's tip: the first galette is always a test; a pan that isn't hot enough is the common mistake that makes them pale and floppy instead of lacy and crisp.
Soupe à l'oignon gratinée was the late-night meal of Les Halles, the old Paris food market, where porters and party-goers ate it at dawn; in Lyon, the city of onions, it's a winter bistro classic. Onions are cooked very slowly in butter until they turn a deep mahogany brown, then simmered in stock with a splash of wine and topped with toasted bread and melted cheese under the grill. The traditional soup uses beef stock; this version uses a rich vegetable stock and lets the deeply browned onions carry the flavour. Gruyère and Comté are made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian alternative. Chef's tip: give the onions a full hour on a low heat; rushing them over a high heat is the common mistake and they burn before they sweeten.
Focaccia di Recco has nothing to do with the thick, bubbly focaccia most people know: it is two sheets of unleavened dough stretched almost transparent, with blobs of soft, tangy cheese in between, baked in a blisteringly hot oven for a few minutes. It comes from the seaside town of Recco, east of Genoa, where bakeries sell it in the morning and families eat it as a first course. At home, use stracchino or crescenza, the creamy fresh cheeses closest to Ligurian prescinseua. Chef's tip: stretch the dough over the backs of your hands like a pizzaiolo; rolling alone never gets it thin enough.
Burgundy's famous stew is traditionally made with beef, but the flavours that make it special are all in the sauce: red wine from the region's vineyards, small whole onions, carrots, thyme and mushrooms. This meat-free version gives the mushrooms the starring role, browned hard so they turn meaty and dark, then simmered in a glossy wine sauce. It is a winter dinner in French homes, served over creamy mashed potatoes, buttered noodles or with a crusty baguette. Pick a vegan-friendly wine if that matters to you. Chef's tip: brown the mushrooms in a hot pan in batches until the liquid they release has evaporated; adding them all at once is the common mistake and they boil instead of browning.
Moitié-moitié means half and half, and in Fribourg it names the canton's own fondue: equal weights of nutty Gruyère and soft, buttery Vacherin fribourgeois melted with dry white wine in a glazed earthenware caquelon. Families light the burner in the middle of the table on cold evenings from October to March, and ski huts above Gruyères serve it after a day on the slopes. The Vacherin makes it silkier and milder than a Gruyère-only fondue, so it clings to the bread in a thick, glossy coat. Serve with day-old bread, a plate of cornichons and small boiled potatoes, and drink white wine or warm black tea with it; locals say cold water sits badly with all that cheese. Traditional Gruyère and Vacherin are made with animal rennet, so for a vegetarian table look for wheels labelled with microbial or vegetarian rennet, or ask a cheesemonger for a similar Alpine cheese that uses it. Chef's tip: grate the cheese rather than cubing it and let it come to room temperature for 30 minutes; it melts evenly and the fondue stays smooth.
Ratatouille comes from Nice, where it was a peasant stew of whatever the late-summer garden gave: aubergines, courgettes, peppers, onions and very ripe tomatoes, simmered in olive oil with garlic and thyme. Cooks in Nice argue about method, but the most respected version fries each vegetable on its own first, so each keeps its colour and shape before they are brought together in one pot. It's eaten warm with rice, cold the next day with bread, or as a side to an omelette. Chef's tip: brown the aubergine in batches and don't crowd the pan; piling it in is the common mistake that makes it steam into a grey mush.
Fosolia takes its name from the Italian fagioli, a reminder of the Italian occupation of the 1930s, but it is now completely Ethiopian and a regular on fasting platters in Addis Ababa and Dire Dawa. Green beans and carrot batons are cooked with lots of onion, garlic and ginger until tender but still bright, then served warm with injera or rice. It is quick, mild and colourful. Chef's tip: cut the beans and carrots to the same length and thickness so they cook evenly.
Mastava is the soup Uzbek mothers make on a cold weeknight: rice simmered in a tomato-red broth with carrot, potato, pepper and chickpeas, finished at the table with a spoon of thick suzma or sour cream and a handful of herbs. It is eaten all over the country but is especially loved in Tashkent households in late autumn. The base is fried first, like plov, so the soup tastes rich even without meat; this version uses vegetables and chickpeas only. Chef's tip: fry the tomato paste in the oil until it turns brick-red before adding water — that is where the depth comes from.
The francesinha ('little French girl') belongs to Porto, where it was dreamed up in the 1950s by a cook inspired by the croque monsieur, and it is now the city's famous late-night and match-day meal. This sandwich contains pork: thick bread is layered with steak, ham and fresh sausage, covered in cheese slices, then drowned in a spicy tomato sauce made with beer and port-style fortified wine. For an alcohol-free sauce, use alcohol-free beer, or beef stock with a teaspoon of honey. Serve with chips and a fried egg on top if you dare. Chef's tip: simmer the sauce for at least 20 minutes and blend it smooth; it should be thick enough to cling, not run off.
Frango à zambeziana comes from Quelimane and the Zambezia province of central Mozambique, where coconut palms line the coast: chicken is marinated in coconut milk, lime, garlic and piri-piri chilli, then grilled over coals and basted with the marinade, boiled down into a sauce. It is served with rice or xima (maize porridge) at weekend lunches. The mistake is basting with raw marinade right up to the end; boil it first so it is safe and turns into a creamy sauce. Chef's tip: spatchcock the chicken or use pieces so it grills evenly.
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.
