Carrot juice with saffron ice cream
Every juice bar in Tehran, from Tajrish Square to the stalls of Valiasr Street, sells ab havij bastani: a tall glass of fresh, ice-cold carrot juice with a scoop of saffron ice cream floating on top. People eat it with a long spoon in summer, stirring the melting ice cream into the juice until it turns creamy and pale orange. It is sweet, earthy and cooling, and kids treat it as a dessert. Chef's tip: chill the carrots well before juicing; warm juice melts the ice cream at once and loses its fresh taste.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
Kachumbari is the raw salad that goes with nearly everything in Kenya and Tanzania: nyama choma grills in Nairobi, pilau on the Swahili coast, chips mayai at roadside stalls and ugali at home. It is simply ripe tomato and red onion cut small, with coriander, chilli and lime, and sometimes cucumber or avocado. Chef's tip: soak the sliced onion in salted water for ten minutes; it takes away the harsh bite without losing the crunch.
Methi matar malai belongs to the Punjabi wedding buffet and the dhaba menu as much as to winter home cooking, when bunches of fresh fenugreek pile up in the markets of Ludhiana and Jalandhar. Bitter-sweet methi leaves and sweet green peas sit in a pale, silky gravy of onion, cashew and cream, mild enough for children and rich enough for a celebration. Serve it with butter naan, lachha paratha or jeera rice. Chef's tip: salt the chopped methi and squeeze it before cooking; it takes away much of the bitterness while keeping the flavour.
On the roadside grills of Douala and Yaoundé, women split tilapia or mackerel, smear them with a green paste of ginger, garlic, onion and herbs, and grill them over charcoal while people wait with a cold drink; it is late-evening food, eaten with fried plantain, bobolo (cassava sticks) or miondo and a fiery tomato pepper sauce. At home a very hot grill or a barbecue does the job. The mistake is turning the fish too early, so it sticks and breaks: wait until the skin is crisp and releases. Chef's tip: oil the fish and the grill bars, not just one of them.
Metemgee (also mettagee or 'mettem') is Guyanese country food from the coastal villages: ground provisions, cassava, eddoes, sweet potato, yam and plantain, layered in a pot and cooked in coconut milk until soft, with duff (dumplings) steamed on top. The broth thickens from the starch into a creamy, thyme-and-pepper gravy. It's usually served with fried salt fish; here it's all vegetables, with okra added. Chef's tip: layer the hardest vegetables at the bottom and the softest on top, then don't stir; everything ends up cooked at the same moment.
Pol roti is the hearty coconut flatbread that rural Sri Lankans eat for breakfast or an evening meal, cooked on a flat iron pan (thachchi) and torn up with lunu miris, parippu or a spicy potato curry; you'll see it stacked in glass cases in kades from Anuradhapura to Matara. Wheat flour is mixed with lots of freshly grated coconut, finely chopped onion and green chilli, and the dough is patted out thick by hand, so the roti come out chewy, with toasted coconut flecks and a sweet, savoury smell. The common mistake is rolling them thin: pol roti should be a good 1 cm thick and soft inside. Chef's tip: pat each roti out on a banana leaf or oiled baking paper and flip it straight onto the pan; it's too soft and crumbly to lift any other way.
Pol sambol sits on the table at almost every Sri Lankan meal, from breakfast hoppers and string hoppers in a Kandy home to a rice packet bought at a roadside kade. Grandmothers grind it on a stone (miris gala) so the chilli and onion bruise into the coconut, and it turns a bright brick red, hot, sour and salty all at once. Most island recipes add a spoonful of Maldive fish (dried tuna flakes); we leave it out to keep it vegetarian and add a little extra onion and lime for depth. A common mistake is using dried desiccated coconut straight from the packet, which tastes dusty; fresh or frozen grated coconut gives the proper moist texture. Chef's tip: rub the chilli, onion and salt together first with your fingers until they turn juicy, then work in the coconut so every flake turns red.
In the Veneto and the mountain valleys of the north-east, polenta is the old daily staple, poured steaming onto a wooden board in the middle of the table. Its classic autumn partner is funghi trifolati: mushrooms sautéed with garlic, parsley and a splash of white wine until glossy and deeply savoury. Soft polenta is spooned into bowls with the mushrooms on top, a warming supper for a cold night. Chef's tip: whisk the cornmeal into the water in a thin stream; if it goes in all at once, it lumps and no amount of stirring will fix it.
