Cassava flatbread
Bammy is one of Jamaica's oldest foods, a flatbread of grated cassava handed down from the Taíno people and still made by family producers in St Elizabeth, especially around Treasure Beach and the south coast. The cassava is grated, squeezed dry and pressed into firm rounds that keep for days. Before eating, they're soaked in coconut milk and fried, so they turn crisp outside and soft and chewy within, with a gentle nutty flavour. Serve with steamed callaloo, Ital stew or escovitch vegetables. Chef's tip: squeeze the grated cassava really, truly dry in a cloth, wringing it hard. Wet cassava steams into a gummy cake instead of setting into a firm bammy.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
A big sizzling griddle of boiled fresh beans and vegetables (peas, pigeon peas, black-eyed beans, soya beans, kidney beans, corn, cassava, sweet potato, baby potatoes and roasted plantain) tossed with sesame seeds, onions and a green chilli, ginger and garlic paste. It's filling, colourful and feeds a crowd at a barbecue. Serve sizzling hot straight from the tawa.
Henakisoa sy voanjobory is a highland dish from the countryside around Antsirabe and Fianarantsoa, cooked for family gatherings: pork simmered for a long time with Bambara groundnuts, a hard, round pulse that turns creamy and nutty, until the meat is tender and the beans have thickened the sauce. This dish contains pork. It is eaten with rice and a fresh tomato salad. The mistake is not soaking the dried pulses, which then never soften; soak them overnight. Chef's tip: if you can't find Bambara groundnuts, black-eyed beans or borlotti give a similar result in less time.
In Andong, the old Confucian town of North Gyeongsang, the scholars of the yangban class were said to want the food from jesa, the rite offered to ancestors, without waiting for a rite to come round, so they cooked the same dishes and called them heotjesatbap (헛제삿밥), 'fake rite rice'. Restaurants by Andong's dam still serve it: a bowl of rice to be mixed with brown, white and green namul and seasoned with soy sauce, never chilli, because ritual food avoids red pepper and garlic. The full table includes grilled fish and beef skewers; this vegetarian version keeps the vegetables and tofu jeon that make up most of it. Chef's tip: cook each namul separately with only salt, soy or sesame, so each keeps its own taste and colour when you mix the bowl.
Hideg meggyleves is a chilled sour cherry soup served as a starter in Hungary at the height of summer, from family lunches in the cherry-growing villages around Pest county to the terraces of Balaton restaurants. Sour cherries simmer briefly with sugar, cinnamon and cloves, then the soup is thickened with sour cream and served icy cold, pink and gently tangy. Some cooks add a splash of red wine for grown-ups. It is eaten before the main course, not as dessert, though no one complains if you have it after. Chef's tip: chill it for at least 3 hours; the flavour rounds out and the spices soften as it cools. A common mistake is boiling it after the cream goes in, which curdles it.
Hinava is the dish Kadazandusun families set out at Kaamatan, Sabah's harvest festival in May, and on weekend tables in Kota Kinabalu and Penampang. Strips of raw mackerel are soaked in sour lime juice, then tossed with sliced shallots, ginger, red chilli and grated seed of bambangan, a wild mango, which adds a musky tang. The result is sharp, clean and crunchy, with firm, pearly fish. Eat it as a starter or alongside rice and grilled meat. Chef's tip: slice the fish very thinly and evenly so the lime firms each strip the same way, and season with salt only at the end.
Hodu gwaja (호두과자) were first sold at Cheonan station in South Chungcheong in the 1930s, and the town's walnut orchards still supply the pieces of nut hidden in every one. Today you find them in paper bags at every motorway service station in Korea: bite-sized, walnut-shaped cakes with a soft, eggy shell around sweet red bean paste and a chunk of walnut. They are made in a hinged cast-iron mould; a madeleine or Japanese takoyaki pan works too, though the shape will differ. Eat them warm, on the day. Chef's tip: heat the mould properly before the first batch; the first cakes are always the palest, so judge doneness by the colour of the later ones.
Hogao (or guiso) is the base and topping of Colombian home cooking, from Antioquia to Cali: ripe tomatoes and long spring onions (cebolla larga) cooked slowly in oil with garlic and cumin until soft and jammy. It is spooned over patacones, arepas, boiled potatoes and yuca, stirred into beans and rice, and served in a little bowl at the table. Chef's tip: cook it low and slow; a fast, hot hogao tastes raw and sharp, while a patient one turns sweet.
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.
Hokkaido grows most of Japan's sweetcorn, and in late summer roadside stands around Sapporo and Furano sell cobs so sweet people eat them raw. Butter corn is how the island turns that harvest into a side dish: kernels hissing in a hot pan with Hokkaido's other pride, butter, and finished with soy sauce until the edges catch. You'll find it as a ramen topping, a beer snack in izakaya and a bento filler. Serve it hot beside grilled vegetables or rice. Chef's tip: let the kernels sit in the pan without stirring for a minute at a time. A few browned, almost toasted kernels give the dish its nutty, popcorn-like smell.
Holubtsi, 'little doves', are the cabbage rolls of Ukrainian family feasts, made by the trayful for weddings, christenings and Christmas in homes from Lviv to Poltava. This version contains pork: tender cabbage leaves wrap a mix of pork and beef mince, rice, onion and carrot, and the rolls bake slowly in a tomato and soured cream sauce. Serve with more soured cream and dill. Chef's tip: core the cabbage and simmer the whole head, peeling off leaves as they soften; they come away without tearing.