Momos came to Sikkim and the Darjeeling hills with Tibetan settlers and are now the snack of the whole Himalayan Northeast, steamed in tall stacked steamers at every street corner. Thin, soft wrappers hold a juicy filling of cabbage, carrot, onion and tofu with plenty of ginger, garlic and spring onion. They are dipped in a hot, garlicky tomato and red chilli achar. Serve straight from the steamer, with a bowl of clear soup if you like. Chef's tip: salt the chopped cabbage and squeeze out its water before mixing the filling; it keeps the wrappers from turning soggy and tearing.
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.
The frappé was invented by accident at the Thessaloniki International Fair in 1957, when a coffee rep shook instant coffee with cold water because there was no hot water to hand. Within a few years it was the drink of every Greek café and beach bar, sipped slowly through a straw for an hour or more. Instant coffee, sugar and a little water are shaken or frothed into a thick, light-brown foam, then topped up with cold water, ice and, if you like, milk. Order it sketos (no sugar), metrios (medium) or glykos (sweet). Chef's tip: use only a splash of water for the first shake; adding all the water at once is the common mistake and you get thin coffee with no foam.
This is the dessert Greek tavernas bring out on the house at the end of a meal, and a common breakfast in homes and hotels from Crete to Corfu. Thick strained yogurt, ideally the sheep's-milk kind with a skin on top, is drizzled with dark thyme honey and scattered with walnuts. Simple as it is, the details matter: rich yogurt, good honey and nuts toasted just before serving. Add fresh figs or a spoon of quince preserve if you have them. Chef's tip: warm the honey for a few seconds so it runs in ribbons; cold honey is the common mistake and just sits in a blob.
In Cyprus, halloumi and watermelon is the taste of an August afternoon: icy wedges of watermelon eaten alongside salty halloumi, either fresh and squeaky or grilled until golden. Cypriots have eaten the two together for generations, on beaches, village verandas and after a long lunch. Here the halloumi is seared, then tossed with chunks of cold watermelon, mint, red onion and lime. It is a starter, a light lunch or a side for any barbecue. Some halloumi is made with animal rennet, so look for one labelled vegetarian. Chef's tip: don't cook the halloumi until everyone is ready to eat; it turns rubbery as it cools, which is the most common halloumi mistake.
On Santorini, fava is made from a tiny yellow split pea that has grown in the island's volcanic soil for thousands of years. Cooked slowly with onion until it collapses, it is whipped with olive oil and lemon into a purée as smooth as hummus but lighter and sweeter. In island tavernas it comes warm, with raw red onion, capers and a puddle of green olive oil, and you scoop it up with bread. Ordinary yellow split peas work well at home. Serve it as a meze or a light meal with salad. Chef's tip: skim off the white foam that rises in the first 10 minutes; leaving it is the common mistake that gives the purée a bitter, grey edge.
Tzatziki is on every Greek table in summer: scooped up with bread at the start of a taverna meal, spooned over fried courgettes and chips, and tucked into pitta wraps. It is cool, thick and sharp with raw garlic, made with strained yogurt so it holds its shape on a spoon. Grated cucumber gives it crunch, a little vinegar lifts it, and olive oil makes it rich. It also goes well with gemista, fritters and grilled halloumi. Chef's tip: salt the grated cucumber and squeeze it dry; leaving the water in is the common mistake that turns tzatziki runny within an hour.
Fricassé are the small, soft fried rolls sold from glass-fronted counters in Tunis and the coastal towns, split while still warm and filled to order with tuna, boiled egg, olives, boiled potato, mechouia salad and a smear of harissa. They are an afternoon snack, a beach lunch and a Ramadan favourite. The mistake is frying the dough when the oil is too cool, which makes it greasy and heavy; keep the oil at 170 °C. Chef's tip: give the shaped rolls a full second rise so they puff and stay light inside.
Kouign-amann (say 'kween-ah-MAHN', Breton for 'butter cake') was created in the fishing port of Douarnenez in the 1860s, reportedly by a baker who folded butter and sugar into bread dough when flour was short. Today Breton bakeries sell it as a rich treat for afternoon coffee: flaky layers of bread dough with butter and sugar folded through, baked until the sugar melts into a dark, crunchy caramel. This home version makes individual ones in a muffin tin. It takes an afternoon, mostly waiting time. Chef's tip: keep the dough and butter cold between every fold; warm butter is the common mistake and it oozes out, so you lose the layers.
In Medellín and across Antioquia, red cargamanto beans simmered for hours are the heart of the bandeja paisa and of everyday lunch. The beans cook with grated green plantain and carrot, which melt in and thicken the pot, and are finished with hogao, the tomato and spring onion sauce. This version leaves out the pork hock and gets its depth from a long simmer and a smoky pinch of paprika. Serve with white rice, avocado and an arepa. Chef's tip: grate the plantain on the fine side of the grater; it dissolves into the beans and makes them creamy.
Around Monterrey in Nuevo León, no carne asada is complete without a pot of frijoles charros keeping warm at the side of the grill. Soupy pinto beans cook down with smoky bacon, chorizo, tomato and fresh chilli until the broth is rich and brick-coloured, and they are spooned into small cups next to grilled beef, guacamole and flour tortillas. Some cooks in the north add sliced frankfurters too; we keep that optional. Chef's tip: cook the beans plain until they are fully soft before the tomato goes in, because acid stops beans softening.
Frijoles de la olla, beans cooked slowly in a pot (traditionally clay) with just onion, garlic and a sprig of epazote, are the backbone of Mexican home cooking from north to south. Served brothy in a bowl with chopped onion, chilli and lime, they are a meal on their own; mashed and fried in oil they become frijoles refritos, the creamy refried beans that go into tacos, tortas, sopes and molletes. This recipe makes both: one pot, half served as it is, half refried. We fry in vegetable oil rather than lard, so it is vegan. Chef's tip: salt the beans only once they are tender; salting at the start won't stop them cooking, but adding it late seasons the broth better and saves you from oversalting as it reduces.
