Wholemeal loaf
Open almost any Norwegian matpakke (the packed lunch wrapped in paper) and you will find slices of kneippbrød, a soft, lightly sweet loaf of sammalt hvete (wholemeal wheat) baked in a tin. Its fine crumb slices thin without crumbling, perfect for brown cheese, jam or cucumber at the school desk. The common mistake is adding too much flour while kneading because wholemeal dough feels sticky; the loaf then bakes dense and dry. Chef's tip: let the dough rest for 20 minutes after mixing, before kneading, so the bran softens and the dough turns smooth on its own.
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After dark in Panjim, Mapusa and Margao, roadside carts fry omelettes to order and ladle over them a thin, spicy chicken gravy called ros, meaning juice. It is late-night food, eaten standing up, mopped with soft Goan pao. The ros is a loose chicken xacuti, rich with roasted coconut, poppy seeds and star anise. Chef's tip: keep the gravy soupy; it should flood the omelette and soak into the bread, not sit on top like a stew.
Walk into any Hong Kong cha chaan teng before 11 am and you'll see bowls of macaroni in clear soup on almost every table, part of the breakfast set with toast and milk tea. The usual version carries strips of ham; at home many families make it with sweetcorn, peas, carrot and a fried egg instead, for a light, comforting bowl that children love. Chef's tip: cook the macaroni separately and add it to the broth at the end, so it stays springy and the soup stays clear.
Chana jor garam is sold from a tin box slung round a vendor's neck on the Kolkata Maidan, at Babughat and along Esplanade, with a sing-song call to match its name. Chickpeas are soaked, pressed flat, and fried or roasted until crunchy, then tossed to order with raw onion, tomato, green chilli, coriander, lime and a spice mix, and handed over in a paper cone. It is lighter than jhalmuri and much crunchier. The same snack is sold on Mumbai beaches; this is the Kolkata cart version. Chef's tip: flatten the soaked chickpeas while still damp, with a rolling pin between two cloths, so they split into thin discs.
In winter, the dai pai dong stalls of Temple Street and Mong Kok line up dozens of little clay pots over roaring flames, and queues form for bou zai faan: rice cooked right in the pot, topped with the day's ingredients and doused with sweet soy at the table. The prize is the golden, crackling crust (faan jiu) at the bottom. This vegetarian pot uses shiitake, fried tofu puffs and choy sum, seasoned with a mushroom-based vegetarian oyster sauce. Chef's tip: once the rice has absorbed its water, drizzle oil round the inside edge of the pot and turn it slowly over the flame; that's how the crust forms evenly instead of burning in one spot.
In Hong Kong's cha chaan teng (tea restaurants), French toast means two thick slices of white bread sandwiched with peanut butter, dipped in egg, fried until puffed and golden, then crowned with a pat of butter and a pour of golden syrup or condensed milk. It is an afternoon tea-set favourite, paired with a strong cup of milk tea, and it's richer than any French version. Chef's tip: trim the crusts and press the sandwich edges firmly so the egg doesn't seep into the peanut butter.
Despite the name, there is no pineapple in a bolo bao; the crackled, golden sugar crust on top just looks like the fruit's skin. It is the best-selling bun in Hong Kong bakeries and cha chaan teng cafés, eaten warm at breakfast or tea time with milk tea, and many people order it as bo lo yau, split open with a thick, cold slice of butter melting into it. Chef's tip: roll the topping between two sheets of baking paper rather than on a floured board; the soft dough is fragile and paper lets you lift it on in one piece.
Feng li su are the gift-box sweet of Taiwan: little golden squares of crumbly, milky shortbread wrapped round a chewy pineapple jam. Bakeries in Taichung and Taipei pack them in tins for Lunar New Year, weddings and visiting relatives, and the name sounds like 'prosperity arriving' in Taiwanese Hokkien. Older bakeries bulk the filling with winter melon for a softer, sweeter jam; this home version uses fresh pineapple only, cooked down until thick and tangy. Chef's tip: chill the dough and the jam balls before wrapping; cold, firm pieces are far easier to seal without the jam breaking through.