Holvaitar is one of the oldest sweets of Bukhara: flour slowly roasted in butter until it smells like toasted nuts, then cooked with a sugar syrup into a soft, spoonable halva and topped with walnuts. Bukharan families make it for Navruz in March, for the 'Thursday' remembrance meals, and for women after childbirth, served warm in small bowls with green tea. It is closer to a pudding than to the brittle sesame halva sold in the bazaar. Chef's tip: patience at the roasting stage is everything; stop when the flour is the colour of milky coffee — paler tastes raw, darker turns bitter.
Yuba is the thin skin that forms on soy milk as it heats, and in Kyoto and the temple town of Nikko it is a delicacy in its own right. Workshops in Kyoto's old streets have made it for centuries for monks' shojin ryori, the Buddhist vegetarian cuisine that relied on it for protein. Fresh yuba is soft, creamy and faintly sweet, and the first sheets of the day, eaten warm with a drop of soy, are prized above all. It needs patience rather than skill: just a wide pan, gentle heat and good soy milk. Serve as a starter with wasabi soy, or roll the sheets and slice them. Chef's tip: use unsweetened soy milk with at least 7% protein (check the label). Thin supermarket drinks won't form a skin.
Mexican horchata is a sweet, milky-looking agua fresca made from rice soaked overnight with cinnamon, then blended and strained. It is quite different from the Valencian horchata de chufa made from tiger nuts. Sold everywhere from Mexico City street stalls to taquerías in Oaxaca, it cools the mouth after a spicy taco and tastes of cinnamon, vanilla and toasted grain. We blend in almonds for extra creaminess and keep it dairy free, so it is vegan. Chef's tip: strain twice, the second time through a fine cloth; a gritty horchata is the most common mistake, and that silky texture is what you're after.
Named after the Hortobágy puszta, Hungary's great grassland in the east, these savoury pancakes are a favourite starter in Hungarian restaurants and a clever family meal. Thin palacsinta are filled with finely chopped paprika chicken, folded into parcels, and baked in the paprika-soured cream sauce until bubbling. Chef's tip: chop the cooked chicken very finely or pulse it briefly; a fine filling makes neat, tight parcels.
In the villages of Crete and the mountains of Epirus, hortopita is what cooks make from whatever greens are growing on the hillsides: wild fennel, sorrel, poppy leaves, nettles and chard. Many families bake it during Lent, when cheese and eggs are put aside, so the filling relies on olive oil, leeks and a big handful of herbs for flavour. It is earthy, a little bitter and very fresh. This version uses easy-to-buy chard, spinach, fennel fronds and leeks, with a spoonful of rice to soak up the juices. Serve warm or cold with olives and a glass of something cold. Most shop fillo is made without butter or egg, but check the label to keep it vegan. Chef's tip: salt the chopped greens and leave them for 20 minutes before squeezing; skipping this is the most common mistake, and it makes hortopita watery.
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.
Hủ tiếu came to southern Vietnam with Teochew Chinese and Cambodian influences, and in Saigon it's as everyday as pho, sold from street carts at dawn and again late into the night. The broth is light and clear, sweet from pork bones, daikon and dried shrimp, and the bowl is loaded with sliced pork, minced pork, prawns and often quail eggs. Clear, chewy noodles and a spoon of crispy garlic oil set it apart. Many people order it khô, dry, with the noodles tossed in sauce and the soup on the side. Chef's tip: toast the dried squid over a flame before it goes in the pot; it gives the broth a sweet, savoury depth that's hard to place.
Breakfast in Guiyang means a steaming bowl of rice noodles at a counter, and the version from the Huaxi district on the city's southern edge is the one people queue for. Silky noodles sit in a clear, deeply beefy broth under slices of slow-cooked shin, and each diner finishes the bowl at the table from pots of tangy pickled mustard greens, toasted chilli and fresh herbs, so it is sour, spicy and savoury exactly to taste. The broth is light enough for the morning but rich in flavour. Serve it as a whole meal; a few extra pickles on the side are all it needs. Chef's tip: blanch the beef and rinse it before the long simmer; skipping this is the common mistake that leaves the broth cloudy and scummy.
Hudut is the heart of Garifuna cooking on the Caribbean coast of Honduras, in towns such as Trujillo and La Ceiba, and in Belize and Guatemala's Livingston: whole fish or fish steaks simmered in a coconut broth (sere) with garlic, onion and herbs, served with a pounded mash of green and ripe plantains (fufu) that is dipped into the soup. The mistake is mashing only green plantain, which is heavy; a mix of green and a few ripe ones gives a slightly sweet, smooth mash. Chef's tip: fry the fish briefly before it goes into the broth so it holds its shape.
Huevos a la mexicana is the everyday scrambled egg breakfast cooked in homes and fondas all over Mexico, named because its red tomato, white onion and green chilli match the colours of the Mexican flag. The vegetables are cooked just long enough to soften and release their juices, then the eggs are stirred through gently into soft, juicy curds with a fresh chilli kick. Serve with warm corn tortillas and refried beans, and make tacos at the table. Chef's tip: take the pan off the heat while the eggs still look a little wet; they keep cooking on the plate.
Huevos rancheros, 'ranch-style eggs', is the big country breakfast eaten all over Mexico: corn tortillas briefly fried in oil, topped with fried eggs and drowned in salsa ranchera, a warm, chunky sauce of charred tomatoes and serrano chillies, with refried beans on the side. The runny yolks mix with the spicy tomato sauce and the soft tortilla soaks it all up. Serve with avocado and coffee. Choose queso fresco made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: fry the tortillas only for a few seconds a side; you want them pliable with crisp edges, not hard like tostadas, so you can cut them with a fork.