Ask for a galão in a Lisbon café and it arrives in a tall glass, not a cup: one short espresso (a bica, in the capital's slang) topped up with about three times as much hot, frothy milk, so it is pale, mild and creamy. It is the breakfast and mid-morning drink of the city, ordered at the counter with a pastel de nata or a tosta mista, and the glass is held by the rim because it gets hot. A galão escuro has less milk, a galão claro more. Chef's tip: heat the milk only until it steams and the jug is too hot to hold for more than a moment, about 65 °C; boiled milk tastes flat and loses its sweetness.
A pot of frijoles negros simmers on the back of the stove in Cuban homes from Havana to Miami's Little Havana, ladled over white rice for lunch most days of the week. The beans cook until creamy, then a sofrito of onion, green pepper and plenty of garlic goes in with cumin, oregano, a pinch of sugar and a dash of vinegar, which gives the stew its gentle sweet-sour finish. Venezuelans make a very close cousin, caraotas negras, for pabellón, so this page covers both. Chef's tip: mash a ladle of beans against the side of the pot near the end; it thickens the broth naturally without any flour.
Sweet crêpes made from wheat flour, milk and eggs are Brittany's gift to the rest of France, and on 2 February, Chandeleur, French families make piles of them at home, flipping the first with a coin in hand for luck. They are thin and tender with golden, lacy spots, and the classic filling is simplest: a smear of salted butter and a sprinkle of sugar, or sugar and lemon. Children love them with chocolate spread, jam or sliced banana. Chef's tip: make the batter thinner than you expect, like single cream; thick batter is the common mistake and gives heavy pancakes, not crêpes.
Frikadeller are the everyday comfort food of Denmark, fried up for Monday suppers in Copenhagen, packed cold on rye bread for lunch and served at nearly every children's birthday. The mix is mostly pork, with some veal, so this is a pork dish, loosened with milk and bound with egg and a spoonful of flour to make soft, flattened ovals with a crisp brown crust. Danes eat them hot with boiled potatoes, brown gravy and sweet-sour pickled red cabbage, or cold the next day with pickled beetroot. Where people go wrong is frying them on too high a heat; the outside burns before the middle is cooked. Chef's tip: let the mixture rest in the fridge for 30 minutes before shaping; it firms up and the patties keep a neat shape in the pan.
On the streets of Beirut, vendors push wooden carts stacked with ka'ak, a chewy, sesame-crusted bread shaped like a handbag with a hole for a handle; in Jerusalem's Old City the same bread comes as long oval rings sold by the gate. Buyers ask for it split open and filled with a pinch of za'atar or a wedge of soft white cheese, and eat it on the way to work or school. The crust gets its deep amber colour from a quick dip in sweetened water before the sesame goes on, and the crumb inside stays soft and slightly sweet. Chef's tip: toast the sesame seeds lightly in a dry pan before coating; they stick better once cool and taste nutty rather than raw.
Çılbır goes back to the Ottoman palace kitchens, and today you are as likely to meet it on a brunch menu in Istanbul's Kadıköy or Cihangir as on a home breakfast table. Two soft poached eggs sit on a bed of thick, garlicky yogurt, and a spoonful of butter fried with Aleppo pepper is poured over the top so it runs red into the white. Break the yolks, mix everything together and mop it up with bread. Chef's tip: take the yogurt out of the fridge 30 minutes ahead, or stand the bowl over warm water for a few minutes; cold yogurt chills the eggs and the dish should be served warm.
Every Scottish granny has her own Scotch broth, the thick winter soup that simmers on stoves from the Borders to the Highlands and is often served on Burns Night. Lamb neck on the bone makes a rich stock with pearl barley, dried peas, leek, carrot, turnip and cabbage, and the meat is shredded back into the pot. It is a whole meal with crusty bread. Chef's tip: make it a day ahead; the barley keeps thickening it, and you can lift the solid fat off the top once chilled.
On roadsides and at weekly village markets across central Anatolia, women sit cross-legged by a domed iron griddle (saç), rolling dough paper-thin with a long thin rolling pin (oklava), filling it and cooking it to order. This is gözleme: a soft, blistered parcel of unleavened dough wrapped round spinach and salty white cheese, brushed with butter as it comes off the heat. Eat it hot, folded in paper, with a glass of ayran. A big frying pan or flat griddle at home does the job. Chef's tip: roll the dough so thin you can almost see the worktop through it; thick gözleme tastes doughy and the filling stays cold.
Frites are a fixture of French brasseries and street stalls, served in paper cones at markets and beside every omelette and salad in Paris cafés. The secret is frying twice: once gently to cook them through, then hot to make them crisp. In Provence, the dip would be aïoli, a thick, garlicky sauce that gave its name to the region's Friday feast. Our aïoli is made the old-fashioned egg-free way, with a little boiled potato to hold the garlic and olive oil together. Children usually prefer it with less garlic. Chef's tip: dry the cut potatoes thoroughly before frying; wet chips are the common mistake that make the oil spit and leave the chips soft.
The full English is the weekend fry-up of English homes and the pride of every café and B&B from Cornwall to Yorkshire, a plate built to last until supper. This version contains pork: sausages, back bacon and optional black pudding, with fried eggs, baked beans, mushrooms, grilled tomato and buttered toast. The trick is timing so everything lands hot together. Chef's tip: start the sausages first and slowest; everything else cooks in the time they take.
