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Panetela borracha
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Panetela borracha

Panetela borracha, "drunken sponge", is the cake of Havana birthday parties and neighbourhood celebrations: a light sponge baked in a tray, cut into squares and drenched in hot syrup until it is almost a pudding. The traditional syrup contains rum, so that version is for adults only; the alcohol is not cooked off. For children or anyone avoiding alcohol, leave the rum out and use the vanilla and cinnamon syrup alone, which is how many families make it anyway. The mistake to avoid is pouring cold syrup on cold cake; one of them must be hot so the syrup soaks in rather than sitting on top. Chef's tip: prick the sponge all over with a skewer before pouring, and add the syrup in two goes, ten minutes apart.

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Basler Mehlsuppe

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.

60 minSwissSoups
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Mămăligă

Mămăligă is the golden cornmeal staple of the Romanian countryside, from the hill villages of Oltenia to the farms of Maramureș, where it was once eaten more often than bread. It is cooked in water until thick enough to hold a spoon upright, turned out onto a wooden board and cut with a thread, then eaten hot with crumbled salty brânză and a cold spoon of smântână (soured cream). Unlike Ukrainian banosh, which is cooked in sour cream, mămăligă is plain cornmeal and water; the richness goes on top. It sits beside stews such as tocăniță or under a fried egg for supper. Chef's tip: rain the cornmeal in through your fingers while whisking, and keep stirring from the bottom; dumping it in at once is the classic mistake that leaves raw, gritty lumps.

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Zacuscă

Zacuscă is the autumn preserve of Moldavia and Transylvania: in Iași and the villages around it, families spend a September weekend charring aubergines and red peppers over a grill and slowly frying them down with onion and tomato into a thick, chunky spread. The jars go into the cellar and come out all winter, spread on bread or eaten with mămăligă during the Orthodox fasts. It is coarser and more oniony than smooth Balkan ajvar, with bay and a long, jammy cook. Chef's tip: let the onions go fully soft and sweet before adding anything else; rushing them leaves a sharp, raw edge that the long cook never removes.

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Salată de vinete

Salată de vinete is on every Romanian table from Bucharest to Brașov in late summer, when market stalls are piled with aubergines and every balcony grill is busy charring them. The smoky flesh is chopped with a wooden knife and beaten with sunflower oil into a pale, fluffy spread, almost like a mayonnaise, then finished with sharp raw onion. There is no tahini or yogurt, which sets it apart from baba ganoush. It is eaten on toasted bread with sliced tomatoes for supper or as a meze before grilled vegetables. Chef's tip: drain the cooked aubergine well; leaving in the brown juices is the usual mistake and makes the salad bitter and watery.

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Ciorbă de legume

Ciorbă is the sour soup that opens a Romanian lunch, from canteens in Cluj to Sunday tables in Moldavia, and the vegetable version is cooked all through the fasting weeks before Easter and Christmas. Root vegetables, beans and peppers simmer in a light broth that is soured at the end with borș, the fermented wheat-bran liquid sold in bottles at Romanian shops, or with lemon juice. Fresh lovage (leuștean) gives its unmistakable celery-like perfume. It is eaten piping hot with bread and a fresh green chilli on the side. Chef's tip: add the borș only at the end and let it come back just to a simmer; boiling it hard dulls the sour tang.

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Fasole bătută

Fasole bătută, 'beaten beans', is the fasting-day spread of Romania: on Christmas Eve and through Lent, plates of it appear in homes from Bucharest to the monasteries of Bucovina. Soft white beans are mashed smooth with garlic and oil, then crowned with a tangle of slow-fried onions stained red with paprika. It is spread thickly on bread, or served beside pickles and mămăligă. Chef's tip: beat the beans while they are still warm; cold beans turn stiff and pasty, and a common mistake is adding too little liquid, so loosen with a splash of cooking water until the purée is light and fluffy.

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Tocăniță de ciuperci

Tocăniță is the everyday stew of Romanian home cooking, and the mushroom version is a fixture of the Orthodox fasting days, when Transylvanian cooks use forest mushrooms gathered in the Apuseni hills and city cooks use button mushrooms from the market. Onions, garlic, tomato, white wine and thyme cook down into a thick, glossy sauce, without the sour cream and paprika of a Hungarian paprikás. It is always eaten with hot mămăligă and a spoon of the sauce over the top. Chef's tip: brown the mushrooms in batches in a hot pan; crowding them is the usual mistake, and they then stew grey in their own water instead of turning golden.

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Papanași

Papanași are the dessert Romanians order after almost any restaurant meal, from the old town of Bucharest to the mountain chalets of Sinaia and Bran. A soft dough of fresh cheese, egg and semolina is shaped into a ring with a little ball on top, fried until puffed and golden, then crowned with cold smântână and sour cherry or blueberry jam. Warm, tangy and very rich, one is a full dessert. Chef's tip: use dry, crumbly cheese and drain it if it's wet; a common mistake is a sloppy dough that soaks up oil and falls apart, so add flour only until it just stops sticking.