In Salta, Jujuy and Tucumán in Argentina's Andean northwest, humitas are made in late summer when the corn is young and milky. Fresh kernels are grated off the cob and cooked with onion, red pepper, squash and a little sweet paprika, then bound with cheese, wrapped in the fresh green husks (chala), tied with strips of husk and simmered. They come out soft, sweet and savoury, like a delicate corn pudding. Chef's tip: grate the corn on a box grater; it releases the milky juice that sets the humita, which cut kernels never will.
Hu pi jian jiao, 'tiger-skin peppers', is everyday home cooking in Hunan, the province famous for loving chilli even more than Sichuan does. Long green peppers are pressed into a hot, dry wok until their skins blacken in stripes like a tiger's coat, then glazed with soy, black vinegar and a touch of sugar. In Changsha it's eaten with plenty of rice, which tames the heat. Chef's tip: press the peppers flat with a spatula as they cook so the whole skin touches the iron and blisters evenly.
Hünkar beğendi is a dish from the Ottoman palace kitchens of Istanbul; its name means 'the sultan was pleased', and a well-known story links it to a royal banquet of the 1860s. Today it is a special Sunday or guest dish in Istanbul homes and old-style lokanta restaurants. Tender chunks of lamb are braised slowly with tomato and peppers, then spooned over beğendi, a silky purée of fire-charred aubergine whisked into a light cheese sauce. The smoky, creamy base against the rich stew is the whole point. Chef's tip: char the aubergines directly over a gas flame until the skins are black and collapsing; the oven alone won't give that smoky flavour.
Every year on 3 October the city of Leiden celebrates Leidens Ontzet, the end of the Spanish siege of 1574, and the whole town eats hutspot. The story goes that a hungry boy found a pot of stewed root vegetables left behind in the abandoned Spanish camp. Today it is a rough, orange mash of winter carrots, onions and potatoes boiled together in one pot, then stamped coarsely with butter. In the rest of the Netherlands it turns up all autumn and winter as a weekday supper. It is traditionally served with slow-braised beef (klapstuk); here it goes with a fried egg or a spoon of piccalilli, which suits it just as well. Chef's tip: layer the vegetables with the potatoes on top and the carrots at the bottom, in just enough water to reach the potatoes; the potatoes steam, the carrots soak up the flavour of the onions, and nothing turns watery.
Irani chai came to Hyderabad with Persian migrants who opened cafés across the old city, and it is now the city's signature drink, poured at all hours in places around the Charminar, often with Osmania biscuits or a bun maska. Unlike masala chai, it has no spices: strong tea is brewed slowly in a sealed pot (dum), while full-fat milk is simmered separately with a little khoa until thick and creamy. The two are mixed only in the cup, giving a rich, mellow, slightly sweet tea. Chef's tip: seal the tea pot lid with a little dough or foil, as the cafés do, so the brew steeps without losing steam or strength.
Khatti dal, 'sour dal', is the everyday dal of Hyderabad's old city, cooked in Muslim and Telugu homes alike and ladled over plain rice with a fried papad and a dry vegetable on the side. Toor dal is cooked with tomato and green chilli, mashed smooth, soured with tamarind and finished with a sizzling bagaar of garlic, dried red chillies, cumin and curry leaves. It is thinner and sharper than a north Indian dal, and on Fridays it often sits next to a biryani as the comforting partner. Chef's tip: let the garlic in the bagaar turn properly golden before pouring it over; pale garlic tastes raw and harsh in a sour dal.
Lukhmi are Hyderabad's answer to the samosa: flat, square, crisp little pastries with a filling of spiced mutton keema, fork-crimped at the edges. In the Deccani homes of the old city they are a fixture of wedding dinners and the evening iftar table in Ramadan, and a plate of them often arrives with Irani chai at the city's old cafés. They can be shaped a day ahead and fried just before guests come. Chef's tip: cook the keema until completely dry and let it cool fully; a damp or warm filling makes the pastry burst in the oil.
Walk through Police Bazaar in Shillong in the morning and you will find small jadoh stalls serving bright yellow rice cooked with pork, ginger and plenty of local Lakadong turmeric. For Khasi families it is breakfast, lunch and festival food all at once, usually eaten with a pork side such as doh khlieh and a sharp chutney. Village versions add pork blood or offal; this home version keeps to pork shoulder. Chef's tip: let the rice rest, covered, for ten minutes after cooking; the grains firm up and stop being sticky.
At Mori, a small fishing town on the railway north of Hakodate, ikameshi has been sold as a station lunchbox since the war years, when rice was scarce and squid was plentiful. It is still one of Japan's best-known station bentos and a star of the regional food fairs that department stores hold all over the country. Small squid are stuffed with soaked glutinous rice, pinned shut and simmered in a sweet soy sauce until the rice swells into a sticky, savoury filling. Slice them into rounds to serve warm or at room temperature. Chef's tip: use small squid with bodies about 15 cm long, as larger ones need longer cooking and turn rubbery before they soften again.
Night markets and seaside stalls from Port Dickson to Kuantan announce ikan bakar by smell long before you see the charcoal: whole fish or stingray wings smeared with red sambal, laid on banana leaf and grilled until the leaf blackens and the paste caramelises onto the flesh. The leaf keeps the fish moist and lends a faint tea-like smokiness, while the sambal brings shrimp-paste depth, tamarind sourness and steady heat. It is eaten with the fingers, with plain rice, cucumber and a sharp dip called air asam made from tamarind, chillies and shallots. Chef's tip: score the fish right down to the bone so the sambal seeps into the cuts and the thickest part cooks at the same pace as the tail.