Affogato means 'drowned': a scoop of vanilla or fior di latte gelato with a shot of hot espresso poured over it at the table. It is served in bars and gelaterie all over Italy as the simplest after-dinner dessert, half drink and half ice cream, eaten quickly with a spoon while the coffee melts into the gelato. It takes five minutes and needs good ice cream and strong coffee. Chef's tip: chill the glasses in the freezer for 10 minutes first, so the gelato melts slowly and you get both hot and cold in each spoonful.
On Christmas Eve, in kitchens from Split to Dubrovnik and out on the islands, bowls of fritule are fried by the dozen: small, airy doughnut drops scented with orange and lemon zest and studded with raisins, rolled in sugar while still warm. Many families add a splash of rakija or rum to the batter, but fresh orange juice works just as well and keeps them child-friendly. They are eaten all through Advent and the carnival season, often from paper cones at Christmas markets. Chef's tip: keep the oil at about 170°C; too hot and the fritule brown outside while the middle stays raw and doughy, the most common mistake.
Panna cotta means 'cooked cream' and comes from the dairy country of the Langhe in Piedmont, where it is served after Sunday lunch, often with caramel or a few berries. Classic recipes set it with gelatine, which is made from animals; this version uses agar, a seaweed setting agent, so it is properly vegetarian. Agar sets firmer and faster, so the amount is small and it must be boiled to work. The result is creamy, just set and wobbles when you shake the plate. Chef's tip: boil the agar in the milk for a full 2 minutes before adding the cream; if it only warms, it will not set.
All over India, fruit sellers with handcarts chop a plate of fruit chaat to order, and in Kolkata the evening carts near New Market and Gariahat pile guava, apple, papaya, banana, pomegranate and cucumber into a leaf bowl with chaat masala, black salt and lime. During Ramzan it appears at iftar, and in summer it is sold with a sprinkle of chilli. It is sweet, salty, sour and a little hot all at once, so it tastes nothing like a dessert fruit salad. Chef's tip: use at least one crunchy fruit (guava, apple or pear) and one soft one (banana or papaya) for contrast.
Chunky skewers of pineapple, banana, strawberry, peach and nectarine drizzled with balsamic vinegar and dark muscovado sugar, then grilled over charcoal until the sugar caramelises. Warm, sticky and a little tangy. Serve hot as a barbecue dessert, with ice cream if you like.
Fry jacks are the smell of a Belizean morning: in Belize City and the Cayes, breakfast spots fry these squares and triangles of dough until they balloon up hollow and golden. They come beside refried beans, scrambled eggs and cheese, or torn open and drizzled with honey or jam. They're lighter and puffier than a doughnut, crisp outside and chewy within. Chef's tip: roll the dough thin, about 3 mm, and slit each piece once in the middle; that's what makes them puff like a pillow.
Champuru means 'mixed up' in Okinawan and is the islands' everyday stir-fry. Goya champuru with bitter melon is the famous one; fu champuru, made with chewy wheat gluten, is the gentle, child-friendly version many Okinawan families cook several times a week. The fu, large dried rings called kurumabu, is soaked, squeezed and dipped in beaten egg, so as it fries it turns soft, fluffy and golden, a little like French toast. Home cooks often add luncheon meat; ours is vegetarian, with shiitake for savouriness. Serve with rice and miso soup. Chef's tip: squeeze the soaked fu hard before adding the egg. Dry fu drinks up all the egg; wet fu turns soggy.
Fuchka is Bangladesh's answer to pani puri, but with its own character: in Dhaka the crisp shells are filled with a coarse mash of potato and yellow peas sharpened with raw onion, chilli and coriander, then dipped in or splashed with a sour tamarind water rather than a mint-heavy one. Stalls along Bailey Road and at every fair sell them by the plate of eight, often with a little extra chopped chilli for those who dare. Chef's tip: make the tamarind water ahead and chill it hard; ice-cold sour water against a crisp shell is what you're after.
Fugazzeta is a Buenos Aires original from the pizzerias of the Corrientes and La Boca neighbourhoods, where Genoese immigrants' focaccia (fugazza) met mozzarella. A thick, soft pan dough is filled with a layer of mozzarella, sealed with a second layer of dough, then covered with a mound of thinly sliced onions and more cheese and baked until the onions are sweet and golden. It's a big, rich pizza to share. Use mozzarella made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: salt the onions and squeeze them out before using; this keeps the pizza from going soggy.
Gâteaux piments ('chilli cakes') are the snack of Mauritius, sold hot in paper bags at every bus station, school gate and market from Port Louis to Rose-Hill, and stuffed into buttered baguettes at breakfast. Yellow split peas are soaked, ground coarse with chilli, spring onion and coriander, and fried into small crunchy rounds. They are related to Indian vadas, brought by the island's Indian community. Chef's tip: grind the peas coarsely and without water; a smooth, wet paste makes dense, oily fritters.
Risotto ai funghi is what Piedmont and Lombardy cook in October, when foragers bring porcini down from the Alpine foothills and markets in Alba, Turin and Bergamo sell baskets of wild mushrooms. At home, a handful of dried porcini and their soaking liquid give that deep, woodsy flavour to ordinary chestnut mushrooms. It is a first course in Italy and a full supper anywhere else. Chef's tip: brown the fresh mushrooms in a separate hot pan and fold half in at the end; they stay meaty instead of turning soft and grey.