Kachri is a small wild melon that grows on its own in the sandy fields of southern Haryana and western Rajasthan. Sliced and sun-dried, it keeps for a year and has a sharp, sour taste that farmers' families grind with garlic and red chilli into this fiery chutney. A spoonful goes with bajra roti and white butter on a winter afternoon, or with dal and rice when there is nothing else in the house. Dried kachri and kachri powder are sold in Indian grocers. Chef's tip: taste a piece of dried kachri first; occasionally one batch is bitter, and that bitterness will ruin the whole jar.
Shwe yin aye, roughly 'golden heart cooler', is what Yangon drinks during the scorching weeks of Thingyan, the April water festival, when stalls set up along the streets to hand it out. It's a bowl of sweet, lightly salted coconut milk over crushed ice, filled with chewy sago pearls, cubes of green agar jelly, a scoop of sticky rice and, surprisingly, a few pieces of soft white bread that soak up the coconut. Chef's tip: make the jelly, sago and sticky rice in the morning and chill everything; assembled cold, the bowl stays refreshing to the last spoonful.
Born in the 1950s in Chaclacayo, just east of Lima, this rotisserie chicken has grown into a national obsession, with its own holiday on the third Sunday of July and a pollería on almost every block. The bird is marinated in soy sauce, lime, garlic, cumin and ají panca, then roasted until the skin is lacquered and dark. At home a hot oven does the job, and the meal is not complete without chips, a simple salad and a jar of creamy green ají sauce. Chef's tip: dry the skin well and leave the chicken uncovered in the fridge overnight after marinating; it roasts up much crisper.
Siddu are soft, steamed wheat buns from the hills of Himachal Pradesh, especially around Kullu and Manali, made on cold days with a warming filling. The yeasted wholemeal dough is wrapped around ground walnuts, poppy seeds, garlic and green chilli, then steamed until fluffy. Torn open and drenched in melted ghee, they're eaten with green chutney or dal. Some homes fill them with spiced urad dal instead. Chef's tip: let the shaped siddu rise for 15 minutes before steaming, and don't open the lid early; a sudden draught makes them collapse and turn dense.
Mesaqa'a shares a name with Greek moussaka but is a different dish: there's no béchamel and no cheese, just fried aubergine slices baked in a garlicky tomato sauce with green peppers and chilli until soft and jammy. In Cairo it is a weekday family dish and a favourite during the summer heat and in the Coptic fasting seasons, when many families eat no animal products; it tastes even better the next day at room temperature, scooped up with baladi bread. Chef's tip: salt the aubergine and press it dry, then roast or shallow-fry it until truly golden; pale aubergine makes a watery, grey mesaqa'a.
Kacchi biryani is the wedding dish of Old Dhaka: at every Bangladeshi biye the huge copper pots come out, and the lanes around Nazira Bazar are famous for it. 'Kacchi' means raw: the mutton goes into the pot uncooked, marinated in yogurt and spices, under a layer of half-cooked aromatic rice and fried potatoes, and everything steams together for over an hour so the meat juices cook the rice. Serve it with borhani, the spiced yogurt drink, and a salad of sliced cucumber and onion. The common mistake is under-marinating or using lean meat cut too large; small pieces of shoulder with some fat, marinated overnight in the fridge, cook through in time. Chef's tip: seal the lid with a rope of dough; if no steam escapes, the meat at the bottom becomes tender without you ever opening the pot.
If one soup feeds Turkey, it is this. Mercimek çorbası is on the counter of every lokanta (tradesmen's restaurant), in factory and hospital canteens, and it is often what Turks eat for breakfast on a cold morning or to break the fast in Ramadan. Red lentils simmered with onion, carrot and potato are blended until velvety, then each bowl gets a squeeze of lemon and a swirl of butter sizzled with Aleppo pepper and dried mint. It is warming, cheap and filling. Chef's tip: rinse the lentils in several changes of water until it runs clear; it washes off the starch that makes the soup foam and taste dusty.
Kabuli pulao crossed the Khyber Pass from Afghanistan and is now part of everyday cooking in Peshawar and across Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, where it is the dish of honour for guests and the centre of Eid tables. Lamb on the bone is simmered into a rich stock, then rice is cooked in that stock and the meat is buried in the middle so it stays soft. On top go strips of carrot and raisins, glazed in a little sugar, and toasted almonds. It isn't spicy, just warm with cumin and cardamom. Chef's tip: caramelise a spoon of sugar in the oil before adding the stock; it gives the rice its traditional golden-brown colour.