In Batac and Vigan, in the Ilocos region, empanada is not a baked pastry but a big, crunchy, bright-orange turnover fried to order at night markets and by the plaza. The thin rice-flour crust gets its colour from annatto, and inside goes shredded green papaya, mung bean sprouts, crumbled Vigan longganisa (a garlicky pork sausage) and a whole egg. Vendors fold it in seconds and slide it into hot oil, then hand it over with a little bowl of spiced sugarcane vinegar to pour in with every bite. It is a pork snack for evenings out. Chef's tip: roll the dough very thin on a banana leaf or baking paper; the leaf lets you flip the dough over the filling without tearing it.
In Imereti, the region around Kutaisi in western Georgia, this flat round cheese bread is everyday food, and it is the one most families make at home: a tender, quick dough leavened with matsoni (Georgian yogurt) and soda, wrapped around a cheese ball and cooked in a dry frying pan. It is cut into wedges like a pizza and set on the table for breakfast, for a feast, or packed for a long car journey. Georgian imeruli and sulguni cheeses are hard to find outside Georgia, so this uses mozzarella with feta for the salty tang. Choose cheeses labelled vegetarian (microbial rennet). Children love it plain, still warm. A common mistake is rolling it out with heavy pressure, which tears the thin dough so the cheese leaks and burns in the pan. Chef's tip: press it out gently with your fingertips from the centre outwards, and if a small hole appears, pinch a scrap of dough over it before it reaches the pan.
Kagoshima, at Kyushu's southern tip, is Japan's sweet potato heartland. The crop is so closely tied to the region that the Japanese word for sweet potato, satsuma-imo, means 'Satsuma potato', after the old name of Kagoshima. Imo kenpi are its simplest snack: thin batons of sweet potato fried until crisp, then tossed in a syrup that sets into a glassy shell. Kids grab them from bags at the corner shop, and grandparents make them at home with the autumn harvest. They are crunchy, sweet and a little salty. Chef's tip: fry the potato twice, slowly first, then hot. That drives out the water and gives a snap that lasts for days.
Anyone who orders shikanji in Indore expecting lemonade gets a surprise: here it is a spoonably thick drink of slow-reduced milk, saffron and cardamom, with a gentle tang from thick yogurt and plenty of chopped dry fruit. It is a late-night treat at Sarafa and Chhappan Dukan, poured from steel jugs into glasses after a round of savoury snacks. Think of it as somewhere between a lassi and a cold rabri. Chef's tip: the milk must be completely cold before the yogurt goes in, or the drink splits into grainy curds.
Injera is the bread, plate and spoon of the Ethiopian and Eritrean highlands: a wide, pale, sour flatbread made from teff, a tiny grain grown on the plateaus around Gondar, Gojjam and Shewa. A simple batter of teff and water is left to ferment for two or three days until it bubbles and smells pleasantly sour, then poured onto a hot griddle and steamed under a lid until its top is covered in little 'eyes'. It is eaten at every meal, with stews spooned on top and torn pieces used to pick them up. This home version uses 100% teff, so it is naturally gluten free. Chef's tip: keep the starter somewhere warm (around 24°C); in a cold kitchen it barely sours and the injera turns out flat and bland.
Irio is a Kenyan mash of potatoes with whole corn and kidney beans, fried onion, chilli and butter. It's hearty and comforting. Serve it with a simple tomato stew, as here, or tomato sauce.
Autumn salmon swimming up the Ishikari River, near Sapporo, gave the fishing families at its mouth a glut of fish, and this miso hot pot is how they cooked it. Today Hokkaido families bring a clay pot of it to the table on cold nights from October onwards, and everyone helps themselves as it bubbles on a portable burner. Chunks of salmon, potato, cabbage, tofu and mushrooms simmer in kombu broth thickened with miso. A pinch of sansho pepper at the end lifts the richness, and some cooks melt a knob of butter on top. Chef's tip: salt the salmon for 10 minutes and pour boiling water over it before it goes in the pot, as this firms the flesh and washes away any fishy smell.
İskender comes from Bursa, the old Ottoman capital below Mount Uludağ, where restaurants have served it since the late 1800s and families still queue for it at weekend lunch. Shavings of grilled meat are laid over cubes of soft pide, soaked in a buttery tomato sauce and finished at the table with a pour of foaming brown butter beside a mound of thick yogurt. Without a vertical döner grill at home, very thin slices of marinated lamb leg seared fast in a hot pan get you close: crisp at the edges, juicy in the middle. Serve it with roasted green peppers and a glass of ayran. Chef's tip: partly freeze the meat for 30–40 minutes before slicing; it firms up and you can cut it almost as thin as döner shavings.
As the sun goes down on Galle Face Green in Colombo, carts line the seafront selling isso vadai: crunchy lentil fritters with a whole prawn pressed into the top of each one. Families buy them in paper bags with sliced onion and a squeeze of lime while the kids fly kites. At home they make a great teatime snack or a starter for guests, and they're best eaten within minutes of frying. Chef's tip: soak the split peas but don't grind them too smoothly; a coarse, slightly grainy batter is what gives the fritters their crunch.