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Mish-mash

Mish-mash is the quick summer supper of Bulgaria, cooked in every home from Sofia flats to Black Sea holiday villas once the peppers and tomatoes are cheap and ripe. Roasted peppers, onion and tomato are fried down, then sirene and beaten eggs are stirred through until soft and creamy, finished with parsley. The crumbled white brined cheese melting into the eggs is what makes it Bulgarian rather than Turkish menemen. It is eaten straight from the pan with fresh bread, often with a glass of cold beer. Chef's tip: cook the eggs gently and take them off while still a little wet; overcooking is the common mistake, and they turn rubbery and weep water.

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Cozonac

Cozonac is the festive loaf every Romanian family bakes for Easter and Christmas, filling kitchens from Craiova to Suceava with the smell of butter, rum, lemon and orange zest. The rich yeast dough is rolled around a walnut and cocoa filling studded with pieces of rahat (Turkish delight), then braided and baked in a tall loaf tin so each slice shows a dark swirl. Unlike Slovenian potica, which is rolled into a thin spiral ring, cozonac is a braided loaf. It is eaten in thick slices with coffee on the feast mornings. Chef's tip: knead until the dough is silky and comes away from the bowl, then be patient with the rises; under-proving is the classic mistake and gives a dense, heavy loaf.

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Plăcintă cu brânză

In Moldavia, on both sides of the Prut, plăcintă means a flat round pie fried or baked on a griddle, and the cheese and dill one is what grandmothers in Iași and Chișinău make for weekend breakfasts and for guests at the door. A soft, stretchy dough is pulled thin, wrapped around salty cheese with fresh dill and egg, coiled into a snail and flattened, then cooked in a pan until blistered and crisp. They are eaten hot with a glass of sour milk or tea. Chef's tip: rest the oiled dough properly so it stretches without tearing; skipping the rest is the common mistake and you'll be fighting a springy dough that leaks its filling.

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Cornulețe

Cornulețe are the little crescent cookies that fill tins in Romanian kitchens before Christmas and New Year, and that grandmothers in Sibiu and Timișoara bake by the hundred for weddings and name days. This version uses a tender yeasted dough made with butter and yogurt, wrapped around a spoonful of thick plum jam (magiun) or rose rahat and rolled into horns. They bake pale and soft, not flaky, and are rolled in vanilla sugar while warm (the recipe makes 32, two per serving), which sets them apart from the cream-cheese rugelach of Jewish baking. Chef's tip: use thick jam and pinch the ends shut; runny jam is the usual mistake and bubbles out and burns on the tray.

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Shopska salad

Shopska salata is named after the Shopi people of the Sofia region and has become Bulgaria's national salad, the first thing ordered at any mehana (tavern) with a cold glass of rakia. Ripe tomatoes, cucumber, onion and soft roasted peppers are dressed simply with sunflower oil and vinegar, then buried under finely grated sirene, the Bulgarian white brined cheese, so the top looks like fresh snow. Unlike a Greek village salad, there are no olives and the cheese is grated, not in a slab. Chef's tip: salt and dress the vegetables before the cheese goes on; dressing over the cheese is the common mistake and turns the white snow soggy.

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Tarator

Tarator is what Bulgarians eat on hot July days, from the Black Sea resorts of Varna and Burgas to Sofia lunch counters: a cold, thin soup of tangy yogurt and water with grated cucumber, garlic, dill and crushed walnuts, a drizzle of sunflower oil on top and sometimes an ice cube floating in the bowl. It is served as a starter or drunk from a glass beside a plate of grilled vegetables. Chef's tip: use full-fat, sour, set yogurt and thin it to the consistency of single cream; making it too thick is the usual mistake, and it should be sippable.

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Banitsa

Banitsa is the Bulgarian breakfast pie, bought warm in paper from corner bakeries in Sofia and Plovdiv with a bottle of ayran or boza, and baked at home on New Year's Eve with lucky charms (kasmeti) tucked inside. Crumpled sheets of filo are layered with crumbled sirene and a custard of yogurt and eggs, then baked until the top is shatteringly crisp and the inside soft and tangy. It is not boiled like Turkish su böreği: the yogurt custard is what makes it Bulgarian. Chef's tip: crumple the filo loosely rather than laying it flat; flat, tightly packed sheets are the usual mistake and give a dense, doughy pie.

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Lyutenitsa

Lyutenitsa is Bulgaria's pantry relish, cooked in huge pans in courtyards around Plovdiv and the Thracian plain every September, when the red peppers are at their sweetest. Roasted peppers, tomatoes and a little aubergine and carrot are ground smooth and simmered for hours into a thick, brick-red spread, warm with garlic and a little hot pepper. It is smoother and more tomato-rich than ajvar or zacuscă. Children grow up on it spread on bread with grated sirene (filiyka), and it goes with everything from eggs to beans. Chef's tip: stir from the bottom often as it thickens; walking away is the common mistake, and a scorched base will taint the whole pot.

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Chushki byurek

Chushki byurek are one of the great autumn dishes of Bulgaria: in September, when the long red peppers ripen around Plovdiv and Pazardzhik, they are roasted, peeled, filled with sirene and egg, then dipped in flour, egg and breadcrumbs and fried. The outside crunches, the pepper is silky and sweet, and the salty cheese melts inside. They are served hot as a main course with a tomato salad, or cold the next day. Chef's tip: dry the peeled peppers well before filling; a wet pepper is the usual mistake, and the batter slides off and the oil spits.