Gua bao are the folded, clam-shaped buns sold at night markets from Tainan to Keelung, traditionally stuffed with a slab of soy-braised pork belly and eaten as a 'tiger bites pig' snack at year-end company dinners. Here the filling is thick slices of tofu and king oyster mushroom simmered in the same sweet soy braise, then layered with sour mustard greens, a spoon of ground peanut and sugar, and fresh coriander. The soft bun, salty filling and sweet peanut crumble are what make it. Chef's tip: brush the half-moons with oil before folding and lay a strip of baking paper inside, so the buns open cleanly after steaming.
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.
Ma jiang mian is the first thing many Taipei students order at the corner noodle shop, with a bowl of soup on the side and a plate of sliced cucumber. The noodles are tossed, never drowned, in a thick sauce of toasted sesame paste loosened with soy sauce, black vinegar and a little of the cooking water, then splashed with chilli oil. It works hot in winter and cold from the fridge in the sticky Taipei summer. Chef's tip: use Chinese toasted sesame paste rather than tahini if you can; it's made from roasted seeds and gives a much nuttier, darker sauce.
Walk down Pozi Street in Changsha and you'll smell this before you see it. The tofu is fermented in a brine until it turns jet black and pungent, then fried until it puffs up with a crisp skin and a soft, hollow middle. Vendors poke a hole in each piece and spoon in a sauce of chopped chillies, garlic and soy. Making the brine takes weeks, so this home version starts with bought stinky tofu (frozen, in Chinese supermarkets). Chef's tip: the smell fades a lot during frying; it tastes milder and nuttier than it smells.
Changua is the breakfast soup of Bogotá and the high plains of Cundinamarca and Boyacá, where cold mornings call for something hot before work. Milk and water are simmered with spring onion, eggs are poached right in the pot, and the bowls get fresh coriander and pieces of stale bread or calado (dried toasted bread) that soften in the broth. It is gentle, creamy and filling. Chef's tip: keep the milk at a bare simmer; if it boils hard it can catch on the bottom and the eggs break apart.
Three-cup dishes (san bei) are cooked in every Taiwanese home and in the rè chǎo stir-fry beer halls, where they arrive at the table still crackling in a clay pot. The name comes from the old equal measures of sesame oil, soy sauce and rice wine; today cooks use less, but the result is the same sticky, garlicky glaze lifted at the last second by a fistful of Taiwanese basil. Chicken is the most famous version; tofu soaks up the sauce even better and is just as popular in vegetarian restaurants around Taipei. Serve with plain rice. Chef's tip: fry the ginger slices in the sesame oil until they curl and frill at the edges before anything else goes in; that is where the dish's warm, toasty smell comes from.
Gai daan jai, 'little eggs', are the honeycomb sheets of puffed bubbles sold from street carts in Mong Kok and Sham Shui Po since the 1950s, handed over in a paper bag to be pulled apart bubble by bubble while you walk. A good one is crisp and thin on the outside and soft, almost hollow, in the middle, with the smell of egg, vanilla and evaporated milk. You need the special egg waffle pan with round cups. Chef's tip: rest the batter for at least 30 minutes; it bakes up lighter and the bubbles fill evenly.
In Taipei, a bowl of lu rou fan costs little more than a bus fare, and night-market stalls ladle it from pots that have simmered since afternoon. The original is chopped pork belly stewed in soy sauce, rice wine and fried shallots; this meat-free version gets the same glossy, sticky richness from diced shiitake, browned firm tofu and plenty of shallot oil. It is a weekday lunch for office workers and a late snack after the markets, served with a heap of yellow pickled radish and a few blanched greens. Chef's tip: brown the tofu cubes hard before they go into the braise; a crust soaks up the sauce and chews almost like the meat it replaces.