In Iquitos, Tarapoto and the river towns of Peru's Amazon, juanes are steamed by the hundred for the feast of San Juan on 24 June, when families picnic by the rivers to mark the start of the dry season. Each parcel hides a piece of chicken, half a boiled egg and a black olive inside rice seasoned with turmeric, cumin and the herb sacha culantro, all wrapped in broad bijao leaves that perfume the rice. Banana leaves are the easiest swap outside the jungle. Chef's tip: let the rice cool before you wrap it; warm rice is too soft to shape and the parcels lose their round shape.
Izumo, in Shimane, is home to one of Japan's oldest shrines, and its soba is among the country's three most famous. The buckwheat is ground whole, husk and all, so the noodles are grey-brown, rough and strongly nutty. They come in a stack of three shallow round lacquer boxes called warigo, a custom from the picnic boxes Izumo townspeople carried to view flowers in the Edo period. You don't dip the noodles: you pour sauce and toppings straight onto the top bowl, eat it, then tip what's left onto the next. Classic toppings are grated daikon, spring onion and nori; ours leave out the usual bonito flakes. Chef's tip: look for 'inaka' (country-style) or 100% buckwheat soba. Paler noodles taste too mild for this dish.
Jachnun belongs to Yemenite Jewish families, who put the sealed pot in a very low oven on Friday before sunset and open it on Saturday morning to golden, sticky, layered rolls that taste faintly of caramel. In Rosh HaAyin and Tel Aviv's Kerem HaTeimanim it is now Saturday brunch for everyone, served with grated fresh tomato, fiery zhug and brown eggs baked in the same pot. The dough is stretched paper-thin with butter, rolled into logs and left to bake for 10 hours or more. Chef's tip: oil your work surface and hands rather than flouring them; flour stops the dough stretching thin enough to see through.
Rendang belongs to the Minangkabau people of West Sumatra, who cook it for weddings, Eid and every big family gathering, stirring a wide pan for hours until the coconut milk cooks right down and fries the spices in its own oil. Minang cooks also make vegetable rendangs, and young jackfruit suits the method perfectly: its stringy texture soaks up the chilli, galangal and toasted coconut until each piece is dark brown and almost chewy at the edges. It's drier than a curry, eaten with plain rice in small portions because it's so rich. Chef's tip: once the oil separates, keep stirring over a low heat and let the paste darken to the colour of strong coffee — stopping early leaves you with a red curry, not rendang.
Isan and Lao households keep a jar of this thick, smoky relish in the kitchen the way other cooks keep mustard, scooping it onto sticky rice for a quick lunch or setting it out with steamed vegetables and crackling. Its backbone is pla ra, the funky fermented fish of the north-east, pounded with charred shallots, garlic, galangal and toasted chillies into a dark, rough-textured paste that is salty, sweet-smoky and fiery. For safety and ease this version uses bottled cooked pla ra (or anchovy sauce) and boils it before it goes in, since homemade raw pla ra can carry parasites. Serve with sticky rice, cucumber, cabbage and long beans. Chef's tip: roast the aromatics until properly blackened in patches; the char is the flavour, so don't stop when they are merely soft.
Jaipur's old-city sweet shops fry malpua in wide pans of ghee from winter through Holi and Teej, and serve them stacked in a bowl with thick rabri. The batter is made with milk, a little khoya and crushed fennel, so each pancake turns soft and spongy in the middle with crisp, lacy brown edges, then soaks up a saffron-cardamom syrup. Some families also make them as an offering on Holi morning. The usual mistake is skipping the rest: unrested batter spreads unevenly and stays flat and chewy. Chef's tip: pour the batter into the centre of the pan from close above so it spreads by itself; this is how the lacy edges form.
Jajangmyeon was first served by Chinese cooks in Incheon's Chinatown, by the port, and the old restaurant building there is now a museum about the dish. Today it is the most ordered takeaway in Korea, delivered in minutes by scooter on moving day, and eaten by singles on Black Day, 14 April. The sauce is built on chunjang, a thick, salty black-bean paste, fried with diced pork, onion, courgette and potato until it shines. Chef's tip: cut the pork and all the vegetables into the same 1.5 cm dice so they cook evenly and every forkful gets a bit of each.
During Ramadan in Beirut and Sidon, street sellers ladle jallab from big glass jars at sunset, and families keep a bottle of the dark syrup in the fridge all summer. Made from date and grape molasses with a hint of rose water, it tastes of caramel and dried fruit, and it is served over crushed ice with a spoon for the pine nuts and golden raisins floating on top. Bottled jallab gets its smoky edge from incense smoke; this home version skips that and is made straight from the two molasses. Chef's tip: soak the raisins in the drink for five minutes before serving so they plump up and sink less.
No Swedish Christmas table, from Gothenburg to Luleå, is complete without a dish of Janssons frestelse, and it often comes back at Easter and midsummer too. Matchsticks of potato and soft onion are baked in cream with Swedish-style spiced sprats (labelled ansjovis in Sweden), which melt into the sauce and season it with a salty, sweet-spiced depth rather than a fishy taste. It is rich, so a spoonful sits beside ham, meatballs and pickled herring rather than being a main course on its own. Many people go wrong by buying Mediterranean salted anchovies; they are far saltier and the gratin turns harsh, so look for the sweet-cured sprats in Scandinavian shops. Chef's tip: cut the potatoes into thin sticks rather than slices; the starch on their many edges thickens the cream as it bakes.
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.