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Gyuvech

Gyuvech takes its name from the glazed clay pot it is baked in, and in late summer in the villages of the Rhodopes and the Thracian plain it is slid into the bread oven packed with peppers, aubergine, okra, green beans, potatoes and tomato, seasoned with paprika and the herb chubritsa (summer savory). In the last minutes, eggs are often cracked over the top and baked until just set. It is served straight from the pot with bread to scoop up the juices. Unlike Greek briam, the vegetables stew in a paprika broth under a lid rather than roasting in oil. Chef's tip: put a clay pot into a cold oven; heating it first is the usual mistake and can crack it.

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Ajvar

Every September the smell of charring peppers drifts over courtyards from Leskovac in southern Serbia to Strumica in North Macedonia, as families roast crates of long red babura peppers on wood stoves and spend a whole Sunday stirring the pulp into ajvar for the winter shelves. A little roasted aubergine softens the flavour, and long cooking with sunflower oil turns it into a glossy, sweet-smoky spread that is eaten on bread with white cheese, beside beans or potatoes, and with almost every winter meal. This is a home-sized batch for two medium jars rather than a cellar full. Chef's tip: do not rinse the roasted peppers under the tap to get the skins off; it washes away the smoky juices that make ajvar taste of autumn, so peel them with oiled fingers and a paper towel instead.

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Tebasaki (Nagoya fried chicken wings)

In Nagoya's izakaya, chicken wings come whole, with the mid-joint and tip still joined in a V, and they arrive in piles beside cold drinks. Tebasaki are fried without batter until the skin turns crisp and thin, then brushed with a sweet soy glaze and dusted heavily with pepper and sesame. The spice is the point: they should taste peppery, salty and sticky at once. Eat them with your hands, twisting the two bones apart to pull the meat off. Chef's tip: brush on the glaze the moment the wings leave the oil; hot, crisp skin soaks it up and stays crunchy, while cooled wings just turn sticky.

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Akashiyaki (Akashi egg and octopus dumplings)

Ask for tamagoyaki in Akashi, a fishing town on the coast of Hyogo, and you will be served these dumplings rather than a rolled omelette: that is what locals call them. Small shops near the Uonotana fish market sell them on tilted wooden boards, with a bowl of warm dashi for dipping. Compared with Osaka takoyaki, the batter is mostly egg and stock, so the balls are soft and trembling inside, and they come without sauce or mayonnaise. Akashi is famous for its octopus, and a piece sits in every ball. Chef's tip: oil the pan generously and fill each hollow right to the brim; the soft batter needs the extra to make a round, puffy ball.

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Wagyu steak, Kobe style

Kobe's steakhouses cook beef on a hot iron plate in front of the diners, cut it into bite-size pieces and serve it with little more than salt, wasabi and golden garlic chips. Genuine Kobe beef is a protected name: it can only come from certified Tajima cattle born and raised in Hyogo prefecture that meet strict grading rules, and it is rare and costly outside Japan. This recipe is cooked in the same style, with any good wagyu, or a well-marbled sirloin or ribeye if you cannot get wagyu. Because the fat is so rich, a modest portion goes a long way. Chef's tip: cut a small piece of fat from the edge of the steak and melt it in the pan instead of oil; it greases the pan and adds a lovely beefy aroma.

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Onomichi ramen

Onomichi is a hilly port town in Hiroshima prefecture on the Seto Inland Sea, and the start of the Shimanami Kaido cycle route across the islands to Shikoku. Its ramen shops serve a dark soy-seasoned broth made from chicken and small dried fish, with flat, slightly wavy noodles. The signature is a scattering of soft pork back-fat pieces that float on top and melt into each mouthful. Many visitors eat a bowl before or after the bike ride. Chef's tip: pull the heads and dark bellies off the dried sardines before using them; that is where the bitterness lives, and the cleaned fish give a sweet, clean sea flavour.

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Okayama barazushi

Okayama families make a big shallow platter of barazushi for the autumn shrine festivals, Girls' Day in March and other celebrations, and it is sold in station lunch boxes all year. A local story says it began when a lord ordered people to eat only one side dish, so cooks hid everything in the rice instead. The seasoned rice is mixed with simmered vegetables and topped with seafood from the Seto Inland Sea. This version uses cooked prawns, gently simmered squid and egg threads, plus ready-made vinegared mackerel, which is cured but not cooked. Use very fresh, sushi-grade fish from a trusted fishmonger; not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. Leave the mackerel out, or add extra prawns, to make it fully cooked. Chef's tip: fold the vinegar into the rice while it is hot and fan it as you go; the rice soaks up the seasoning and turns glossy instead of wet.

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Hiroshima oyster nabe (kaki nabe)

Hiroshima Bay is lined with oyster rafts, and from late autumn to early spring the city's restaurants put kaki nabe on the menu. In the version called dote nabe, a thick band of sweetened miso is smeared around the inside of the pot like a riverbank, then melts into the broth bit by bit as you eat. Cabbage, tofu, leek and mushrooms go in first; the oysters only need a few minutes at the end. It is cooked at the table on a portable burner, so everyone eats it as it is ready. Chef's tip: rinse the shucked oysters in a bowl with potato starch and a little salt, then in clean water; the grey starch pulls out grit and slime and leaves them clean-tasting.

