Grilled rice balls
Yaki onigiri (焼きおにぎり) are rice balls grilled until they form a crisp, toasty crust, then brushed with soy sauce glaze. They are eaten all over Japan, at izakaya, at barbecues and from the freezer section, as a snack or with miso soup. The inside stays soft and steamy while the outside crackles. Best eaten hot, straight from the pan. Chef's tip: let the shaped rice balls dry for 10 minutes before they go in the pan. A drier surface forms a better crust and won't stick, and the glaze goes on only at the end so it doesn't burn.
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Mamri, better known as mandazi, are lightly sweet East African fried breads made with coconut milk and cardamom. They puff up golden and hollow and are soft inside. Serve warm with pigeon peas in coconut milk (mbaazi) for a classic Zanzibar breakfast, or with tea.
Mambazha pulissery appears in Kerala kitchens in April and May, when small, fragrant village mangoes fall from the trees, and it is often on the Vishu sadya. Whole small ripe mangoes, or chunks of bigger ones, are simmered with jaggery and chilli until syrupy, then loosened with a coconut-cumin paste and lightly soured yogurt. Unlike kalan, it stays thin and pourable: sweet, tangy and mildly hot, with the fenugreek tempering on top. Pour it over rice, with a thoran on the side. Chef's tip: use very ripe, slightly fibrous mangoes; firm ones make it sour and the sweetness never comes through.
Mămăligă is the golden cornmeal staple of the Romanian countryside, from the hill villages of Oltenia to the farms of Maramureș, where it was once eaten more often than bread. It is cooked in water until thick enough to hold a spoon upright, turned out onto a wooden board and cut with a thread, then eaten hot with crumbled salty brânză and a cold spoon of smântână (soured cream). Unlike Ukrainian banosh, which is cooked in sour cream, mămăligă is plain cornmeal and water; the richness goes on top. It sits beside stews such as tocăniță or under a fried egg for supper. Chef's tip: rain the cornmeal in through your fingers while whisking, and keep stirring from the bottom; dumping it in at once is the classic mistake that leaves raw, gritty lumps.
Tahu gejrot is street food from Cirebon on the north coast of West Java, where vendors carry their kit on a shoulder pole and serve it in little clay plates called cobek. Hollow fried tofu puffs are snipped into pieces and drenched in a runny palm sugar and tamarind sauce, poured over freshly crushed garlic, shallot and bird's eye chilli. It's a mid-afternoon snack: sweet, sour, garlicky and as hot as you can take it, with the puffy tofu soaking up every drop. Chef's tip: crush the garlic, shallot and chilli raw in the serving bowl and pour the sauce over while it's still warm, so the aromatics bloom without losing their bite.
Tahu telur is a night-market favourite in Surabaya, East Java: cubes of tofu are stirred into beaten egg and fried in a small wok so the omelette rises into a thick, crisp-edged tower. It is topped with bean sprouts, cucumber and a dark sauce of peanuts and sweet soy. Sellers in Surabaya stir shrimp paste (petis) into the sauce; this vegetarian version uses a little extra garlic and kecap manis instead. Eat with rice or lontong for a filling supper. Chef's tip: use a small, deep pan so the egg piles up around the tofu instead of spreading thin.
Along the Malvan coast of Sindhudurg, kombdi vade is what families cook for a festive Sunday or for guests arriving by the morning bus from Mumbai. Kombdi is chicken, simmered in a gravy of roasted coconut and Malvani masala; vade are rice-flour breads fragrant with fennel that puff like balloons in hot oil. You tear the vade, dunk them in the curry and finish with a squeeze of lime and raw onion. Chef's tip: pat the vade on an oiled sheet of plastic or banana leaf rather than rolling them, and slide them into the oil straight away; thin, even discs puff best.
Malawach is the Yemenite Jewish flatbread that turned into an Israeli freezer staple: round, buttery layers fried in a pan until they shatter, eaten for breakfast or a late supper with sweet-sour grated tomato, zhug and a hard-boiled egg. In Israel almost everyone buys the frozen rounds from the supermarket and fries them in minutes, the way this recipe does; the dough is the same rolled, butter-layered dough as jachnun, just fried instead of baked. Some families sprinkle sugar or drizzle honey for a sweet version. Chef's tip: fry the frozen rounds straight from the freezer; thawed ones turn sticky and lose their layers.
