Flax grows across the highlands of Gojjam, and on Wednesdays, Fridays and through Lent its toasted seeds become telba, a creamy, nutty drink that fills you up when animal food is off the menu. The seeds are dry-roasted until they pop, ground fine, then whisked with water and strained, giving a pale brown drink with a faint toasted-sesame flavour and a slightly silky body. It is also taken as a gentle remedy for an upset stomach. Families often sweeten it with honey; sugar keeps it fully vegan. Don't roast the flaxseed too far: over-roasted seeds turn the drink bitter. Chef's tip: grind only what you need that day, because ground flax goes stale and bitter within days; whole roasted seeds keep for weeks in a jar.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
When the clam beds of the Zuari and Mandovi rivers are full after the monsoon, Goan kitchens cook tisryo (clams) as sukhe, meaning dry: no gravy, just shells coated in a coarse, spiced coconut masala. It is a Saturday-lunch side dish with fish curry and rice, eaten with the fingers, picking each clam out of its half-shell. Chef's tip: grind the coconut masala without water and only briefly, so it stays coarse and clings to the shells.
Good Friday in Jamaica means fish, and escovitch fish is the dish families line up for, though you'll also find it any day at the seaside stalls of Hellshire Beach and Port Royal. Whole red snapper (or thick fillets) are seasoned, fried until the skin shatters, then buried under onion, carrot, chocho and peppers that have been briefly warmed in vinegar with pimento and scotch bonnet. The fish soaks up the sharp, hot pickle as it sits, so it is as good at room temperature as it is fresh from the pan. Serve with bammy or festival. Chef's tip: make the pickle while the fish fries and pour it over hot fish; it sinks in better, and a few hours later the flavour is even deeper.
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.
Erissery is the golden, slightly sweet pumpkin dish of the Onam sadya in Kerala, and a favourite in homes all through the harvest season when the yellow mathanga pumpkins are piled up in the markets. Soft pumpkin and red cowpeas are bound with a coconut, cumin and green chilli paste, and the whole pot is crowned with grated coconut fried in coconut oil until it turns the colour of cinnamon. That crunchy, nutty topping is what makes it erissery. Serve with rice and parippu, or scoop it up with chapati. Chef's tip: keep the pumpkin pieces large so some stay whole while others melt into the sauce.
Tkemali is Georgia's table sauce, made in Samegrelo, Guria and Imereti from sour cherry plums. Green tkemali comes from unripe plums in late spring; the red one is made at the end of summer, when the plums colour and every family cooks a big pot to bottle for the winter. It goes with almost everything: boiled potatoes, beans, fried courgettes, mchadi and cheese. Traditionally it is flavoured with ombalo (pennyroyal), which is hard to buy, so dried mint stands in here. A common mistake is boiling the herbs and garlic for too long, which turns the sauce dull and brown; they go in only for the last few minutes. Chef's tip: if your plums are sweet supermarket ones, add a squeeze of lemon; tkemali should be properly sour.
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.
Yassa comes from Casamance, the green, rice-growing south of Senegal, and has become the dish Dakar families cook for guests and naming ceremonies. Chicken spends a night in lemon juice, mustard and a huge pile of sliced onions, is grilled or browned until charred at the edges, then braised in those same onions until they collapse into a sharp, sweet, jammy sauce. It is served over plain white rice with a green olive or two on top. A common mistake is rushing the onions; if they are still crunchy the sauce tastes raw and harsh, so give them the full half hour. Chef's tip: keep the marinade, because it becomes the sauce; just boil it well with the onions so it is safe to eat.
The tlayuda is the late-night street food of Oaxaca City: a huge, thin, slightly leathery corn tortilla spread with black bean paste and asiento (unrefined pork lard), scattered with quesillo (Oaxaca string cheese) and cabbage, folded and toasted over charcoal until crisp and smoky. This vegetarian version swaps the asiento for browned butter, which gives the same toasty richness, and is topped with avocado, tomato and salsa. Real tlayudas are about 30 cm across and hard to find outside Oaxaca; use the largest corn tortillas you can get, or flour tortillas of 25 cm (then they are not gluten free). Quesillo is made with animal rennet in Oaxaca; for a vegetarian dish use low-moisture mozzarella or a string cheese made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: spread the beans thinly; a thick layer makes the tortilla soggy and stops it crisping.