Ful mudammas is breakfast on both sides of the Levant: Cairo's street carts ladle it from huge copper pots at dawn, and in Beirut and Damascus small ful shops serve it on Sunday mornings to queues of families. Small brown fava beans are warmed in their liquid, partly crushed, then dressed at the table with garlic pounded with salt, plenty of lemon and cumin, a pool of olive oil and a heap of chopped tomato and parsley. Scoop it with flatbread and eat it with raw onion wedges, radishes, olives and mint. The mistake most people make is draining the beans and dressing them dry; the cooking liquid is what makes ful creamy, so keep some. Chef's tip: mash only about a third of the beans, so the dish is part silky purée and part whole bean.
Antiguans eat fungee and pepperpot on Saturdays and on holidays like Independence Day in November, and grandmothers still turn the fungee with a flat wooden 'fungee stick'. Pepperpot is a thick stew of beef, spinach, aubergine, okra and squash cooked down until the vegetables melt together; many cooks also add salted pig tail, which is left out here. The fungee is a smooth cornmeal and okra mash, shaped into balls with a buttered bowl and served beside the stew. The mistake people make is tipping the cornmeal in all at once, which makes lumpy fungee; add it in a slow stream while stirring hard. Chef's tip: pour off half the okra water before adding the cornmeal and keep it hot; you can work it back in if the fungee gets too stiff.
Cacio e pepe is a Roman trattoria standard: just pasta, sheep's cheese and a lot of cracked black pepper, turned into a glossy cream with starchy cooking water. Romans order it as a primo at lunch, especially in the old osterie of Testaccio and Trastevere, and it was born as shepherds' food because dry pecorino and peppercorns kept for weeks. Tonnarelli (square egg-free spaghetti) is the classic shape; in southern Tuscany the same sauce coats pici, fat hand-rolled noodles, and the variation is in the last step. Chef's tip: toast the cracked pepper in the dry pan first, then splash in pasta water; it turns the pepper fragrant rather than harsh and starts the sauce base.
In Lebanese homes tabbouleh is a green salad first and a grain salad a distant second: a heap of finely cut flat-leaf parsley and mint, flecked with fine bulgur, diced tomato and spring onion, and sharpened with lemon and olive oil. It turns up on every mezze table from Beirut to the mountain villages, and families make it in big bowls for Sunday lunch, scooping it up with crisp inner leaves of cos lettuce. It tastes bright, lemony and fresh, and goes with falafel, grilled halloumi or any spread of dips and bread. The usual mistake is chopping wet parsley, which bruises into a dark, soggy mush; dry it thoroughly and slice it with a sharp knife instead. Chef's tip: dress the bulgur with the lemon juice and tomato juice first, so it softens in that liquid instead of in water and soaks up all the flavour.
Across Vietnam, from Hanoi apartments to Mekong Delta farmhouses, a small pot of something braised in caramel and fish sauce sits on the family table at dinner with rice, a plate of boiled greens and a clear soup. This chicken version leans on ginger, cut into fine matchsticks so it turns soft and warming in the glossy, salty-sweet sauce. It's a favourite when the weather cools, traditionally cooked in a clay pot, though any heavy pan will do. It reheats well, so it's a good one for the next day's lunch. Chef's tip: take the caramel to the colour of strong tea, deep amber, before the chicken goes in; that slight bitterness is what keeps the dish from tasting sugary.
Daan taat are the pride of Hong Kong bakeries and cha chaan teng, where they come out of the oven several times a day and are eaten warm with a glass of milk tea. Unlike Portuguese tarts, the custard stays smooth, glossy and bright yellow with no scorched top, and this version uses a buttery shortcrust (lard is traditional in some bakeries; we use only butter). Chef's tip: strain the custard twice and skim off every bubble; that's what gives the mirror-smooth surface.
In Jakarta, gado-gado is lunch from a pushcart: the Betawi seller grinds the peanut sauce to order on a stone ulekan, then tips blanched greens, potato, tofu, tempeh and egg into it and mixes everything by hand. The name roughly means "mix-mix", and that is how it's eaten, with every vegetable coated in a sauce that's nutty, sweet from palm sugar, sour from tamarind and as hot as you ask for. It's a full meal on its own, crunchy with emping or rice crackers on top. Chef's tip: loosen the peanut sauce with warm water only at the end and stop when it coats a spoon like custard; too thin and it slides off the vegetables and pools on the plate.
Brought to Lampang and Chiang Mai by Burmese teak traders in the 1800s, this coconut-free curry is now the dish Northern families cook for temple fairs, weddings and Songkran, often a day ahead in a big pot. Chunks of pork belly and shoulder braise slowly until they almost fall apart in a dark, glossy sauce that tastes of ginger, garlic and warm spices, sharpened with tamarind and rounded with palm sugar. It should be thick enough to cling to the meat rather than soupy. Serve it with steamed jasmine or sticky rice and a crisp cucumber salad. Chef's tip: make it the day before; overnight in the fridge the flavours settle and the fat sets on top so you can lift some off before reheating.
Fan qie chao dan is the dish students across China cook in their first flat, and it appears at family meals in every province. Soft curds of egg and slumped tomatoes make a sweet-sour, slightly saucy stir-fry that is wonderful spooned over rice. Some families make it drier, others soupier; this version has just enough sauce to soak the rice. Chef's tip: cook the eggs first and take them out while still glossy; they finish in the tomato sauce and stay tender.
Across upper Assam, among the Tai Ahom, Mising and many tea-garden families, pork with fermented bamboo shoot is the dish that turns any gathering into a feast. The bamboo shoot gives a sour, almost cheesy tang that cuts through the rich pork, and a little bhut jolokia (ghost pepper) brings slow heat. It is cooked with very little oil because the pork fat does the work, and is served with rice and a leafy side. Chef's tip: choose shoulder or belly with some fat on; lean loin turns dry and stringy here.