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Katsuo no tataki

Kochi, on the Pacific coast of Shikoku, is Japan's bonito town. At Hirome Market in the city centre, cooks sear whole loins over roaring straw fires and slice them to order, served thick with garlic slices, onion and ponzu or just a pinch of salt. Bonito has two seasons there: the leaner first catch of spring and the fattier fish returning south in autumn. At home a very hot dry pan, or a blowtorch, gives the same charred skin around a cool red centre. Use very fresh, sushi-grade fish from a trusted fishmonger; not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. Chef's tip: slice it thick, about 1 cm, as they do in Kochi; thin slices lose the contrast between the smoky crust and the soft middle.

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Tavče gravče

Tavče gravče, 'beans in a pan', is the dish North Macedonians call their own: large white beans, ideally the Tetovo variety, cooked soft, then baked in a shallow earthenware tava with onions fried in paprika until the top forms a crust. In Skopje it is a Friday staple and a Christmas Eve fast-day dish, served in the same clay dish it baked in, with bread, pickled peppers and a cabbage salad. This version keeps to the meat-free fasting style, with a paprika-and-onion roux for depth. Chef's tip: let the paprika sizzle in the oil for only a few seconds off the heat; scorched paprika turns brown and bitter and spoils the whole dish, which is the most common slip.

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Pindjur

Where ajvar is the patient winter preserve, pindjur is its quick summer cousin, made in Macedonian and Bosnian kitchens in July and August when tomatoes are at their ripest. Roasted peppers and aubergine are chopped rather than ground, then simmered briefly with fresh tomatoes and plenty of garlic, so it stays chunky, juicy and bright. It is eaten warm or at room temperature, scooped up with bread and a slab of white cheese, as part of a mezze spread in Ohrid or Mostar. Chef's tip: chop everything with a knife instead of a blender; a puréed pindjur loses the texture that sets it apart from ajvar.

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Fërgesë

Fërgesë is the dish people in Tirana order at lunchtime in a small clay pot, still bubbling, with a basket of bread for dipping. Soft fried peppers and tomatoes are folded through gjizë, Albania's fresh salted curd cheese, then baked until the top spots golden. The meatless version with peppers is the everyday one across central Albania; it is rich, tangy and gently spicy. Ricotta mixed with a little feta is a good stand-in for gjizë outside Albania. Chef's tip: cook the tomatoes down until thick before the cheese goes in; a watery fërgesë that splits in the oven is the usual mistake.

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Zagorski štrukli

In Hrvatsko Zagorje, the green hill country north of Zagreb, štrukli are Sunday food: paper-thin dough is spread with fresh cow's cheese, rolled up, pinched into pieces with the edge of a plate, then boiled and finished in the oven under a blanket of cream. Zagreb restaurants serve them as a starter or a main, blistered golden on top and soft and custardy inside. The dough is stretched by hand over a tablecloth, which is easier than it sounds once it has rested. Chef's tip: squeeze the cheese if it is wet; a runny filling soaks the thin dough and makes the rolls tear when they boil.

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Potica

No Slovenian Easter or Christmas table is complete without potica, a yeasted dough rolled thin around a honeyed walnut filling and baked in a fluted ring mould called a potičnik. When sliced, each piece shows a tight spiral of pale dough and dark nuts. Families in Ljubljana and across Carniola argue about the best filling, but walnut with honey is the classic one, eaten with coffee from Christmas morning until the tin is empty. Unlike a braided Romanian cozonac, the beauty is all in the thin, even swirl. Chef's tip: spread the filling no thicker than the dough and roll it up tightly; a loose roll or a thick layer leaves a gap between dough and filling once baked, the most common potica fault.

210 minBalkanBaking
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Bled kremšnita

Kremšnita has been served in the cafés on the shore of Lake Bled since the 1950s, and a tall, wobbling square of it with a coffee and a view of the island church is still the reason many people stop in the town. It is a thick layer of vanilla custard, lightened with whipped egg whites, topped with whipped cream and sandwiched between thin sheets of crisp puff pastry. The custard holds its shape with egg yolks, cornflour and meringue alone; there is no gelatine. Chef's tip: fold the meringue into the custard while it is still boiling hot and keep stirring on a low heat for a minute, so the whites cook and set the cream.

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Tufahije

Tufahije came to Bosnia with the Ottomans, and the name comes from the Persian and Arabic word for apple. In Sarajevo's old Baščaršija quarter they sit in the windows of slastičarne (sweet shops), whole apples poached pale in lemon syrup, filled with sweet walnuts and capped with whipped cream; at home they are a favourite after the iftar meal during Ramadan and at Bajram. They are soft, juicy and only moderately sweet. Chef's tip: choose firm, slightly tart apples and poach them gently; boiling them hard is the classic mistake and leaves you with split, mushy apples.

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Fritule

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.

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Houskové knedlíky

Houskové knedlíky are the sliced bread dumplings that sit beside almost every sauce in a Prague pub, from mushroom svíčková-style cream sauces to sweet-sour dill gravy. Unlike the round German Semmelknödel, these are a soft yeast dough rolled into a log with crisp cubes of stale roll inside, simmered whole, then cut into thick, spongy slices that drink up gravy. Czech grandmothers still slice them with a length of thread rather than a knife, which keeps the crumb open instead of squashing it. Chef's tip: cut the cooked loaf with a piece of cotton thread wrapped around it and pulled tight; a knife presses the slices into dense, gluey discs.