Polos is the tiny unripe jackfruit picked in the Western and Sabaragamuwa provinces long before it sweetens, and cooked low and slow it becomes one of the island's most loved festival curries, especially at Sinhala and Tamil New Year in April and at wedding lunches. The firm, pale flesh soaks up a very dark roasted curry powder, garlic, ginger, goraka (a smoky souring fruit) and coconut milk until it turns almost black-brown and tastes rich, sour and meaty. Fresh polos is hard to find abroad; tinned young green jackfruit in brine works well. A frequent mistake is not cooking it long enough, which leaves it squeaky; the pieces must be soft enough to break with a spoon. Chef's tip: oil your hands and knife before cutting fresh jackfruit; the sticky white sap washes off oiled skin but not dry skin.
Mentaiko, pollock roe cured with salt and chilli, is the food gift everyone brings back from Hakata in Fukuoka, where shops near the station sell it in rows of red sacs. The pasta came from the Japanese-style spaghetti cafés of Tokyo in the 1960s and is now on menus right across Japan, Fukuoka included. The roe is not really cooked: the heat of the drained spaghetti and the melting butter turn it into a pink, salty-spicy coating. Mentaiko is a raw cured product. Use very fresh, sushi-grade fish from a trusted fishmonger; not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. For mentaiko, that means a chilled, sealed pack well within its date. Chef's tip: save a ladle of the pasta water; a spoonful loosens the roe so it clings to every strand instead of clumping.
Menestra is the backbone of Ecuador's set lunches: in Guayaquil's almuerzo cafés, plates arrive with white rice, a ladle of thick menestra, fried plantain (patacones or maduros) and a little salad, usually beside grilled meat. On its own it makes a complete meatless meal. Lentils are cooked down with a refrito of onion, pepper, garlic, cumin and achiote until thick enough to hold a mound. Chef's tip: stir in a handful of chopped coriander right at the end; it's the fresh lift that makes menestra taste Ecuadorian.
Koobideh is the kebab of Tehran's bazaar lunch houses and roadside chelo-kababis, laid on a hill of buttered rice with a raw egg yolk or a slab of butter melting into the grains. The name means 'pounded': minced lamb is kneaded with grated onion until it turns sticky and pale, then pressed by hand along wide, flat skewers and grilled hard over coals. It comes out juicy and onion-sweet, with little ridges from your fingers. Eat it with charred tomatoes, raw onion, fresh herbs and lavash on the side. Chef's tip: squeeze every drop of juice out of the grated onion; wet mince slips straight off the skewer.
Despite the French-sounding name, a Dutch kaassoufflé has nothing to do with a baked soufflé. It is a snack-bar classic, fried in the frituur of every cafetaria from Groningen to Maastricht: a rectangle of thin pastry wrapped around a slab of young Gouda, coated in breadcrumbs and deep-fried until the cheese inside goes molten. It is the vegetarian's answer to the kroket, eaten at lunch or on the way home from football, with a squeeze of mayonnaise or sweet chilli sauce. Chef's tip: chill the filled, breaded pockets for at least 30 minutes before frying; cold pastry and cheese stay sealed in the hot oil, while warm ones burst and leak.
Pom is Suriname's celebration dish, baked for birthdays and holidays in Paramaribo and by the Surinamese community in the Netherlands: a layer of grated pomtajer root (a type of taro) mixed with citrus juice, then a layer of chicken stewed with onion, tomato, nutmeg and pickled peppers, then more pomtajer, baked until the top is golden. It is usually eaten on a roll as a "broodje pom". The mistake is skipping the citrus: pomtajer must be mixed with orange or lime juice, which gives the dish its fragrance. Chef's tip: frozen grated pomtajer from Surinamese or Caribbean shops saves the hard grating; if you can't find it, use grated taro or a mix of taro and potato.
Sunday breakfast in Turkey rarely passes without a sizzling pan of menemen set in the middle of the table, crowded by olives, cheese, cucumber and glasses of tea. Mild green peppers are softened in olive oil, ripe tomatoes are cooked down to a jammy sauce, and then the eggs are broken in and gently stirred so they set into soft, juicy ribbons streaked with red. Everyone eats from the pan, tearing bread to scoop it up. Whether onion belongs in it is a national argument; here it is optional. Chef's tip: let the tomatoes bubble until almost all their liquid has gone before the eggs go in, or the menemen will be watery.