Every Cantonese table needs a plate of greens, and gai lan (Chinese broccoli) is the favourite in Guangdong homes and Hong Kong cha chaan teng. The stems are thick, sweet and slightly bitter, the leaves soft. Restaurants blanch it and pour oyster sauce on top; here a mushroom-based vegetarian oyster sauce gives the same dark gloss and savouriness. Chef's tip: add a spoon of oil and a pinch of sugar to the blanching water; the oil keeps the greens bright and shiny, and the sugar softens the bitterness.
Pai huang gua turns up on tables from Beijing to Guangzhou, often the first dish to land at a summer meal because it takes ten minutes and cools the mouth between spicy bites. Smashing the cucumbers rather than slicing them cracks them into rough pieces that soak up dressing in minutes. It goes with any stir-fry, noodles or dumplings. Chef's tip: salt the smashed pieces for 10 minutes and pour off the water, otherwise the dressing is diluted to nothing by the time you sit down.
Hat Yai, the busy trading city in Songkhla province near the Malaysian border, gave its name to Thailand's best-loved fried chicken: pieces marinated with coriander root, garlic and white pepper, fried in a thin rice-flour coat until deep bronze, then buried under a drift of crisp fried shallots. Stalls there sell it from early morning with sticky rice and sweet chilli sauce, and Bangkok vendors copy it on every soi. The skin is light and crackly rather than bready, the meat aromatic and well seasoned, and the shallots add sweetness and crunch. Children love it with the sauce on the side. Chef's tip: marinate overnight in the fridge so the coriander root and pepper reach right to the bone.
Bus stations and football matches across Isan have the same soundtrack: the crackle of chicken pieces clamped in split bamboo over glowing coals, and the thump of a pestle making som tam beside them. Gai yang is marinated in garlic, coriander root, white pepper and lemongrass, then grilled slowly so the skin turns lacquered and smoky while the meat stays juicy. Tear it apart with your hands and eat it with sticky rice, green papaya salad and a sour-hot jaew dipping sauce. Chef's tip: leave it in the marinade overnight in the fridge; the lemongrass and garlic need hours to get past the skin.
Dan dan mian is named after the shoulder pole (dan) that Chengdu hawkers once used to carry their noodles and sauces through the streets. A proper bowl is small and intense: springy wheat noodles over a puddle of sesame paste, chilli oil and soy, topped with a crunchy, salty crumble and blanched greens. The crumble here is mushroom and tofu fried with preserved ya cai until crisp. Mix everything from the bottom before eating. Chef's tip: loosen the sesame paste with a little of the hot noodle water so it coats every strand instead of clumping.
Gan bian si ji dou, 'dry-fried four-season beans', is a fixture of Sichuan restaurant menus and home tables alike. The beans are fried until their skins wrinkle and blister, then tossed in a hot, dry wok with chilli, Sichuan pepper and salty preserved mustard greens (ya cai) from Yibin. Nothing is saucy: every bean is coated and slightly chewy. Restaurants usually add pork; this vegetarian version leans on the ya cai for depth. Chef's tip: dry the beans completely after washing, or they will spit and steam instead of blistering.
Mapo tofu was first served at a small eatery in north Chengdu in the late 1800s, and it is still on the table at almost every Sichuan family dinner: wobbly cubes of tofu in a glossy red sauce that is hot from chilli bean paste and tingling from Sichuan pepper. Restaurants make it with minced beef or pork; here finely chopped shiitake and chestnut mushrooms are fried until crisp-edged and dark, so they give the same savoury bite. Spoon it over plenty of steamed rice, which soaks up the oil. Chef's tip: grind the Sichuan pepper fresh and scatter it on at the very end; ground ahead of time it loses its buzz.
Galaktoboureko is the grand dessert of Greek pastry shops: a thick layer of silky semolina custard baked between sheets of buttered fillo, then soaked with cold lemon and cinnamon syrup the moment it leaves the oven. It's bought by the tray for Sunday lunches, name days and Easter, and eaten slightly warm or at room temperature with coffee. The top shatters, the syrup pools at the edges and the custard stays creamy. It takes patience but no special skill. Chef's tip: pour cold syrup over the hot pie (or hot over cold), never hot on hot; that common mistake leaves the pastry soggy instead of crisp.
No Kazakh dastarkhan, the cloth spread with food for guests, is complete without a heap of baursak: soft, hollow pillows of yeasted dough fried until they balloon. They are scattered over the table at weddings, at Nauryz in March and at funerals, where the smell of frying baursak is said to reach the departed. In Almaty families fry hundreds at a time and eat them through the evening with milk tea, butter, jam or honey. Kyrgyz and Turkmen households make almost identical versions. Chef's tip: roll the dough just 1 cm thick and keep the oil hot; thin dough in hot oil puffs into a hollow ball, thick dough stays bready.
Bazin is the traditional festive dish of Libya, especially in Tripoli and the western mountains: a smooth, firm dome of barley-flour dough set in the middle of a wide dish, surrounded by a spicy lamb stew of tomato, chilli and turmeric, with hard-boiled eggs and potatoes. Everyone eats from the same plate with the right hand, pinching off dough and dipping it in the sauce. The mistake is not beating the dough hard enough: it should be pounded until completely smooth, or it tastes floury. Chef's tip: beat the dough with a wooden spoon, adding cooking liquid a spoonful at a time, until it pulls cleanly away from the pot.
