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Rasavalli kilangu in coconut milk
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Rasavalli kilangu in coconut milk

Rasavalli, the deep purple yam that grows up fences in Jaffna home gardens, turns into one of the simplest and prettiest sweets of the Tamil north: the tubers are boiled until they fall apart, then stirred into thick coconut milk with sugar until the whole pot is violet, glossy and porridge-soft. It is eaten warm in small bowls as an evening snack or for breakfast, and families often make it when the tubers are freshly dug and at their sweetest. The flavour is mild and nutty, with the creaminess of coconut and a hint of cardamom if you like. Raw yam sap can make your hands itch, and peeling it bare-handed is the mistake people regret, so wear gloves or rub your hands with oil. Look for purple yam (sometimes sold as ube) fresh or frozen in Asian shops. Chef's tip: mash only part of the yam and leave some soft chunks, which gives the pudding a far nicer texture than a smooth purée.

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Xinjiang onion nang

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Sapporo soup curry

Sapporo's soup curry was born in the city's cafés in the 1970s and became a craze in the 2000s, when hundreds of small shops opened across Hokkaido's capital, each letting you pick a heat level from 1 to 30. It is nothing like the thick roux curry most of Japan knows: the broth is as thin as soup, aromatic with cumin, cardamom and garlic, and the vegetables arrive large and separately roasted, so each keeps its own colour and bite. Locals eat it in the long Hokkaido winter with a plate of rice on the side, taking a spoonful of rice and dunking it into the broth. Chef's tip: roast or fry the vegetables apart from the broth and only meet them in the bowl. The contrast of crisp-edged vegetables and hot, loose broth is the whole point.

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Hokkaido grows most of Japan's sweetcorn, and in late summer roadside stands around Sapporo and Furano sell cobs so sweet people eat them raw. Butter corn is how the island turns that harvest into a side dish: kernels hissing in a hot pan with Hokkaido's other pride, butter, and finished with soy sauce until the edges catch. You'll find it as a ramen topping, a beer snack in izakaya and a bento filler. Serve it hot beside grilled vegetables or rice. Chef's tip: let the kernels sit in the pan without stirring for a minute at a time. A few browned, almost toasted kernels give the dish its nutty, popcorn-like smell.

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Monjayaki comes from Tsukishima, a small island district in Tokyo Bay, where one street holds more than seventy monja restaurants. It began as a cheap after-school snack at sweet shops, with children writing letters in thin batter on a griddle. Today friends gather round a teppan table, build a ring of chopped cabbage, pour the runny batter into the middle and eat it with tiny spatulas while it is still molten. It never sets into a pancake like okonomiyaki: the texture is gooey, with crisp, toasty bits where it sticks to the plate. Our version leaves out the usual dried shrimp and uses mochi and cheese, a favourite Tsukishima combination. Chef's tip: press a little monja against the hot griddle with your spatula and wait until it crackles. That crisp layer, called the okoge, is the best bite.

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Kakiage soba

In Tokyo, hot soba with a fritter on top is the city's fast food. Standing soba counters near train stations, called tachigui soba, have served it to commuters since the Edo period, when soba and tempura stalls stood side by side. The fritter here is kakiage: a loose nest of onion, carrot and greens held together with just enough batter to fry into a lacy disc. It softens a little in the broth and flavours it with toasty oil, which is why many Tokyoites eat half of it crisp and let the rest soak. Our broth uses kombu and shiitake instead of bonito. Chef's tip: slide the kakiage into the oil off a flat spatula or ladle, and don't touch it for the first minute. It needs that time to set, or it falls apart.

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Hoba miso

In the old mountain town of Takayama, in Gifu's Hida region, inns serve breakfast with a small charcoal brazier on the table and a dried magnolia leaf, hoba, resting on its grill. On it sits a mound of miso mixed with leek and mushrooms. As the leaf warms, the miso bubbles and gives off a smoky, woodsy smell, and you scoop it up with rice. It started as farmhouse winter food, when people toasted frozen pickles on leaves to thaw them. Dried hoba leaves are sold in Japanese shops and online; a sheet of baking paper works too, without the scent. Chef's tip: soak the leaf in water first. A damp leaf scorches slowly and perfumes the miso instead of catching fire.

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Shinshu soba with spicy daikon dip

Nagano, the old province of Shinshu, grows buckwheat on cool mountain plateaux, and its soba is famous across Japan. In the castle town of Takato, and in the Aizu villages that took the custom with them, the noodles are not dipped in sweet soy sauce at all. Instead each diner gets a cup of juice squeezed from grated, eye-wateringly hot daikon, stirred with toasted miso. The result is sharp, clean and peppery, and it wakes up the earthy buckwheat. It's a summer lunch, eaten cold with a sprinkle of spring onion. Chef's tip: grate the daikon only just before serving. Its heat fades within 20 minutes, and the dish depends on that fresh bite.

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Oyaki

Oyaki are the everyday snack of Nagano's mountain villages, where rice was scarce and wheat and buckwheat grew better. The plump dumplings are filled with whatever the season gives: pickled nozawana greens in winter, aubergine and miso in summer, sweet squash in autumn. Old farmhouses baked them in the ashes of the irori hearth; today they are browned in a pan and steamed, so they come out crusty on both faces with a soft, chewy middle. They travel well, which made them the lunch of farmers and hikers on the trails around Zenkoji temple. Chef's tip: let the dough rest for at least 30 minutes. A relaxed dough stretches thin around the filling without tearing.

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