Mekitsi are the Sunday morning treat of Bulgarian childhoods: in towns like Veliko Tarnovo and Gabrovo they are fried at home or bought from stalls by the dozen, puffy, uneven rounds of yogurt dough that come out of the oil crisp outside and soft and airy inside. They are eaten hot, dusted with icing sugar or spread with jam, honey or sirene, with a cup of tea or ayran. Chef's tip: stretch the dough with oiled hands rather than flour, and keep the oil at a steady medium heat; oil that's too hot is the usual mistake and leaves them dark outside and doughy in the middle.
Bouye is the Wolof name for the powdery white pulp of the baobab fruit, and jus de bouye is the thick, creamy-tart drink sold in reused bottles from coolers all over Dakar and served at every family celebration. It tastes like sherbet with a hint of pear. Most cooks now use baobab powder, which is sold in health shops as well as African grocers. Sweetened condensed milk is optional but common. Chef's tip: whisk the powder into a little water first to make a smooth paste; poured straight into a jug it forms lumps that never dissolve.
Adjika comes from Samegrelo and neighbouring Abkhazia in western Georgia, where it is a thick, fiery paste of dried red peppers, garlic and seeds, pounded in a stone mortar and stored in jars for the year. It is nothing like the tomato relishes sold as adjika in some shops: a little goes a very long way, stirred into beans, rubbed into vegetables before roasting, or spread thinly on mchadi with cheese. It needs no cooking, just patience while the peppers soak. A common mistake is skipping the soaking, which leaves the paste gritty with hard flakes of skin. Chef's tip: wear gloves while handling the peppers, and use a mix of mild and hot ones so you get colour and fruitiness, not just heat.
In Puducherry, the former French enclave on the Tamil coast, Creole families of mixed Tamil and French descent cook a fish curry that is softer and creamier than anything else along that shore. Assad is mild and pale, fragrant with fennel, pepper and curry leaves, with the fish poached in thin coconut milk and finished with a thick, rich pour. It is a Sunday-lunch and Christmas dish in these homes, eaten with plain rice or a crusty loaf from the town's bakeries. Chef's tip: add the thick coconut milk only at the very end and keep the curry below a boil, so it stays silky and white.
Pootharekulu ('coated sheets') come from Atreyapuram village in the Godavari district, where women make translucent rice-starch films by dipping a cloth in batter and wiping it over a hot, upturned clay pot. Those whisper-thin sheets are then layered with ghee and powdered sugar or jaggery and folded into neat parcels that melt on the tongue. True rekulu need the special pot and years of practice, so this home method spreads a very thin rice batter on an upturned wok or non-stick pan and peels off the dried film. Sheets can also be bought ready-made in Indian shops; then just do the filling. Chef's tip: work with the sheets dry; brush ghee on, never sugar syrup, or they turn soggy and tear.
In the Sino-Portuguese shophouses of Phuket Town, descendants of Hokkien tin miners still begin the day with this: fat, chewy yellow egg noodles fried with pork, prawns and squid, then simmered in a little stock until the sauce becomes a savoury gravy that coats every strand, with an egg stirred through at the end. It is the island's signature noodle, ordered in old coffee shops with a glass of strong local coffee or a bowl of clear pork soup. The texture is slippery and thick, the flavour mellow and peppery rather than hot, so chilli vinegar goes on the table. Chef's tip: loosen the fresh noodles under hot water before they go in the wok; cold, stuck-together noodles snap into short pieces when tossed.
Mamak stalls, the round-the-clock cafés run by Malaysia's Tamil Muslim families, are where friends meet after a football match or a late film, and mee goreng mamak is the plate everyone orders with a glass of pulled tea. It's yellow noodles tossed hard in a wok with tomato sauce, chilli, soy, a pinch of curry powder, soft potato that breaks into the sauce, tofu, egg and bean sprouts, finished with a squeeze of lime. Stalls often add squid or prawns; here the tofu does that job. It's sweet, smoky, tangy and a little messy, as it should be. Chef's tip: get the wok really hot and let the noodles sit untouched for 20 seconds between tosses so they char in spots.
These pencil-thin rolls take their name from the cigarettes they resemble, and they are the börek every Turkish child grows up on. Triangles of yufka (thin Turkish pastry) are rolled round a finger of white cheese and parsley and fried until they shatter when you bite them. They turn up at five o'clock tea parties, on the iftar table during Ramadan and in many a school lunchbox. Yufka is sold in Turkish shops; filo works too if you use two sheets brushed with oil. Chef's tip: shape them all, cover with a damp cloth and fry just before eating; they lose their crunch within an hour.