Poriyal is the everyday dry vegetable of Tamil Nadu, and beans poriyal is the one that appears on banana-leaf meals at weddings, temple annadhanam and Monday-to-Friday lunch boxes alike. The beans are chopped very small, steamed in their own moisture with a mustard and urad dal tempering, and finished with a shower of fresh coconut, so each spoonful is bright green, a little crunchy and nutty. It sits next to sambar or kuzhambu with rice, and it also makes a good filling rolled into a chapati. Chef's tip: chop the beans into tiny 5 mm pieces; they cook in minutes, stay green and soak up the tempering far better than long pieces.
For ceremonies in the villages around Gianyar in central Bali, a whole duck is stuffed and smothered with base genep, wrapped in banana leaves and areca-palm sheath, and buried overnight in smouldering rice husks. By morning the meat has turned meltingly soft, the fat has rendered into the spices and the parcel smells of turmeric, smoke and lime leaf. This home version keeps the stuffing and the leaf parcel but uses a low oven for three hours, then opens the parcel for a short blast to colour the skin. Serve it in its juices with rice, a sharp sambal matah and long beans or water spinach. Chef's tip: marinate the duck overnight in the fridge if you can; the paste needs time to get past the fat and into the meat.
No Goan Catholic Christmas, wedding or feast is complete without bebinca, the 'queen of Goan desserts'. A rich batter of coconut milk, egg yolks, sugar and a little flour is cooked one thin layer at a time under the heat, each layer brushed with ghee before the next is poured on, so the finished cake shows dark-and-light stripes when sliced. Traditionally it was baked over coconut-husk fire with coals on the lid and had sixteen layers; a home grill makes eight to ten easily in an afternoon. It's rich, dense and fudgy, and keeps for a week. Serve thin slices at room temperature, or warm with vanilla ice cream. Chef's tip: make each layer the same thin pour; a thick layer stays raw in the middle while its top burns.
In every crêperie in Brittany, from Rennes to Quimper, the first thing most people order is the complète: a lacy buckwheat galette folded square around ham, melted cheese and an egg, eaten for lunch or a casual dinner with a bowl of dry cider. Contains pork (ham). The batter is just buckwheat flour, water, salt and an egg, so the galette has no wheat; some buckwheat flour is milled alongside wheat, so check the packet if you avoid gluten. A cup of apple juice is a good alcohol-free partner. Chef's tip: rest the batter for at least 2 hours, or overnight in the fridge; it thickens and the galettes cook up thinner and crisper.
Haleem is cooked in vast pots across Pakistan in the month of Muharram and during Ramadan, when neighbours queue with bowls in Karachi, Lahore and Hyderabad. Cracked wheat, barley and several lentils cook for hours with beef until everything is beaten into one thick, stretchy, deeply savoury porridge. Each bowl is finished with crisp fried onions, ginger, green chilli, mint and lemon, so everyone builds their own. It takes time but freezes well, so make a big pot. Chef's tip: beat the haleem hard with a wooden spoon or a hand blender on short pulses; you want long meaty threads, not a smooth purée.
Lok lak is a favourite in Phnom Penh restaurants and family kitchens, a dish Cambodians often order on special nights out. Cubes of beef are marinated in oyster sauce, soy and garlic, seared fast in a hot wok and served on lettuce, tomato and onion with rice, a fried egg on top and a tiny bowl of tuk meric: Kampot black pepper, salt and lime juice for dipping. Chef's tip: dry the beef well and cook it in a very hot pan in two batches; it should sear, not stew.
Nihari takes its name from nahar, the Arabic word for morning, and in Karachi and Lahore it is still a breakfast dish: the big pots simmer through the night and shops open at dawn for office workers and families. Beef shank cooks for hours until the meat falls apart and its marrow and gelatine turn the spiced gravy rich and silky, thickened at the end with a little toasted flour. At home it makes a perfect weekend brunch or Eid lunch, and it reheats beautifully. Serve with naan, fresh ginger, green chilli, coriander and lemon at the table. Chef's tip: cook it the day before and chill it overnight, then lift off some of the fat that sets on top before reheating.
Batidos are the thick fruit milkshakes blended to order at Cuban cafeterías and roadside stands in summer, made with whatever tropical fruit is ripe: mamey, papaya, guanábana and, most of all, mango. Unlike a lassi there is no yogurt, just ripe mango, cold milk, a little sugar and plenty of ice, whizzed until frothy. Kids love it as an afternoon treat. Chef's tip: freeze the mango chunks first and you will need less ice, so the batido tastes of fruit rather than water.
Among the Syrian Christian families of central Kerala, from Kottayam to Pala, a pan of beef ularthiyathu sits on the table at Christmas and Easter, at weddings and with Sunday appam. The beef is first stewed soft in pepper, fennel and coriander, then roasted slowly in coconut oil with shallots, curry leaves and crunchy slivers of fresh coconut until it turns almost black and every piece is coated. It keeps well for days and is just as good with porotta, rice or a cold glass of something fizzy. Chef's tip: keep the final roast at medium-low and be patient; the dark colour should come from slow caramelising, not scorching.
Batata harra, meaning hot potatoes, is a staple of the hot mezze in Beirut restaurants and at home: crisp cubes of potato tossed while still sizzling in garlic, chilli and a heap of fresh coriander, then squeezed with lemon. Expect it next to falafel and hummus at a Sunday spread or as a side for grilled vegetables on a summer evening. This home version roasts the potatoes instead of deep-frying them, which gives the same golden crunch with much less oil. People often add the garlic and coriander too early, so the garlic burns and turns bitter; they go in only for the last minute in the pan. Chef's tip: parboil the cubes and shake them in the colander until their edges look fluffy, because those rough edges are what turn crisp in the oven.