55 minCzechSides
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Smažený sýr

Smažený sýr, a thick slab of breaded Edam fried until molten, is the dish every Czech student orders at a Prague hospoda and the one vegetarian main that turns up on nearly every menu from Brno to the Šumava mountain huts. It comes with tatarská omáčka (tartare sauce) and either boiled potatoes or chips, and a cold pivo on the side. The joy is the crunch giving way to stretchy, salty cheese. Chef's tip: chill the breaded slices for 20 minutes and double-coat them, otherwise the cheese bursts out into the oil before the crumb is golden.

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Bryndzové halušky

Bryndzové halušky is Slovakia's national dish, cooked in every koliba (timber shepherd's restaurant) in the Liptov and Orava valleys and fought over each summer at the halušky-eating contest in Turecká. Little grated-potato dumplings are tossed while hot with bryndza, a tangy, spreadable sheep's cheese, and finished with a sour milk drink called žinčica. The traditional topping is crisp smoked bacon; here golden fried onions bring the same savoury crunch, and meat-eaters can add bacon on their own plates. Chef's tip: grate the potatoes at the last moment and work fast; grated potato left standing turns grey and watery and the dumplings go heavy.

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Kulajda

Kulajda comes from South Bohemia, the land of carp ponds and pine forests around České Budějovice and Český Krumlov, where families come home from the woods in late summer with baskets of porcini. It is a thick, pale, gently sour soup of potatoes, mushrooms, cream and plenty of dill, finished with vinegar and served with a soft poached egg floating in each bowl. It is eaten as a filling lunch on its own with a slice of rye bread. Chef's tip: add the vinegar off the heat and taste as you go; the soup should be clearly tangy but never sharp, like a good pickle brine softened by cream.

50 minCzechSoups
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Česnečka

Česnečka is the soup Czechs swear by after a long night in a Prague pivnice: a thin, savoury broth fragrant with raw garlic, caraway and marjoram, with soft potato cubes, crunchy fried bread and a fistful of grated cheese melting into each bowl. It costs almost nothing, comes together in half an hour and is served in workers' canteens and village pubs all winter. This version uses vegetable stock instead of the old meat bouillon. Chef's tip: crush the garlic into the bowls or add it right at the end off the heat; boiled garlic goes sweet and mild, and česnečka should bite.

30 minCzechSoups
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Ovocné knedlíky

Ovocné knedlíky are the summer main course of Czech childhoods: in July with apricots from South Moravian orchards, in September with blue plums, eaten as lunch rather than pudding. Each soft quark dumpling hides a whole fruit that turns jammy as it simmers, and they are served the old way, rolled in melted butter and buried under grated tvaroh (quark) and icing sugar. Kids compete over who can eat the most. Chef's tip: pinch the dough completely closed with no thin patches; a single gap lets water in and the dumpling bursts in the pot.

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Moravské koláče

In the villages of South Moravia and Wallachia, nobody gets married without a mountain of koláče: small round yeast buns with a deep hollow filled with sweetened poppy seed, vanilla quark or povidla (thick plum butter), each crowned with buttery posypka crumble. Relatives bake hundreds for the wedding and send guests home with boxes of them, and they turn up again at village fairs (pouť) and Sunday coffee. Chef's tip: press the hollow deep and wide just before filling; the dough rises again in the oven, and a shallow dip pushes the filling over the edge.

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Buchty

Buchty are the soft, pillowy yeast buns that Czech grandmothers bake in a roasting tin on Saturday, filled with povidla (plum butter), jam or sweet quark and packed so close that they rise into each other and have to be torn apart. They are the Czech answer to a cinnamon bun: eaten warm with milky coffee, packed for train journeys and school trips, and famous from the fairy tale in which the hero sets off with a bag of his mother's buchty. Unlike open koláče, the filling is sealed inside. Chef's tip: brush the sides of each bun with melted butter before you pack them in, so they pull apart cleanly with soft, shiny walls.

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Olivier salad (vegetarian)

Salat Olivier was born in a fashionable Moscow restaurant in the 1860s, but today it belongs to every Russian kitchen on 31 December, when a bowl the size of a washing-up basin is made in the afternoon and eaten until 1 January is well over. Soviet cooks swapped the original's game for boiled sausage; this vegetarian version leaves it out and lets the sweet carrots, peas, sharp pickled cucumbers and creamy egg carry the salad. Chef's tip: cut everything to the size of a pea, the same size as the peas themselves; that is what makes Olivier feel like Olivier rather than potato salad.

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Shchi

Shchi is the oldest soup in Russian cooking, the one the proverb pairs with porridge: 'shchi da kasha, pishcha nasha' (shchi and kasha, that's our food). In villages from Vologda to Ryazan it was left to mellow in the warmth of the big masonry stove, and in summer and early autumn it is made with fresh young cabbage rather than the sour winter version. Unlike Ukrainian kapusniak there is no sauerkraut or millet here: just sweet cabbage, root vegetables, tomato, bay and dill, with a cold spoon of smetana stirred into each bowl. Chef's tip: shchi tastes better the next day, so make it a day ahead and reheat gently.