Sisig comes from Angeles City in Pampanga, where cooks turned pig's head and ears into a sizzling, sour, peppery bar snack that is now on almost every Filipino menu. This home version is pork, using pork belly (and pig's ears if your butcher has them) that is boiled, grilled until charred, then chopped finely and fried with onion, chilli and calamansi juice. It arrives at the table crackling on a hot cast-iron plate, often with a raw egg stirred in. Eat it with rice, or as pulutan with drinks; a cold calamansi juice works as well. Chef's tip: chop the pork small but not to mince; you want little crisp edges and chewy bits in every spoonful.
In Pampanga, tocino is breakfast: thin slices of pork shoulder in a sweet, garlicky marinade, fried until the sugar caramelises at the edges, then served with garlic fried rice and a fried egg as 'tosilog'. Shop tocino is often bright pink from curing salts; this home version leaves those out, so it is a sweet marinated pork rather than a true cure, gets its warm red colour from annatto and paprika, and must be kept in the fridge and cooked within 3 days (or frozen). Look for pork with a little fat running through it so it stays juicy. Chef's tip: start it in a splash of water; the pork simmers through first, then the sugar glazes once the water is gone, so it doesn't burn before it's cooked.
Medu vada are the ring-shaped lentil fritters eaten all over Tamil Nadu and the rest of the south for breakfast, with idli, sambar and coconut chutney. A good one has a thin, crisp, golden shell and an inside as light and airy as a cloud, flecked with black pepper, ginger, green chilli and curry leaves. The secret is a very thick batter ground with as little water as possible and then whipped full of air. Serve them hot, dunked in sambar, or soaked in rasam as 'rasa vada'. Chef's tip: drop a little batter into a bowl of water before you shape them; if it floats, it's airy enough, and if it sinks, beat it by hand for another few minutes.
Medovik, the honey cake, is the birthday and name-day cake of countless Ukrainian homes, from Dnipro to Zaporizhzhia, and is shared with kitchens across the former Soviet Union. Eight thin layers of honey-caramel dough are baked like biscuits, then stacked with a tangy sour-cream frosting and left overnight, when they soften into a tender, moist cake. The crumbs from trimming coat the outside. Because it is made with honey and eggs, it is vegetarian but not vegan. Chef's tip: cook the honey, sugar and butter until it turns a deep amber before the bicarbonate goes in; that caramel is the whole flavour of the cake. Common mistake: cutting it the same day, before the layers have soaked up the cream, when it is still dry and hard.
Porotos granados is what central Chile cooks when the fresh beans arrive in late summer: tender cranberry beans shelled at the kitchen table, simmered with pumpkin until it collapses into a thick orange sauce, then finished with grated corn and basil. Families in the Valle Central eat it on hot days, often with pebre and a tomato salad; when the corn is blended in larger amounts it's called 'con mazamorra'. It's hearty but fresh-tasting, and fully plant-based. Chef's tip: add the corn only in the last 10 minutes; it's there to thicken and sweeten, and overcooked it turns floury.
Spanakopita turns up everywhere in Greece: cut into squares at bakeries for a mid-morning snack, carried to the beach wrapped in paper, and set out on Easter and name-day tables beside the salads. A tray of it is a mass of soft, herby spinach and salty feta under layers of fillo that shatter as you cut. Spring onions and plenty of dill keep it fresh rather than heavy. Serve it warm or at room temperature with a tomato salad and olives; it tastes even better a few hours after baking. Feta is often made with animal rennet, so choose one labelled vegetarian. If you want to make your own pastry, our home-made fillo recipe works here. Chef's tip: squeeze the wilted spinach in a clean tea towel until it stops dripping; leaving the water in is the classic mistake that gives a soggy bottom.
Spanakorizo is a spring dish from Greek home kitchens, made when the markets fill with spinach and fresh dill. Rice is cooked right in the pot with wilted spinach, spring onions and olive oil until it is soft and a little loose, then squeezed with lemon. It isn't meant to be fluffy like a pilaf: Greek cooks like it moist, almost creamy. It is a full meal with a slab of feta and bread, or a side to fried eggs for those who eat them. Chef's tip: take it off the heat while it still looks a bit wet and let it rest covered for 5 minutes; cooking it until dry is the usual mistake and the rice turns stodgy as it cools.
Portokalopita is a Greek orange cake with an unusual trick: instead of flour, it uses dried, torn fillo pastry, which soaks up an orange yogurt batter and then a hot orange syrup. It became a favourite in Greek homes in the 1990s and is now baked for coffee mornings, Sunday visits and village festivals across the country. The texture is like a moist sponge with crisp edges, very orangey and not too sweet. It keeps beautifully, so it is perfect for making the day before. Chef's tip: dry the fillo properly until crisp; using it soft is the usual mistake and gives a heavy, gummy cake.