Every December, Nigerian kitchens turn into small factories of chin chin, crunchy little cubes of sweet fried dough packed into big plastic tubs for Christmas visitors, weddings and the long drive back to the village. The dough is enriched with butter, egg and evaporated milk and scented with nutmeg; cut small and fried, it shatters with a satisfying crunch. It keeps for weeks, so families make kilos at a time. Chef's tip: roll the dough evenly thin, about 5 mm, so every piece fries through to a crisp centre at the same time.
Hong Kong milk tea is the daily fuel of the city's cha chaan teng, poured hot in thick cups at breakfast and over ice in the humid afternoons. Tea masters brew a blend of strong black teas, strain it again and again through a long cotton bag (the stained 'silk stocking'), and mix it with evaporated milk for a smooth, almost velvety drink. Chef's tip: let the tea simmer for a few minutes rather than just steeping it; Hong Kong milk tea is meant to be strong and slightly astringent, or the milk drowns it.
Bánh chuối nướng is sold by the slab from glass-fronted carts and bakeries in Saigon, a soft, heavy cake made from overripe bananas, day-old bread and coconut milk, baked until the top turns deep amber and the bananas go sticky and jammy. It sits somewhere between a bread pudding and a custard cake, and Saigon people eat it as an afternoon snack, often with a little warm coconut sauce poured over. Home cooks make it to use up blackened bananas and stale baguette. Chef's tip: use the ripest bananas you can find, with brown-spotted skins; they give the cake its colour and sweetness.
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.
In Hanoi, bún riêu is a mid-morning bowl bought from street sellers who set up on low plastic stools: a tangy red tomato broth with rice vermicelli and soft, floating curds that are normally made from pounded paddy crab. Vegetarian cooks and Buddhist temple kitchens make bún riêu chay instead, folding crumbled tofu, egg and chopped shiitake into the same loose, spongy curds, and seasoning the broth with fermented tofu rather than shrimp paste. It arrives with fried tofu, lime, chilli, shredded water spinach and perilla, so each spoonful is sour, savoury and fresh at once. Chef's tip: let the tomatoes fry in the annatto oil until they collapse into a jammy paste before any stock goes in; that is where the broth gets its colour and depth.
Order hitsumabushi in a Nagoya eel restaurant and it arrives in a round wooden tub, often with a small card explaining how to eat it. You divide the rice into quarters: eat the first plain, the second with spring onion, wasabi and nori, the third drowned in hot dashi or green tea, and the last whichever way you liked best. Nagoya cooks grill the eel until the skin is crisp, then chop it into strips. At home, ready-grilled eel fillets (unagi kabayaki, sold frozen in Japanese shops) work very well once reheated properly. Chef's tip: spoon a little of the sweet sauce through the rice before the eel goes on, so every mouthful is seasoned, not just the top layer.
Charquicán is old Chilean country food: a thick mash of pumpkin and potato with corn and peas, once made with charqui, the dried meat of the Andes. In the south and in Santiago homes it's a winter weeknight dinner, served in a deep plate with a fried egg on top and pickled onions or a simple salad. Without the meat it's still rich and smoky with merkén (smoked chilli) and paprika. Chef's tip: mash only roughly at the end; charquicán should have soft chunks, not be a smooth purée.
Travellers changing trains at Nagoya Station often grab a bowl of kishimen standing up at one of the platform noodle counters, and the dish is eaten all year in noodle shops across the city. The noodles are wide, thin and slippery, so they pick up a lot of broth with every mouthful. A typical bowl has a light, golden dashi, sweet fried tofu, a little green vegetable, a slice of fish cake and a big pile of bonito flakes that wave in the steam. It takes about 20 minutes from start to finish. Chef's tip: add the bonito topping right at the table, not in the kitchen; it softens and sinks within a minute, and the fresh smoky smell is half the pleasure.
Chashushuli is a fiery beef stew from the home kitchens and Tbilisi taverns of eastern Georgia, cooked in a clay ketsi pot or a heavy pan and eaten with shoti bread. Beef simmers slowly with lots of onion and tomato, then gets a hit of garlic, chilli, khmeli suneli and fresh coriander right at the end. It is meant to be spicy, but you can halve the chilli. Chef's tip: cook it until the sauce is thick enough to scoop with bread; Georgians do not eat it like soup.