Jeonju, the North Jeolla city known for bibimbap, starts its day with kongnamul gukbap (콩나물국밥): a scalding clay bowl of clear soybean-sprout broth over rice, sharp with garlic and chilli, served before dawn to market traders and, famously, to anyone with a hangover. Many Jeonju shops bring a half-cooked egg in a separate cup, which you season with a little broth and crumbled seaweed and slurp first. The usual broth is anchovy based, with salted shrimp at the table; here it is kelp, shiitake and soup soy sauce. Chef's tip: keep the lid on while the sprouts cook and don't open it until they are done; lifting it early is said to give them a raw, grassy smell.
Jeow bong is the famous chilli relish of Luang Prabang, the old royal capital, sold in little jars at its night market and eaten with sticky rice, crisp river-weed sheets and fresh vegetables at almost every Lao meal. Dried chillies, roasted garlic, shallot and galangal are pounded with palm sugar and fish sauce into a sticky, smoky, sweet-hot jam. This version contains pork: traditionally it includes thin strips of dried buffalo skin, and here it uses cooked pork skin for the same chewy texture. Chef's tip: roast the aromatics until truly blackened in spots; that char gives jeow bong its smoky depth.
No Lao meal is complete without a jeow, a pounded dip eaten by pinching a ball of sticky rice and dragging it through. Jeow mak len, made from tomatoes charred over the coals until their skins split, is the everyday one from Vientiane to the villages of the north, smoky, garlicky and as hot as you dare. It's served alongside grilled vegetables, raw cucumber and long beans, and keeps well for a few days. Chef's tip: grill everything until it is genuinely blackened in patches; the burnt bits are the flavour, so don't peel all the skin away.
Jeyuk bokkeum is the backbone of the Korean lunch: almost every baekban (set-meal) restaurant near offices and building sites serves it with rice, soup and little side dishes, and it is just as common at home on weeknights. Thin slices of pork are fried hard in a sauce of gochujang, chilli flakes, garlic and ginger until the edges catch and caramelise. Eat it over rice, or wrap a piece in a lettuce leaf with a slice of raw garlic. Chef's tip: fry the pork on its own first until the fat runs, then add the sauce; you get smoky, sticky edges instead of boiled meat.
Jhalmuri is the snack Kolkata eats on the move: outside Howrah station, along the Maidan, on suburban local trains, where a vendor tosses puffed rice in a tin with raw mustard oil, chopped onion, cucumber, green chilli and a fistful of chanachur, then tips it into a cone of newspaper. The sharp, nose-tingling mustard oil is what separates it from Mumbai's bhel; there is no sweet chutney at all, only salt, lime and heat. Eat it the minute it is mixed, while it still crackles. Chef's tip: warm the puffed rice in a dry pan for a couple of minutes first; even fresh muri crisps up noticeably.
Jhangora is barnyard millet, a hardy grain that grows on the high fields of Garhwal and Kumaon, and this kheer is how most hill families turn it into something special. It cooks faster than rice kheer and ends up softer and silkier, with a light, nutty taste. Because millet isn't a cereal grain, it's eaten on Navratri and Ekadashi fasts, when you'll find bowls of it at temples and in homes from Rishikesh to Chamoli. It is just as good chilled the next day. Chef's tip: soak the millet for 20 minutes before cooking; it softens evenly and you won't be left with hard little grains in the pudding.
Juju dhau means king of curds in the Newar language, and it belongs to Bhaktapur, the old brick-and-temple city east of Kathmandu, where it is sold in round clay bowls from shops around Durbar Square and taken home by the stack. Full-fat milk, traditionally buffalo milk, is boiled down by a third until it is rich and faintly caramel, sweetened, then set overnight in unglazed clay pots that soak up the whey, leaving a custard-thick, creamy yogurt with a pale golden skin. No wedding, festival or important meal in the Valley ends without it, and it is eaten on its own with a small spoon. People often rush the reduction, and the yogurt then sets thin and sour. Chef's tip: if you don't have clay pots, set it in ceramic ramekins and pour off any whey after setting; and keep it warm and undisturbed, wrapped in a blanket, so it sets in one smooth layer.
Jianbing guozi began in Tianjin and is now Beijing's favourite breakfast on the go: a crêpe spread on a round griddle, cracked over with egg, brushed with sauces and folded round a crunchy fried cracker. Vendors make one in two minutes; at home a large non-stick pan works. The batter mixes mung bean and wheat flour for a tender, slightly nutty pancake. Chef's tip: spread the batter thin and fast while the pan is hot, then lower the heat before adding the egg so the crêpe stays pliable.
Jingalov hats comes from Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh), where women in Stepanakert markets would roll the dough around armfuls of greens and cook the flat parcels on a hot saj in front of the queue. The filling is nothing but herbs and leaves, ten to twenty kinds when spring greens are at their best: sorrel, spinach, dill, coriander, spring onion, beet leaves, mint and nettle, wilted with oil and salt. The bread is eaten hot from the griddle at Easter and through Lent, folded in half and dripping with green juices. Displaced families now sell it in Yerevan, where it has become a street-food symbol of home. Chef's tip: mix at least six different greens and keep some sharp ones such as sorrel or lemon juice in the mix; with spinach alone the filling tastes flat.
When the cherry trees bloom in Sapporo in early May, parks fill with groups grilling lamb on ridged, dome-shaped pans, and the city's beer halls serve it all year. Named after Genghis Khan, the dish grew up after Hokkaido began raising sheep for wool in the early 20th century. In the Sapporo style, plain lamb is seared on the hump of the pan while bean sprouts, onion and pumpkin cook on the rim in the dripping juices, and everything is dipped in a fruity soy sauce. No domed pan? A heavy frying pan or flat griddle works well. Chef's tip: grease the pan with a piece of lamb fat rather than oil, as it gives the vegetables a rich, meaty flavour.