Begun bhaja is the crisp-edged, creamy aubergine slice that sits beside dal and rice on almost every Bangladeshi lunch plate, from Chittagong to Sylhet, and it is a must with bhuna khichuri on a rainy afternoon. Thick rounds are rubbed with turmeric, chilli and salt, then shallow-fried in mustard oil until the outside is caramelised and the inside melts like custard. Chef's tip: salt the slices and leave them for 10 minutes, then pat dry; they drink up far less oil and brown more evenly.
When the monsoon arrives in Kolkata, the telebhaja shops at every para corner start frying beguni: long, thin slices of aubergine dipped in a spiced gram-flour batter and fried until the coat puffs and turns golden. It is eaten with muri and a cup of tea, or alongside khichuri on a wet Saturday. The inside should be soft and creamy, the shell thin and crackly. Chef's tip: a spoonful of rice flour and a pinch of nigella in the batter keep it crisp long after frying. This is a different dish from begun bhaja, where the slices are fried bare with turmeric and salt.
The name means 'donkey rolling in the dust', after the golden soybean flour that coats these soft rolls like a donkey that has rolled on a dusty road. It's one of the old Beijing sweets sold at temple fairs and in snack streets near Houhai, often next to pea-flour cakes. Inside is chewy glutinous rice dough spread with red bean paste and rolled into a spiral. Chef's tip: toast the soybean flour yourself until it smells of roasted nuts; the shop-bought kind is often pale and flat-tasting.
Old Beijing eats these at breakfast with a bowl of soy milk, or tears them up beside a lamb hot pot. The dough is spread with toasted sesame paste and ground Sichuan pepper, rolled up and coiled, so a cut loaf shows a spiral of dozens of thin brown layers. The top is crusted with sesame seeds and baked until it shatters. Chef's tip: spread the paste right to the edges and roll tightly; air pockets make the layers separate and burst.
Basundi is the reduced-milk dessert of Maharashtra and Gujarat: whole milk simmered patiently in a wide pan, with the skin that forms on top scraped back in, until it is thick, cream-coloured and a little grainy, then sweetened and scented with cardamom and saffron. In Maharashtra it's served with hot puris for Gudi Padwa and Bhau Beej; in Gujarat it turns up at weddings and on Sharad Purnima, and it's also the base of the famous custard-apple (sitafal) basundi. Make it a day ahead; it thickens and tastes richer after a night in the fridge. Chef's tip: use a wide, heavy pan rather than a deep one; more surface means faster evaporation and less time standing at the stove.
Aamat comes from the forested Bastar region of southern Chhattisgarh, where Gond and Halba families cook whatever the garden and forest give: pumpkin, brinjal, beans, drumsticks and, in the monsoon, sour fermented bamboo shoot. There is almost no oil and no heavy masala. Instead a paste of soaked rice turns the broth silky, and garlic, ginger and green chilli carry the flavour. It is served in bowls with plain rice, especially at village feasts and the Bastar Dussehra gatherings. Tinned bamboo shoot works well; leave it out and add lime at the end if you cannot find it. Chef's tip: keep stirring as you pour in the rice paste, because it sinks and sets into lumps on the bottom of the pot if left alone.
Basel's Fasnacht starts at 4 a.m. on the Monday after Ash Wednesday with Morgestraich, when the city's lights go out and the cliques march with lanterns, piccolos and drums. Afterwards everyone crowds into the old-town restaurants for a bowl of Mehlsuppe: flour toasted in butter until it is the colour of hazelnuts, simmered into a smooth, savoury, deep-brown soup and finished with grated cheese. It warms you on a freezing February morning and is usually eaten with Zwiebelwähe (onion tart). The traditional soup is made with beef stock; this vegetarian version uses a strong vegetable stock with a little red wine and onion to give the same depth. Chef's tip: toast the flour slowly and stir all the time; the colour should be even chestnut brown, and the smell like toasted nuts.
Läckerli have been Basel's own biscuit for more than 600 years, once baked by the city's spice merchants and gifted at Christmas and New Year; Basel shops still pack them in tins all year round. They are small, chewy rectangles of honey, almonds, candied orange and lemon peel and warm spices, with a thin, crackly sugar glaze. Unlike soft German gingerbread they are firm and dense when they are fresh and soften with time in a tin. Eat them with coffee or tea, or keep a box for visitors. Chef's tip: cut the slab into rectangles while it is still hot and glaze it at once; once cool it sets too hard to cut cleanly.
Basbaas means chilli in Somali, and basbaas cagaar, the green sauce, is on every Somali table, spooned over rice, pasta, sambuusa and grilled food. It is sharp, hot and fresh, and every family has its own balance of chilli, coriander and lime; some add a tomato to soften it. Make a jar and keep it in the fridge all week. Chef's tip: add the lime juice to the blender before the chillies; the acid keeps the sauce bright green.
Galho is Nagaland's comfort food, a soft, loose rice porridge cooked with seasonal vegetables, greens, ginger and chilli, sometimes thickened with a spoon of fermented soybean (axone). In Kohima homes it is the dish for cold evenings and for anyone unwell, and in restaurants it is often made with pork; this vegetarian version uses mushrooms and axone for savour. It sits somewhere between khichdi and congee, thick but spoonable. Chef's tip: stir only occasionally; galho should be soupy with distinct grains, not a smooth paste.
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