Travellers on the road from Patna to Rajgir stop at Silao, a small town near the ruins of Nalanda, for one thing: khaja, a pastry built from dozens of paper-thin layers that flake apart in the mouth and are glazed with a crackly sugar coat. Silao's halwais have made it for generations, and it is carried home in boxes as a present; it is also offered in temples and at weddings across Bihar and Odisha. It takes patience but no special equipment. Chef's tip: fry at a really low heat so the layers have time to open out like pages before the outside colours; hot oil seals them shut.
Posta negra comes from the Caribbean coast, from Cartagena's old walled city and the towns around it, and it is what a family cooks for a birthday or a Sunday when the grandparents visit. A whole piece of beef is browned, then braised slowly with onion, a little cola-coloured panela (unrefined cane sugar) and Worcestershire-style sauce until the sauce turns nearly black and glossy, sweet and tangy at once. It is sliced and served with coconut rice, fried plantain and a tomato and onion salad. The most common mistake is letting the panela burn when caramelising: it should turn a deep mahogany and smell like toffee, not acrid smoke. Chef's tip: slice the meat across the grain only after it has rested, then return the slices to the sauce so they soak it up.
Hokey pokey is what New Zealanders call honeycomb toffee, and vanilla ice cream full of crunchy little nuggets of it has been the country's best-loved flavour since the mid-twentieth century; it's scooped into cones at dairies and beaches from Auckland to Invercargill. The honeycomb is a bubbling golden syrup toffee that foams up when bicarbonate of soda goes in and sets glassy and light. Folded through a rich no-churn vanilla base, it stays crunchy at first and slowly turns chewy and toffee-like. Chef's tip: don't stir the sugar once it starts to melt; swirl the pan instead, or it will crystallise and turn grainy.
Spas is the yogurt soup of the Armenian highlands, eaten hot through the cold winters of Shirak and Gyumri and cold from the fridge in summer, when it tastes like a thick, savoury ayran. The base is tangy matsun (Armenian yogurt) thickened with egg and a little flour so it can boil without curdling, with plump grains of hulled wheat (dzavar) and a swirl of onions fried in butter with dried mint. Families make it for an ill relative, for a quick supper, and as a gentle start to a long feast. Serve with lavash and fresh herbs. Chef's tip: stir in one direction only, without stopping, until the soup comes to the boil; Armenian grandmothers swear by it, and steady stirring really is what keeps the yogurt smooth.
Mchadi are the everyday cornbread of western Georgia, from Samegrelo and Guria down to the Black Sea coast, where maize has been grown since the 1700s. They are nothing more than cornmeal, water and salt, shaped by hand into thick ovals and fried or baked on a clay disc until crusty outside and soft and steaming inside. Families eat them hot with a wedge of cheese, a bowl of lobio, pickled vegetables or a spoon of adjika, and they are naturally gluten-free and vegan. The common mistake is using a dough that is too dry, so the cakes crack and crumble in the pan: it should feel like soft, wet clay. Chef's tip: wet your hands in a bowl of water between every cake; the cornmeal will not stick and the surface comes out smooth and crisp.
Silpancho is the pride of Cochabamba in Bolivia and is sold in huge portions at the city's lunchtime silpancherías: a layer of rice, then sliced fried potatoes, then a beef steak pounded so thin it covers the plate, breaded and fried, topped with a fried egg and a fresh salsa of tomato, onion and locoto chilli. The mistake is not pounding the meat thin enough; it should be about 3 mm, so it fries in a minute and stays tender. Chef's tip: press the breadcrumbs into the meat with the palm of your hand, then pound lightly once more so they stick.
Jukut urab turns up on almost every Balinese rice plate and at temple-day feasts: blanched long beans, greens and bean sprouts tossed with freshly grated coconut that has been fried with a little bumbu of shallot, chilli, kencur and lime leaf. It is bright, crunchy and only gently hot, the fresh side dish that balances heavier ones. Many cooks add shrimp paste to the bumbu; this one leaves it out. Chef's tip: toss the vegetables and coconut only just before serving, or the coconut draws out water and the dish turns soggy.