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Okroshka

When Moscow swelters in July, okroshka replaces every hot soup: a bowl of finely chopped radishes, cucumber, potato, egg and a forest of green onion and dill, with ice-cold kvass poured over at the table. It is the lunch of dacha weekends and of hot afternoons on the Volga, and families argue over whether kvass or kefir is the right base (kefir works well and is less sweet). The name comes from kroshit, to crumble, since everything is chopped small. Chef's tip: rub the spring onions and dill with salt first until they give off juice; it releases a green, pungent flavour that tastes of summer.

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Mushroom stroganoff

Beef stroganoff was named after the aristocratic Stroganov family of St Petersburg in the nineteenth century, and the original is strips of beef in a sauce of smetana and mustard. In Russian homes today the meatless version, made with forest mushrooms in autumn and button mushrooms the rest of the year, is just as common, especially during Orthodox fasts and on weeknights. It differs from Hungarian paprikás: no paprika, a gentle mustard edge, and a sauce that should stay pale and creamy. Serve it on fluffy buckwheat or mashed potatoes. Chef's tip: stir the smetana in off the boil; bubbling it hard makes it split into grainy curds.

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Pirozhki

Pirozhki, little oval pies of soft yeast dough, are what a Russian babushka has waiting on the kitchen table when the grandchildren arrive, and what used to be sold warm from steel carts at Moscow metro stations. They are eaten with a bowl of soup, packed for the train, or simply grabbed from the plate all afternoon. Fillings change with the season; the two most loved meatless ones are buttery cabbage with chopped egg and creamy mashed potato with fried onion and dill. Chef's tip: let the fillings cool completely before shaping; warm filling softens the dough and the buns tear and leak.

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Ovoshchnoe ragu

Ovoshchnoe ragu is what happens at a Russian dacha in August, when the garden outside Moscow or Nizhny Novgorod produces more courgettes, cabbage, peppers and new potatoes than anyone can eat. Everything is fried in turn, then stewed together in one heavy pot with tomato until soft and spoonable, and eaten hot with black bread, or cold the next day. It is homelier than French ratatouille or Greek briam: cabbage and potatoes give it body, and dill and garlic go in right at the end. Chef's tip: fry each vegetable separately before stewing; dumping everything in raw gives a watery, boiled taste.

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Sharlotka

Sharlotka is the cake every Russian family bakes in September, when dachas around Moscow and Saint Petersburg drown in Antonovka apples. It is nothing like Polish szarlotka with its shortcrust: here the tin is packed with sliced tart apples and a feather-light batter of whisked eggs, sugar and flour is poured over, so it bakes into an airy, crackly-topped sponge holding a soft apple layer. Only four ingredients, and it is on the table in under an hour with tea from the samovar. Chef's tip: whisk the eggs and sugar for a full 8 minutes until pale and tripled; that air is the only raising agent and a short whisk gives a flat, rubbery cake.

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Ptichye moloko

Ptichye moloko, 'bird's milk', is named for the impossible treat in old fairy tales, and in 1978 Moscow's Praga restaurant turned it into a cake: a cloud of vanilla soufflé on a thin sponge, glazed with dark chocolate. Soviet shoppers queued for hours for the boxed version, and it is still the cake for birthdays and 8 March. The soufflé has always been set with agar, a seaweed jelly, which makes it naturally free of gelatine and gives a clean, springy bite. Chef's tip: boil the agar syrup to exactly 110°C (a thread forms between two fingers); undercooked syrup leaves the soufflé weepy and soft.

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Kompot

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.

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Kvass

Before the cola era, kvass was Russia's everyday thirst-quencher, sold every summer from yellow barrel trailers on Moscow street corners and poured into glass mugs. At home it is brewed from dried rye bread, sugar and a pinch of yeast, fermented for a day or two until it tastes malty, a little sour and gently fizzy, and only about 1% alcohol. It is drunk ice cold and is also the broth for okroshka. Chef's tip: toast the bread until really dark, almost burnt at the edges; that is where kvass gets its deep colour and its toasted, malty taste.

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Mofongo

In Puerto Rico mofongo is the dish people drive out to the kioskos of Piñones and the roadside fondas of Arecibo for: green plantain fried in chunks, then pounded while hot in a wooden pilón with raw garlic and good olive oil until it holds together in a rough, crusty dome. The outside stays a little crisp, the inside is soft, starchy and fiercely garlicky. Most places pound in chicharrón (pork crackling); this garlic-oil version is the main one here, and the crackling is a note at the end for meat eaters. Serve it with a small bowl of hot caldo to spoon over, or with stewed beans or a tomato sofrito sauce. Chef's tip: warm the garlic in the olive oil only until it smells sweet, never until it browns, so the mofongo tastes of fresh garlic rather than bitter toast.

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Dak galbi

Chuncheon, a lakeside city in Gangwon province, is so proud of dak galbi that it has a whole lane of restaurants and a yearly festival for it. There, a waiter stir-fries the marinated chicken, cabbage, sweet potato and rice cakes on a huge round iron pan in the middle of your table. When the pan is nearly empty, rice is fried in the leftover sauce to finish the meal. This version is made in a large frying pan or wok at home. Chef's tip: a teaspoon of curry powder in the marinade is a Chuncheon trick; you won't taste curry, but the sauce tastes deeper.