Jiufen, the old gold-mining town clinging to the hills above Taiwan's northeast coast, is famous for bowls of chewy purple taro and orange sweet potato balls, eaten in steep teahouses with a view of the sea. Shops serve them hot in a light sugar syrup in winter and over shaved ice in summer, often with mung beans or red beans. They are just steamed root vegetables kneaded with tapioca starch, so they're naturally gluten free and have a bouncy, QQ chew Taiwanese people love. Chef's tip: knead the starch into the vegetables while they are still hot; the heat partly cooks the starch and makes the dough smooth and pliable.
Jodhpuri kabuli is a celebration rice from Marwar that has nothing to do with chickpeas; the name refers to its rich, layered style. Rice is stacked with vegetables simmered in spiced yogurt and milk, crisp fried bread cubes, cashews, raisins and saffron, then steamed under a lid so the bread absorbs the juices while the top stays crunchy. Jodhpur families cook it for weddings and festive lunches, and it is eaten on its own with raita or kadhi. A common mistake is layering the bread at the bottom, where it becomes soggy; it belongs in the middle and on top. Chef's tip: cook the rice only until it still has a firm bite, because it will finish cooking during the dum.
Across Hubballi, Dharwad, Vijayapura and the dry plains of north Karnataka, a meal means jolada rotti: thin, crisp sorghum flatbreads slapped out by hand, often by the hundred and stored in cloth to eat with everything. Their best-loved partner is ennegai, which means 'oil vegetable': small brinjals slit and stuffed with roasted peanuts, sesame, dry coconut and spices, then cooked slowly in plenty of oil until they collapse into a thick, nutty gravy. It is wedding food, field food and Sunday food, with raw onion, a wedge of lemon and spicy chutney powder on the side. Chef's tip: use boiling water for the jowar dough; it gelatinises the flour slightly, so the rotti holds together without any wheat.
Jolpan is how Assam starts the morning of Magh Bihu and Bohag Bihu, and how guests are welcomed in villages all year: a bowl of chira (flattened rice), muri, or sticky bora saul, served with thick curd, yellow jaggery or gur, and sometimes cream. It is not cooked so much as assembled, and every family has its own order: soak the chira, top with doi, crumble in gur. Variants such as komal saul (a soft rice that needs only soaking) are also jolpan. Chef's tip: rinse the chira quickly and drain it at once; a long soak turns it to paste.
Joojeh kabab is what fills Tehran's parks on Sizdah Bedar, the thirteenth day of Nowruz, when families picnic outdoors and grills smoke under the plane trees; it is just as common on restaurant platters beside koobideh. Chunks of chicken soak overnight in yogurt, grated onion, lemon and bloomed saffron, then cook fast over high heat so the edges char while the middle stays juicy and golden-orange. Serve with buttery chelow rice, grilled tomatoes and a pinch of sumac. Chef's tip: grind the saffron threads with a pinch of sugar before steeping them in hot water; you get twice the colour from the same few threads.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Kadu borani is the dish that wins over people who think they don't like pumpkin. In Afghan homes, especially in autumn around Kabul and Kandahar when the big orange squashes come in, wedges of pumpkin are browned, then braised with tomato, a little sugar and warm spices until sticky and caramelised, and served on garlic yoghurt with dried mint. The mix of sweet, savoury and sour is the point. Eat it with naan or as part of a spread with rice. Chef's tip: use a dense, deep-orange pumpkin or butternut squash; watery pumpkins fall apart and turn bland.
Käsespätzle is the cheese-and-noodle dish of Swabia and the Allgäu in the far south of Germany, served in mountain huts after a day's walking or skiing and in every village inn from Stuttgart to Oberstdorf. Freshly made spätzle, soft, irregular egg noodles, are layered hot with grated Bergkäse or Emmental until the cheese melts into long strings, then crowned with onions fried slowly until brown and sweet. A green salad with a sharp vinegar dressing is the classic partner. Use cheese made with vegetarian rennet; many mountain cheeses use animal rennet, so check the label. Chef's tip: layer the spätzle and cheese while both are piping hot, straight from the pot, so the cheese melts in the gaps instead of sitting on top in a rubbery sheet.
Kafteji is a Tunis sandwich-shop classic: fried peppers, tomato, squash and potato chopped together on a board with a cleaver, mixed with harissa and fried eggs, and eaten from a plate or stuffed into a baguette at lunchtime. Stalls near Bab Souika and the central market make it to order, and the sound of the chopping is part of the show. Chef's tip: fry each vegetable separately; they cook at different speeds, and crowding them makes everything greasy and soft.
In the villages of Garhwal, kafuli is what goes into the iron kadhai when the terraces are full of palak and methi in late winter. The greens are blanched, ground roughly on a stone and simmered with a spoonful of soaked rice paste, which turns the curry silky without any cream. Mustard oil and a few dried chillies give it a sharp, warm edge, and the iron pan darkens it to a deep forest green. Eat it with mandua ki roti or plain rice and a dab of ghee for those who want it. Chef's tip: grind the greens in short pulses so you can still see flecks of leaf; kafuli should have texture, not look like a smooth soup.
Kahwa is the warming green tea of Kashmir, traditionally brewed in a brass samovar and poured for guests on cold winter days. Green tea leaves are infused with saffron, green cardamom and cinnamon, sweetened lightly and served with slivered almonds in each cup. It's golden, fragrant and soothing, and is drunk after heavy meals to help digestion. Chef's tip: never boil the tea leaves; simmer the spices first, then let the tea steep off the heat for just 2 minutes or it turns bitter.