Shito is the black pepper sauce that sits on every Ghanaian table and travels in every student's suitcase. Onions, ginger and garlic are cooked down slowly in a lot of oil with ground dried shrimp, smoked dried fish and chilli until the mixture turns almost black, rich and crunchy-savoury. A spoonful lifts kenkey, waakye, jollof rice, eggs or plain bread. The mistake almost everyone makes the first time is cooking it on high heat: it scorches and turns bitter. Low and slow is the whole secret. Chef's tip: stir the bottom of the pot every few minutes in the last half hour, when it darkens fastest.
Shivit oshi is the pride of Khorezm, the western oasis around Khiva and Urgench: bright green noodles made with a paste of fresh dill (shivit), topped with a stew of vegetables and a cooling spoon of katyk (thick yogurt). In Khiva's old town it is served at lunch in summer, when the dill is fragrant and the heat makes heavy plov unwelcome. The usual topping has meat; this one is a vadja of potato, carrot, pepper and tomato. Chef's tip: blend the dill with the water rather than chopping it; the dough turns an even jade green and the noodles taste of dill all the way through.
Pierogi ruskie take their name from Red Ruthenia, the old borderland around Lwów and Przemyśl, and today they are the pierogi every Polish milk bar (bar mleczny) from Kraków to Gdańsk keeps on the menu. The filling is the Polish one: floury potato mashed with crumbly twaróg curd cheese, plenty of slowly browned onion and a lot of black pepper, wrapped in a thin, soft dough. Kraków even holds a pierogi festival every August, and ruskie are always the best sellers. Serve them boiled with more golden onion and a spoon of soured cream, or fry leftovers in butter the next day. Chef's tip: let the filling cool completely and taste it before you fill a single dumpling; it should taste over-seasoned on its own, because the dough mutes it.
Pikliz is the fiery slaw-pickle that sits on every Haitian table, in a big glass jar in the middle, and no plate of fried food in Haiti is served without it: it's spooned over fried plantain (bannann peze), fritters and rice. Shredded cabbage, carrot, onion and peppers are packed with hot scotch bonnets, cloves and peppercorns, then drowned in vinegar and lime. After a few days it is crunchy, sour and properly hot, and the vinegar itself becomes a hot sauce you sprinkle over everything. Chef's tip: slice the scotch bonnets thinly rather than leaving them whole; the heat spreads evenly through the jar and every forkful has a kick.
In the city of Puebla, mole poblano is the dish for weddings, baptisms and saints' days, and families often make it together over a whole afternoon. Three dried chillies (mulato, ancho and pasilla) are fried and ground with almonds, peanuts, sesame, raisins, spices, toasted tortilla and a little chocolate into a sauce that is deep, glossy and only gently sweet. It is spooned over poached chicken and scattered with sesame, with Mexican rice and warm tortillas to mop it up. Making it a day ahead lets the flavours settle. Chef's tip: fry the blended sauce in hot fat before adding stock; that sizzling stage is what turns it from a purée into mole.
Kak'ik is a red, aromatic turkey soup from the Q'eqchi' Maya of Alta Verapaz, around Cobán, and is cooked for weddings, saints' days and Christmas; it is now recognised as part of Guatemala's cultural heritage. Turkey legs simmer in a broth flavoured with toasted tomatoes, guajillo and pasa chillies, achiote, coriander and mint, and it is served with tamalitos or rice. The mistake is not toasting the chillies and tomatoes; the slight char gives the soup its smoky depth. Chef's tip: toast the dried chillies only for seconds, until they puff and smell fruity, or they turn bitter.
Moksi alesi, "mixed rice" in Sranan Tongo, is a weekday one-pot from Paramaribo's Creole kitchens: rice cooked with salted meat or salt fish, black-eyed beans, coconut milk, onion, celery and hot pepper, until the grains are soft and full of flavour. It is cooked when there's little time but a full pot is needed. This version uses salted pork; it contains pork. The mistake is not soaking the salted meat, which makes the rice far too salty; soak it, then boil it first. Chef's tip: smoked turkey or salt beef works in place of pork.
Mok pa is cooked all over Laos, from Vientiane's riverside markets to village kitchens near the Mekong, where freshwater fish is the everyday protein. Chunks of white fish are mixed with a paste of lemongrass, shallot, garlic and chilli, a handful of dill and lime leaves and a spoon of sticky rice flour, then wrapped in banana leaf parcels and steamed until set and fragrant. Eat it with sticky rice and raw vegetables. Chef's tip: soften the banana leaves by passing them briefly over a flame or into hot water; they fold without cracking.