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Andong jjimdak

Andong jjimdak took shape in the 1980s in the old market of Andong, a city in North Gyeongsang province, where an alley of small restaurants still serves it on big platters for sharing. Chicken on the bone is braised in a dark, sweet soy sauce with potatoes, carrots and a few dried chillies, then slippery glass noodles are stirred in at the end to soak up the sauce. It is salty, sweet and only gently hot. Serve with rice and kimchi. Chef's tip: soak the glass noodles in warm water for 30 minutes before you start, so they only need 5 minutes in the pot.

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Yangnyeom chicken (Korean fried chicken)

Fried chicken shops are on almost every street corner in Korea, and late-night delivery boxes are shared over sport on TV or by the river in summer. The pairing with beer even has its own word, chimaek, but an ice-cold alcohol-free beer, barley tea or a fizzy drink works just as well. Yangnyeom chicken is the glazed kind, tossed in a sweet, garlicky gochujang sauce, and it always comes with cubes of white pickled radish to cut the richness. Chef's tip: let the chicken rest for 5 minutes between the two fries; the moisture that rises to the surface is what the second fry turns into a shatteringly crisp shell.

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Jeyuk bokkeum

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.

25 minKoreanMeatSpicy
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Suwon galbi

Suwon, south of Seoul in Gyeonggi province, once had one of the largest cattle markets in Korea, and its galbi houses grew up around that trade. The city's style is unusual: the long, butterflied short ribs are seasoned mainly with salt, garlic and sesame oil rather than the soy marinade most people know. Families and office groups grill them at the table over charcoal, snip them into pieces with scissors and wrap each bite in lettuce with ssamjang and raw garlic. At home a ridged griddle pan or a barbecue does the job well. Chef's tip: score the opened-out meat lightly in a criss-cross pattern on both sides, so the salt seasoning soaks in and the ribbon of meat stays flat on the grill.

90 minKoreanMeat
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Ojingeo sundae

Abai Village in Sokcho, on Gangwon's east coast, was settled by people from Hamgyeong province in the north who could not go home after the Korean War. With squid plentiful in the East Sea, they stuffed it the way they had once stuffed pork casings for sundae, and the dish is now sold in the village's small restaurants and at Sokcho's Jungang market. The squid is filled with sticky rice, tofu and vegetables, steamed, cut into rounds and fried in beaten egg until golden. It makes a good sharing plate with a soy and vinegar dip. Chef's tip: mix a little glutinous rice into the filling; it binds the slices so they don't fall apart in the pan.

90 minKoreanFish
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Ojingeo bokkeum

Around the harbours of the Chungcheong coast on the Yellow Sea, seafood restaurants fry freshly landed squid in a sticky red sauce, and the same dish turns up in lunch canteens and home kitchens all over Korea. Bright with chilli, it's on the table in about twenty minutes and is often piled straight onto rice as ojingeo deopbap. The sauce is gochujang and chilli flakes sweetened with a little sugar, and the vegetables stay crisp. Serve with rice and a bowl of light soup to cool things down. Chef's tip: mix the sauce before you light the hob, because the squid cooks so fast that there is no time to measure anything once it's in the pan.

20 minKoreanFishSpicy
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Dak bokkeumtang

Chicken on the bone braised with big chunks of potato in a thick red sauce is a weeknight staple in Daejeon, the central city where many Korean rail lines meet, and in homes right across the country. Some people still call it dakdoritang. Unlike Andong's soy-based jjimdak, it gets its colour and heat from chilli flakes and gochujang, and the potatoes slowly thicken the sauce as they soften. It's usually brought to the table in the pot and shared, with rice and kimchi, and the last of the sauce is spooned over rice. Chef's tip: blanch the chicken for 3 minutes and rinse it first; this takes away scum and excess fat, so the sauce stays bright and clean-tasting.

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Yukjeon

In Gwangju, yukjeon is a restaurant meal in its own right: the server sits by a hot plate at your table and fries slice after slice of egg-coated beef, handing them over while they're still sizzling. Elsewhere in Korea it's more often a festive pancake, made for Chuseok and Lunar New Year along with other jeon. The beef is cut very thin, so it cooks in the time it takes the egg to set. Gwangju places serve it with a sharp salad of finely shredded spring onion and a little salt and sesame oil for dipping. Chef's tip: half-freeze the beef for 40 minutes before slicing; firm meat is easy to cut into slices 2 to 3 mm thick.

25 minKoreanMeat
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Milmyeon

Busan's milmyeon was born in the refugee years of the Korean War, when people from the north who had fled to the port city wanted the cold buckwheat noodles of home but could only get wheat flour, much of it from food aid. The noodles that resulted are chewier and paler than naengmyeon, and the broth is flavoured with beef bones, vegetables and sometimes medicinal herbs, then served icy cold. A spoonful of spicy red sauce sits on top, and diners add vinegar and mustard to taste. In summer, long queues form outside milmyeon shops across Busan. Making the broth the day before is easiest, though an ice bath and the freezer get it cold in about an hour. Chef's tip: serve the broth so cold that a slushy layer of ice floats on top, as Busan shops do; a wide container in the freezer gets it there.