In the wine villages of La Côte above Lake Geneva, especially Vinzel, Bursins and Luins, a malakoff is a dome of Gruyère bound with egg and white wine, set on a round of bread and deep-fried until puffed and golden. The name is said to come from Swiss soldiers who fought at the siege of the Malakoff fort in the Crimean War and brought a taste for cheese fritters home. Locals eat them at village festivals and in pinte-style wine taverns with a glass of chilled Chasselas, cornichons and pickled onions. The crust shatters to a molten, gently stringy inside that tastes of wine and nutmeg. Use Gruyère made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: press the cheese mixture firmly into a tall dome over the bread and chill it for 20 minutes before frying; it holds its shape in the hot oil instead of spreading.
Malabar parotta came from the hotels and tea stalls of Malabar in north Kerala and is now made all over the state, where parotta men slap and stretch dough on oiled marble counters late into the night. The soft dough is stretched paper-thin, pleated, coiled like a snail and griddled, then clapped between the hands so the layers pull apart into flaky ribbons. Eat it torn into vegetable kurma or a spicy black chickpea curry. Chef's tip: give the dough its full rest; well-rested dough stretches thin without tearing, which makes the layers.
Makrout el louz are the elegant almond sweets of Algiers and Constantine, piled on silver trays for weddings, Eid and engagement visits. Unlike fried, date-filled makroudh, they are baked: a paste of ground almonds, sugar, egg and lemon zest is cut into diamonds, baked pale, then dipped in a light syrup and rolled in icing sugar so they look frosted. Chef's tip: bake them only until firm and barely coloured underneath; brown edges harden and stop the syrup soaking in.
Makroudh is the sweet that Kairouan is famous for; the old holy city in central Tunisia sells it in boxes from shops around the medina, and it is made at home for Eid and weddings across the country. A soft dough of semolina and olive oil is wrapped around a roll of date paste scented with cinnamon and orange blossom, cut into diamonds, fried and dipped in syrup. Chef's tip: rest the semolina dough for an hour after mixing; the grains need time to drink the oil and water, or the makroudh cracks in the oil.
Makowiec is the poppy seed roll that sits on almost every Polish Christmas Eve and Easter table; in Silesia and Lesser Poland poppy seeds stand for plenty in the year ahead. A soft, buttery yeast dough is rolled around a thick, black, honey-sweet filling of ground poppy seeds with raisins, walnuts and candied orange peel, then baked and glazed so each slice shows a tight spiral. It takes time, but the process is calm and the roll keeps for days. Chef's tip: grind the soaked poppy seeds two or three times, until they look grey and pasty; whole or once-ground seeds give a gritty filling that falls out of the slices.
Every morning, breakfast shops on almost every block in Taiwan (zǎocān diàn) pour thin, chewy crêpes onto a flat griddle, crack an egg over them and roll them up into a soft log in under a minute. Customers order them plain, with corn, with cheese, or with basil, alongside a cup of soy milk or milk tea. The batter uses some tapioca starch, which gives that bouncy, slightly stretchy bite. Chef's tip: spread the egg over the crêpe while the top of the batter is still a little tacky; they bond into one layer and don't split apart when you roll.
On summer evenings in Tainan and at old shops near Taipei's temples, douhua is ladled in wobbling scoops from a wooden bucket into bowls of cool syrup, then topped with soft-boiled peanuts, red beans or taro balls. In winter the same pudding is served warm with a sharper ginger syrup. It is just soy milk set into the most delicate curd, softer than any tofu you buy. Chef's tip: use a plain, unsweetened soy milk with at least 7% soy solids (or make your own); thin supermarket soy milk won't set properly.
Chuncheon, the lake city in Gangwon, is famous for two things: spicy grilled chicken and makguksu (막국수), coarse buckwheat noodles served icy cold. The name roughly means 'roughly made noodles', and the dish started as simple farm food in a region where buckwheat grew better than rice. In summer, makguksu houses serve it in a sweet, sour and spicy dressing with crunchy cucumber, sweet pear and sesame, often with a jug of chilled broth on the side to pour in halfway. This one is dressed with gochujang, vinegar and pear, and a cold kelp broth. Chef's tip: rinse the cooked noodles under cold running water and rub them between your hands until the water runs clear, then chill them in iced water; that washes off the starch and gives them their springy bite.