Chatamari is a thin, round crêpe of rice flour that Newar cooks in Patan, Bhaktapur and old Kathmandu make on a covered griddle, so the topping steams on top while the base turns crisp underneath. It is sometimes called Newari pizza, which says something about how it's eaten: cut into wedges, hot, and shared. It is a festival and teahouse snack, served at Newar feasts and in the small eateries around Patan Durbar Square. The classic topping is a cracked egg spread over the batter with onion, tomato and coriander, and this vegetarian version keeps the egg; leave it out and add more vegetables if you prefer. The common mistake is to pour the batter too thick; it should be as thin as single cream so it cooks through before the edges burn. Chef's tip: swirl the batter with the back of a ladle in a spiral from the centre outwards, so it sets in an even, lacy layer.
Chatini pomme d'amour (tomato chutney) is on the side of every Mauritian plate of rice, dholl puri and farata. In Creole and Indo-Mauritian homes it is crushed by hand on the roche carri, the island's flat grinding stone, so the tomato turns juicy while the onion and coriander stay fresh. Unlike kachumbari it is crushed rather than chopped, with raw garlic and a spoon of oil. Chef's tip: crush the garlic and chilli to a paste first, then the tomato; otherwise you bite into raw garlic pieces.
Beef was rarely eaten in Japan until the Meiji era, when Tokyo's new beef-pot restaurants made it fashionable, and sukiyaki grew out of those pots. Today it is a dish for New Year, birthdays and family gatherings, cooked in a shallow iron pan on a burner in the middle of the table. In the Kanto style of Tokyo, the cook pours in a ready-mixed sauce called warishita, whereas Kansai cooks sear the beef with sugar and add soy sauce afterwards. Each piece is dipped in beaten raw egg, which cools it and softens the sweet, salty sauce. Use very fresh eggs, ideally pasteurised; not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. If you prefer, skip the egg or poach it in the pan. Chef's tip: keep the shirataki noodles away from the beef in the pan; they can make the meat firm up and toughen where they touch.
Chebakia are the dark, sticky, flower-shaped cookies that every Moroccan family associates with Ramadan; women in Fez, Meknes and Casablanca spend a whole day in the weeks before the holy month folding hundreds of them, and they are served at iftar with harira and dates. The dough is scented with anise, cinnamon, saffron and toasted sesame, cut into rectangles, folded into a rose, fried and dropped straight into hot, perfumed honey. They are crisp, chewy and very sweet. Chef's tip: work in small batches and keep the honey hot but not boiling; hot honey soaks in properly, while cool honey just coats the outside.
On cold Da Lat nights, the steam rising from soy milk stalls is part of the scenery around the central market: big pots of freshly made sữa đậu nành, ladled hot into glasses and sipped with grilled rice paper or a warm bánh bao. Made at home, it tastes nutty and clean, nothing like the cartons, and a knot of pandan leaf gives it the gentle vanilla-like scent that Vietnamese sellers favour. Chef's tip: rub the soaked beans between your palms and float off the skins; peeled beans give a smoother, sweeter milk.
Roti mataba came to southern Thailand with Indian-Muslim traders, and today the roti stalls of Hat Yai, Satun and Pattani, and the old Muslim quarter around Bangkok's Phra Athit Road, serve it from morning till late. A thin stretched roti is wrapped around a spiced filling, folded into a square and fried until crisp and blistered. Chicken or beef is the usual filling; the potato and onion version made here is also common and is the one sold to vegetarian customers. It comes cut into squares with a sweet-sour cucumber relish (ajad) on the side. Chef's tip: oil the dough balls and leave them to rest for at least two hours; rested dough stretches paper-thin without tearing.