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Dwaeji gukbap

Ask anyone in Busan for a bowl of something filling at any hour and they will probably send you for dwaeji gukbap. Seomyeon has a whole alley of gukbap restaurants, open from early morning to late at night, serving the soup to market workers, students and people heading home after a night out. Pork bones are boiled hard for hours until the broth turns cloudy and white, then poured over sliced pork and rice. Each diner seasons their own bowl at the table with salted shrimp, chilli paste and a pile of garlic chives, with raw onion, green chilli and kimchi on the side. Chef's tip: season the soup in the bowl, not the pot; a little saeujeot at a time gives a clean, savoury depth that salt alone doesn't.

180 minKoreanSoups
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Eomuk-tang

On cold evenings in Busan, the city that made Korean fish cake famous, steam rises from street stalls where folded fish-cake skewers bob in a long tray of broth. You help yourself to a skewer, dip it in soy sauce and sip a paper cup of the hot broth while you stand. Bupyeong market has rows of fish-cake shops, and many families buy a bag there to make this simple soup at home. Radish, dried anchovies and kelp give the broth its clean, sweet flavour. Chef's tip: pull the heads and black guts off the dried anchovies before using them, because the guts make the broth bitter.

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Maeun galbijjim

Dongin-dong in Daegu has a street of restaurants that serve one thing: beef short ribs braised until soft and smothered in a thick paste of red chilli and crushed garlic, brought to the table in battered aluminium pots. The dish is counted among Daegu's ten signature foods, and the city is known for liking its food hot. It's much spicier and less sweet than the soy-braised galbijjim made for holidays. Eat it with plenty of rice, lettuce and a cold drink, and keep a napkin handy. Chef's tip: use far more garlic than seems sensible; the crushed raw garlic stirred in at the end is what makes the Dongin-dong style.

120 minKoreanMeatSpicy
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Jeonbok juk

Jeju's haenyeo, the island's women free-divers, have gathered abalone from its rocky coast for generations, and porridge made with it is a favourite breakfast on the island. Restaurants near the harbours and many hotel breakfast tables offer it, often a soft green-grey from the abalone guts cooked into the rice. It's gentle, warming food, also cooked for anyone who is unwell or tired. Frozen cleaned abalone works well; the porridge is just paler without the guts. Chef's tip: toast the soaked rice in sesame oil with the abalone until the grains turn translucent at the edges before adding any water; it gives the porridge its nutty flavour.

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Gogi guksu

Gogi guksu goes back to Jeju's village feasts, where a pig was slaughtered for a wedding or funeral and its bones were boiled into broth for noodles to feed everyone. In Jeju City there is now a street of noodle restaurants near Samseonghyeol shrine, popular for a quick lunch and with visitors fresh off the plane. The broth is cloudy and rich, the noodles are thick and chewy, and the slices of boiled pork on top are often from the island's black pigs. Diners add chilli flakes and spring onion as they like. Chef's tip: dip the cooked noodles into the hot broth in a sieve for 20 seconds before they go in the bowl; they heat through without going soft.

180 minKoreanSoups
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Sundubu jjigae

All over Korea, small lunch restaurants bring sundubu jjigae to the table still boiling in a black stone pot, with a raw egg on the side to crack in while it bubbles. The stew is built on very soft, unpressed tofu, which breaks into creamy curds in a red, chilli-oil broth. Seafood and pork go in together here, though you can use just one. Have it with a bowl of rice and some kimchi; it's especially welcome on a cold day. Chef's tip: fry the chilli flakes gently in oil with the pork and garlic before adding liquid; this red chilli oil gives the stew its colour and a deep, rounded heat.

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Gambas al ajillo

Walk into a bar near Madrid's Plaza Mayor or Puerta del Sol and you will hear gambas al ajillo before you see them: peeled prawns still spitting in a small terracotta cazuela of olive oil, sliced garlic and dried chilli. They arrive at the table bubbling, with a basket of bread for mopping up the golden oil, which many people think is the best part. At home it takes ten minutes and works as a tapa for four or a quick supper for two. Chef's tip: pat the prawns completely dry with kitchen paper before they go in, so they sizzle in the oil instead of stewing in their own water.

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Pho ga

In Hanoi some shops sell nothing but chicken pho, and locals often choose it over beef for a gentler breakfast or a late bowl after an evening out. The broth is lighter than the beef version, made in about an hour from a whole bird with a few charred aromatics and only a hint of spice. The northern signature is a tangle of makrut lime leaf, cut as fine as thread, scattered over the hot chicken just before serving. It's a good first pho to make at home, since the timing is forgiving and the chicken poaches in the same pot. Chef's tip: plunge the cooked chicken into iced water for 5 minutes; the skin turns firm and slightly springy, the way Hanoi cooks like it.

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Bun cha

Around 11 in the morning, the side streets of Hanoi's Old Quarter fill with smoke as cooks fan little charcoal braziers loaded with pork. Bun cha is the city's lunch: grilled patties and caramelised strips of pork belly served floating in a warm bowl of thin, sweet-sour fish sauce, with cold rice vermicelli and a basket of lettuce and herbs to dip in alongside. Each mouthful is a bit of noodle, a bit of meat and a leaf or two, all dunked together. A barbecue gives the real smoky edge, but a ridged grill pan works well indoors. Chef's tip: let the grilled meat sit in the warm sauce for a few minutes before eating, so the smoky fat seasons the sauce and the sauce soaks into the meat.

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