Pinakbet comes from the Ilocos region in the far north-west of Luzon, where families cook whatever grows behind the house: bitter melon, small aubergines, okra, yard-long beans and tomatoes, simmered with very little water until the vegetables shrink and wrinkle (the name comes from the Ilocano for 'shrivelled'). Ilocanos season it with fermented fish paste; here white miso gives the same savoury, salty depth without any fish, and a little squash (more common in the Tagalog version) adds sweetness. It is an everyday lunch dish, eaten with rice and often a spoonful of extra miso on the side. Chef's tip: choose small, firm bitter melon and don't scrape out every bit of the pith; a little bitterness is the point.
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.
Kajaik is a stew from the Nile towns of northern Sudan, where fish from the river is salted and sun-dried to keep through the year; it is cooked with plenty of onion, tomato and a spoonful of peanut butter and eaten with aseeda (thick porridge) or kisra. The flavour is deep and savoury, a little like a rich fish curry without the heat. The mistake is not soaking the dried fish long enough, which makes the stew far too salty and the fish tough; soak it overnight and change the water twice. Chef's tip: if you can't find dried Nile fish, salted dried cod (bacalao) works well.
Mojo criollo is the raw sauce Cuban cooks keep in a jar by the stove: sour orange juice from the naranja agria tree, pounded garlic, cumin, oregano and olive oil. On the island it marinates whatever goes on the grill and is spooned over tostones, boiled malanga and roast vegetables; vegetarians use it to marinate tofu, mushrooms or thick slices of squash. It is sharp, garlicky and bright. Chef's tip: pound the garlic to a paste with the salt rather than chopping it; the salt helps it break down so the sauce tastes round, not harsh.
When the fog settles over Punjab in December, kitchens fill with the smell of wheat flour roasting slowly in ghee: pinni season has started. These dense, crumbly balls of roasted atta, jaggery, almonds and fried edible gum are made in big batches for Lohri, packed into tins for relatives and given to new mothers for strength. One pinni with a glass of hot milk is a classic winter breakfast. Chef's tip: let the roasted flour cool until just warm before adding the jaggery; if it is hot, the jaggery melts and the pinni set hard as stone.
Moi moi (also written moin moin) is the soft, savoury bean pudding of Yorubaland that turns up at every Lagos party beside jollof, and in lunchboxes and on Sunday breakfast plates with ogi or custard. Peeled black-eyed beans are blended with red pepper, onion and oil, then steamed until set and sliceable, like a light, spicy terrine. Traditionally it is wrapped in broad uma (thaumatococcus) leaves; ramekins or foil cups work at home. Party versions often hide boiled egg or fish inside; this one is fully plant-based. Chef's tip: the batter should drop thickly from a spoon, like a cake batter; too runny and the moi moi never firms up.
Mohan thaal, named after Krishna, is offered at temples on Janmashtami and fills sweet boxes at Diwali in both Rajasthan and Gujarat. It is coarse gram flour roasted in ghee until it turns golden and smells like roasted nuts, then set with cardamom syrup into a grainy, fudge-like slab and cut into diamonds. The texture comes from a step called dhabo: rubbing ghee and milk into the flour, then sieving it into tiny granules before roasting. The mistake most cooks make is cooking the syrup too long; the fudge sets rock-hard and crumbles when cut. Chef's tip: take the syrup off the heat at a firm one-and-a-half string stage, and stop stirring when the mixture pulls away from the pan's sides in one mass.
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.
Sholeh zard is the bright yellow rice pudding that Iranians cook in huge pots as nazri, food given away to neighbours and strangers, especially during the month of Muharram and on religious feast days; neighbourhoods in Tehran and Mashhad fill with its smell of saffron and rose. Rice is simmered until it almost melts, then sweetened, coloured gold with saffron and perfumed with rosewater and cardamom. It sets softly as it cools and is decorated with cinnamon lines, almonds and pistachios. This version uses a little oil instead of butter, so it is vegan. Chef's tip: add the sugar only when the rice is completely soft; sugar added early stops the grains from breaking down.
Kaiserschmarrn, the 'emperor's mess', is Austria's favourite sweet meal, said to have been made for Emperor Franz Joseph, and today it's served from huge pans in every ski hut in Tyrol and Salzburg and in Viennese restaurants. It is a thick, fluffy pancake made with whisked egg whites, torn into rough pieces in the pan with two forks, then caramelised with butter and sugar and heaped with icing sugar. Eat it with Zwetschkenröster (plum compote) or apple sauce. Chef's tip: let the pancake set and brown properly underneath before tearing it up; tear it too early and you get scrambled batter instead of soft, golden pieces.
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