Majjiga pulusu is the cooling yogurt curry of Andhra Pradesh, cooked in summer when the buttermilk at home turns a little sour. Unlike Gujarati kadhi, it isn't thickened with gram flour: soaked chana dal is ground with coconut, ginger, green chillies and cumin, stirred into the curd, and simmered gently with soft pieces of ash gourd (or okra, or chayote). It's mild, tangy and creamy, and eaten mixed into rice with a fried vegetable or fritter on the side, especially at Telugu wedding meals. Chef's tip: whisk the yogurt until completely smooth before it goes near the heat; lumpy yogurt splits much more easily.
Mahua trees flower across Jharkhand in March and April, and before dawn whole families gather the fallen, creamy, honey-scented flowers from the forest floor and dry them in the sun. In Santhal, Munda and Oraon homes, the dried flowers are roasted and pounded with sesame and peanuts into laddus that need almost no added sugar, a store-cupboard sweet for the lean months and for festivals like Sarhul. They taste of raisins, caramel and toasted nuts. Chef's tip: roast the flowers until they puff slightly and smell like caramel; underroasted mahua tastes raw and slightly bitter.
Mahshi is the pride of the Egyptian home kitchen: a big pot of courgettes, small aubergines, peppers and tomatoes, hollowed out and stuffed with short-grain rice, tomato, onion and a fistful of dill, parsley and coriander, then packed tightly and simmered in tomato broth. It turns up for Friday family lunches and on feast days, and making it is often a shared afternoon job around the kitchen table. Some families add minced meat to the stuffing; this version is the everyday vegetable-and-rice one. Chef's tip: fill each vegetable only three-quarters full; the rice swells as it cooks, and overstuffed vegetables burst and leave hard, undercooked rice in the middle.
Aamti is the everyday dal of Maharashtrian homes from Pune to Kolhapur: toor dal cooked soft, soured with kokum, sweetened with a little jaggery and seasoned with goda masala, the dark, aromatic spice blend of the state. It's thinner than a Punjabi dal and has a gentle sweet-sour-hot balance. Before the tempering goes in, many cooks scoop out a bowl of the plain cooked dal for varan bhaat, the simple turmeric-yellow dal with rice, ghee and lemon that every Maharashtrian child grows up on and that starts every festive thali. Chef's tip: add the kokum near the end and taste after 5 minutes; it keeps releasing sourness, and it's easy to overshoot.
Maharagwe ya nazi, red beans in coconut, is a weekday staple along the Swahili coast from Mombasa to Dar es Salaam and on Zanzibar, eaten with chapati, rice or mandazi. The beans are cooked until creamy, then simmered in a gently spiced tomato and coconut sauce. It differs from mbaazi wa nazi (pigeon peas) in its red kidney beans and its tomato-based, curry-spiced sauce. Chef's tip: add the coconut milk at the end and keep it at a bare simmer; boiled hard, it splits and turns oily.
Mageu (also amahewu or mahewu) is a thin, sour, nourishing drink of fermented maize porridge, made in homes across Zimbabwe, South Africa, Zambia and Botswana and drunk by farm workers, schoolchildren and anyone needing a filling lift on a hot afternoon. A little wheat flour or a spoonful of the last batch starts the fermentation overnight. Commercial cartons are sold everywhere, but home-made tastes fresher. Chef's tip: let the porridge cool to lukewarm before adding the starter; too hot and it kills the fermentation.
Dongin-dong in Daegu has a street of restaurants that serve one thing: beef short ribs braised until soft and smothered in a thick paste of red chilli and crushed garlic, brought to the table in battered aluminium pots. The dish is counted among Daegu's ten signature foods, and the city is known for liking its food hot. It's much spicier and less sweet than the soy-braised galbijjim made for holidays. Eat it with plenty of rice, lettuce and a cold drink, and keep a napkin handy. Chef's tip: use far more garlic than seems sensible; the crushed raw garlic stirred in at the end is what makes the Dongin-dong style.
Jigarthanda means 'cool heart', and on a hot evening in Madurai crowds queue around the carts near the Meenakshi temple for a tall glass of it. It's layered rather than blended: a spoonful of soaked almond gum (badam pisin), a glug of nannari (Indian sarsaparilla) syrup, chilled milk reduced until creamy and lightly caramel-coloured, then a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. The result is cold, floral, wobbly and rich all at once. This home version uses shop-bought vanilla ice cream; check that yours is eggless and gelatine-free. Chef's tip: let the reduced milk chill overnight; cold, thick milk is what makes it taste like the street version rather than flavoured milk.