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.
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.
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.
In Tokyo, hot soba with a fritter on top is the city's fast food. Standing soba counters near train stations, called tachigui soba, have served it to commuters since the Edo period, when soba and tempura stalls stood side by side. The fritter here is kakiage: a loose nest of onion, carrot and greens held together with just enough batter to fry into a lacy disc. It softens a little in the broth and flavours it with toasty oil, which is why many Tokyoites eat half of it crisp and let the rest soak. Our broth uses kombu and shiitake instead of bonito. Chef's tip: slide the kakiage into the oil off a flat spatula or ladle, and don't touch it for the first minute. It needs that time to set, or it falls apart.
Kalan is one of the old curries of the Onam sadya in central Kerala, made days ahead in temple kitchens and big family homes because it keeps so well. Elephant yam and green nendran banana are cooked with plenty of black pepper, then soured curd is stirred in and slowly reduced until it is thick enough to coat a spoon, before a fine coconut paste goes in. It tastes sharp, peppery and rich, with the toasted fenugreek of the tempering coming through at the end. Spoon a little over hot rice and ghee. Chef's tip: use curd that has sat out for a day and turned properly sour; mild fresh yogurt gives a flat kalan.
Kalari, also spelt kaladi, is a fresh, stretchy cheese made in the hills around Udhampur and Ramnagar in Jammu, often from buffalo or goat milk. Street sellers in Jammu city lay slices of it on a hot iron tawa with no oil at all: the cheese releases its own fat and fries to a blistered brown crust while the inside turns soft and slightly stringy. They stuff it into a warm kulcha with onion, tomato, green chutney and a shake of chaat masala, and it is eaten standing up, especially on winter evenings. Outside Jammu, use halloumi, which behaves almost the same, or firm paneer with a teaspoon of oil. Chef's tip: dry the cheese slices on kitchen paper first; wet cheese steams instead of crisping.
Kayseri, in central Anatolia, is famous across Turkey for mantı so small that, by local saying, forty should fit on one spoon. Families make big batches together on winter afternoons, rolling the dough thin and pinching each square around a pea of spiced minced meat, and the dumplings were traditionally part of a bride's test in the kitchen. They are boiled and served under garlicky yogurt, then drenched in butter sizzled with red pepper. Chef's tip: make a double batch and freeze the uncooked dumplings on a floured tray; they cook from frozen in about 2 minutes extra.
Kagawa, the smallest prefecture in Japan, eats more udon than anywhere else, and its Sanuki udon is known for a firm, springy bite. Locals queue at self-service udon shops at breakfast, and one of the most popular orders is kamatama: noodles lifted straight from the boiling pot, dropped onto a raw egg and tossed until the heat turns the egg into a glossy coating, a little like carbonara. A splash of soy sauce and some spring onion are all it needs. Use frozen Sanuki-style udon, which is closest to fresh. Chef's tip: warm the bowls and crack the egg in first. The noodles must go in seconds after leaving the water, or the egg won't cook into a sauce.
In the seafood canteens of Mangalore and along the Udupi coast, kane, a slim, sweet ladyfish, is the fried fish everyone orders with a fish thali. It is slashed, packed with a red masala of Byadgi chilli, garlic and tamarind, then pressed into coarse semolina and shallow-fried in coconut oil until the crust crackles. Unlike Mumbai's soft bombil, kane is firm, so it holds its shape and is eaten off the bone. Chef's tip: leave the fish alone for the first 3 minutes in the pan; the crust sets and then releases on its own.
Every Swedish café from Malmö to Kiruna keeps a tray of kanelbullar by the till, and on 4 October, Kanelbullens dag, bakeries can barely keep up. They belong to fika, the mid-morning or afternoon pause for coffee and something sweet. Unlike the big, iced American roll, a Swedish bun is modest and buttery: the dough is perfumed with freshly crushed cardamom, the filling is a thin smear of cinnamon butter, and the top gets a scatter of crunchy pearl sugar instead of frosting. This version shapes them into knots, the way Stockholm bakers do, though plain spirals baked in paper cases are just as traditional at home. Chef's tip: crush the cardamom seeds yourself just before mixing; ready-ground cardamom loses most of its scent within weeks and the buns will taste only of cinnamon.
Kangkung grows in wet ditches and paddy edges right across Malaysia, and every zi char stall and kopitiam kitchen has a pile waiting for the wok. Ordered beside rice and a curry at lunch, or as one of several shared plates at night, it arrives glossy, hollow stems still crunchy, leaves just collapsed. Hawkers often fry it with belacan; this version gets its savoury punch from garlic, shallots, red chilli and a spoon of fermented soybean paste (tauco) instead. It's done in under five minutes. Chef's tip: dry the washed greens thoroughly in a salad spinner, because wet leaves cool the wok and steam instead of sizzle.
Kangshoi is the everyday stew of the Imphal Valley: seasonal vegetables simmered in water with ginger, onion and chilli, and finished with a fistful of fresh herbs such as maroi (a garlic chive), coriander and mint. It is light, clear and brothy, eaten with rice at almost every Meitei meal. Many households add dried fish or ngari (fermented fish) for depth; Vaishnav Meitei homes leave it out, and this vegetarian version relies on toasted chilli and plenty of herbs instead. Chef's tip: cook it without oil, as Manipuris do; the clean broth is the point.
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