Kaeng tai pla is the boldest curry of southern Thailand, eaten from Surat Thani down to Hat Yai: a dark, pungent, fiercely hot broth of turmeric-heavy southern curry paste, pumpkin, bamboo shoots, aubergine and long beans, normally flavoured with fermented fish innards. During the Vegetarian Festival (thetsakan kin jay), held every autumn in Phuket and Trang, cooks make a 'jay' version with fermented soybean paste and roasted peanut, and that is the curry here. It is thinner than a coconut curry and served with rice and plenty of raw vegetables to cool the heat. Chef's tip: this curry is meant to be very hot. If you want less heat, add fewer bird's eye chillies to the paste but keep the black pepper and turmeric, which give it its character.
Khao yam is breakfast in the south: in Nakhon Si Thammarat, Pattani and Songkhla, morning stalls set out trays of tightly shredded lemongrass, pomelo, long beans, bean sprouts, makrut lime leaves and toasted coconut, and you build your plate around a mound of rice, often tinted blue with butterfly pea flowers. The dressing is normally budu, a sweet fermented fish sauce from the Malay borderlands. This version makes a vegetarian 'budu' by simmering soy sauce, tamarind, palm sugar, lemongrass and shallot into a dark syrup. The result is crunchy, fragrant, sweet, salty and sour in every mouthful. Chef's tip: shred everything as finely as you can; thin slivers of lemongrass and lime leaf are pleasant, thick ones are woody.
Chelow is the plain, fluffy steamed rice at the centre of almost every Iranian lunch table, and tahdig ('bottom of the pot') is the crisp golden crust that forms underneath it. In homes from Tehran to Isfahan the pot is turned out at the table and the shards of tahdig are fought over before anyone touches the stew. The method is the master one for all Persian polo dishes: long-grain rice is soaked, boiled briefly, then steamed slowly under a cloth-wrapped lid so every grain stays separate and long. This page gives a yogurt-and-saffron tahdig, with potato and flatbread versions in the steps. Serve it with ghormeh sabzi, a yogurt dip and fresh herbs. Chef's tip: turn the heat up for the first 10 minutes until you hear a steady sizzle, then right down; that early burst is what sets the crust.
'Saep' is the Isan word for delicious, and in the northeast it means hot, sour and herby all at once. Tom saep is the soup sold from big pots at Isan restaurants and roadside grill shops from Nakhon Ratchasima to Ubon, usually with pork bones or offal; mushroom versions are just as common during the rainy season, when wild mushrooms fill the markets. It has no coconut milk: the broth is clear and sharp with lemongrass, galangal, makrut lime leaves and handfuls of dried chilli, thickened slightly with roasted rice powder. Eat it with sticky rice and grilled vegetables. Chef's tip: add the lime juice off the heat; boiled lime turns bitter and loses its fresh sourness.
In Khon Kaen, Udon Thani and the rest of Isan, the somtam stall always offers a cucumber version alongside the papaya one, and many locals prefer it on hot afternoons: tam taeng is juicier, cooler and crunchier. Thick batons of cucumber are bruised, not smashed, with garlic, chillies, lime and palm sugar, so they soak up the dressing but keep their snap. Sellers add fermented fish or dried shrimp; this vegan bowl leans on soy and toasted peanuts for depth instead. It is eaten with sticky rice and grilled food, picked up with your fingers. Chef's tip: use firm cucumbers with small seeds and scoop out a watery core, or the salad floods within minutes.
Khanom bueang are little taco-shaped crêpes made on hot round griddles at markets and outside temples all over Bangkok, especially around the old town near the Grand Palace. A vendor spreads a whisper-thin batter with the back of a spoon, swirls on a fluffy meringue cream, then tops it with shredded coconut or sweet egg yolk threads before folding it while still hot. The sweet version, made here, crackles like a wafer and melts on the tongue. A savoury one with coconut and spring onion also exists. They are eaten as an afternoon snack, a few at a time, as soon as they are made. Chef's tip: the batter must go on very thinly. Thick shells stay chewy and never crisp up.
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