In Tunisia a tajine is not a stew but a thick baked frittata, and tajine malsouka is the festive one: eggs, cheese and filling baked between layers of malsouka pastry so the top and bottom turn crisp and golden. It is served at Ramadan, weddings and Eid, cut into squares. Chicken is the usual filling; here spinach, potato and white beans give it body. Chef's tip: brush every pastry sheet with butter, edge to edge; dry corners burn in the oven.
Madra is the pride of the Himachali dham, the communal feast cooked by hereditary cooks called botis at weddings and temple fairs in Chamba and Kangra. Chickpeas are simmered in yogurt with ghee, cloves, cardamom and cinnamon until the sauce turns thick, pale and rich, with no onion or garlic at all. It arrives on a leaf plate beside rice, rajmah and kadhi, and some families add a few raisins or cashews for a festive touch. Chef's tip: cook the chickpeas until they squash easily between two fingers before they go into the yogurt; they won't soften further once the sauce is in.
Maddur is a small town halfway between Bengaluru and Mysuru, and for nearly a century travellers on that road have stopped at its railway station and highway stalls for one snack: Maddur vada. Unlike soaked-lentil vadas, these are made from rice flour, semolina and plain flour rubbed with hot oil and loaded with sliced onion, curry leaves and green chilli, then patted flat and fried until crunchy and golden all the way through. They keep their crunch for hours, so they are packed for long journeys. Serve with coconut chutney and filter coffee. Chef's tip: add the onions first and let them sit with the salt for ten minutes; their juice moistens the flours, so you need very little water and the vada stays crisp.
Walk through Dotonbori in Osaka on any evening and you'll see cooks flicking dozens of batter balls around a cast-iron plate with metal picks. Stalls in the city have sold them since the 1930s, and they turn up at every summer festival, eaten from a paper boat with a cocktail stick. The outside is crisp, the inside almost molten, with a chewy piece of octopus at the centre. You need a takoyaki pan, either a stovetop cast-iron one or an electric plate. Chef's tip: fill the cups right to the top and let the batter flood across the whole plate, as the overflow is what you fold in to make each ball round.
Taktouka is the pepper partner to zaalouk, served side by side on the salad plates of Moroccan homes and cafés, especially around Casablanca and the north. Grilled green peppers are peeled and cooked down with tomato, garlic and cumin until soft and jammy, then eaten lukewarm with bread or as a side to tagines and grilled vegetables. It is cheap, quick and keeps for three days in the fridge. Chef's tip: use the thin-skinned, slightly bitter green peppers if you can find them; they give a more authentic flavour than sweet bell peppers.
Lyutenitsa is Bulgaria's pantry relish, cooked in huge pans in courtyards around Plovdiv and the Thracian plain every September, when the red peppers are at their sweetest. Roasted peppers, tomatoes and a little aubergine and carrot are ground smooth and simmered for hours into a thick, brick-red spread, warm with garlic and a little hot pepper. It is smoother and more tomato-rich than ajvar or zacuscă. Children grow up on it spread on bread with grated sirene (filiyka), and it goes with everything from eggs to beans. Chef's tip: stir from the bottom often as it thickens; walking away is the common mistake, and a scorched base will taint the whole pot.
Tallarín saltado is the noodle cousin of lomo saltado, a chifa favourite from Lima where Chinese wok technique meets Peruvian ingredients. Spaghetti-style wheat noodles are tossed over a fierce heat with mushrooms, pak choi, red onion, tomato, ginger and ají amarillo, then glossed with soy sauce and a splash of vinegar. The noodles soak up the smoky, tangy sauce while the vegetables stay crisp. Peruvians use plain spaghetti from the shop on the corner, and so can you. Chef's tip: cook the noodles a minute short of the packet time and rinse them in cold water; they finish cooking in the wok and won't turn soft or clump.
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.
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.
In Vienna's old Beisl taverns the Schnitzel arrives so large it hangs over the plate: a veal escalope beaten thin, coated in flour, egg and fine breadcrumbs and fried in plenty of hot fat while the pan is swirled, so the crumb lifts away from the meat in golden waves. Austrian law keeps the name 'Wiener Schnitzel' for veal; the pork version, very common in German homes, is called Schnitzel Wiener Art and is cooked exactly the same way. Serve it with a lemon wedge, lingonberry jam and potato salad. The most common mistake is pressing the crumbs firmly onto the meat, which stops the coating from puffing. Chef's tip: shake off the crumbs and lay the cutlet in only when the fat is hot enough that a crumb sizzles at once.
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.
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.
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.
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