Tortelli di zucca are the Christmas Eve dish of Mantua, in Lombardy, where the dense orange pumpkins of the Po plain are roasted and mashed with crushed amaretti biscuits, spicy fruit mostarda and hard cheese. The filling is sweet, salty and a little hot all at once, a taste that goes back to the Renaissance Gonzaga court. They are served simply, with melted butter, sage and more cheese. Chef's tip: roast the pumpkin rather than boil it, and make the filling the day before; a dry, rested filling is easy to pipe and the flavours blend.
Epis is the jar that lives in every Haitian fridge, in Port-au-Prince flats and in Haitian kitchens in Miami, Montreal and Boston alike, and it's made fresh most weeks. Flat-leaf parsley, spring onion, garlic, sweet peppers and thyme are pounded or blended with a few cloves, a little scotch bonnet, oil and lime into a loose green paste. It is the first thing into the pot for rice and beans, legim and soup joumou, and it's rubbed over vegetables and tofu before they're fried. Raw it smells bright and herby; cooked it turns sweet, savoury and gently warm with clove. Chef's tip: use whole cloves and grind them yourself; just three or four give epis its signature warmth, but more turns it medicinal.
On cold evenings in Busan, the city that made Korean fish cake famous, steam rises from street stalls where folded fish-cake skewers bob in a long tray of broth. You help yourself to a skewer, dip it in soy sauce and sip a paper cup of the hot broth while you stand. Bupyeong market has rows of fish-cake shops, and many families buy a bag there to make this simple soup at home. Radish, dried anchovies and kelp give the broth its clean, sweet flavour. Chef's tip: pull the heads and black guts off the dried anchovies before using them, because the guts make the broth bitter.
Cuban home cooks dress avocado very simply, and in summer around Havana it often meets ripe pineapple and thin rings of red onion in a lime and olive oil dressing. The creamy avocado, juicy sweet-sour pineapple and sharp onion make it the cool, fresh plate beside rice and beans or yuca con mojo. It takes ten minutes. Chef's tip: soak the onion rings in cold water for 5 minutes first; they stay crisp but lose their harsh bite.
Tocăniță is the everyday stew of Romanian home cooking, and the mushroom version is a fixture of the Orthodox fasting days, when Transylvanian cooks use forest mushrooms gathered in the Apuseni hills and city cooks use button mushrooms from the market. Onions, garlic, tomato, white wine and thyme cook down into a thick, glossy sauce, without the sour cream and paprika of a Hungarian paprikás. It is always eaten with hot mămăligă and a spoon of the sauce over the top. Chef's tip: brown the mushrooms in batches in a hot pan; crowding them is the usual mistake, and they then stew grey in their own water instead of turning golden.
The Engadiner Nusstorte comes from the high Engadine valley in Graubünden, where pastry cooks who had emigrated to Italian and French cities brought home their skills in the 1800s, and walnuts arrived from Italy over the passes. It is a shallow, closed tart of rich butter pastry filled with chopped walnuts set in thick, golden cream caramel. Bakeries all over Switzerland sell it, and it keeps for weeks, so families give it as a gift and take it on hikes. Cut it into thin wedges: it is very rich, chewy, crunchy and buttery all at once. Chef's tip: let the caramel reach a deep amber before you pour in the cream; pale caramel tastes only of sugar, dark amber gives the toffee note the tart is known for.
Zobo is the deep crimson drink sold ice-cold in recycled bottles at Nigerian bus parks, markets and parties, and in Ghana the same drink is called sobolo, often made punchier with extra ginger and grains of selim. Dried hibiscus calyces are boiled with pineapple peel, fresh ginger and cloves, then strained and sweetened, giving a tart, fruity, gently spicy drink. It is drunk fresh and alcohol-free, very cold, especially in the dry heat before the rains. Chef's tip: sweeten the drink once it is strained and still warm, tasting as you go; hibiscus tastes much sharper hot than when it is chilled, so leave it a touch sweeter than you think.
Enduri (or haladi patra pitha) is the sweet of Prathamastami in Odisha, the November festival when Odia mothers pray for their eldest child, who gets the first pitha of the day. Fermented rice-and-urad batter is spread on fresh turmeric leaves, filled with coconut, jaggery, black pepper and cardamom, folded and steamed until the leaves give the cake a green, gingery perfume. The cake is soft and slightly springy. Chef's tip: if you can't find turmeric leaves, use banana leaf with a pinch of grated fresh turmeric in the batter; the flavour is close.
Adobo is the dish Filipinos call national, cooked in some form in nearly every home from Ilocos down to Mindanao, and the meat versions are what most people know. In Catholic households, though, Holy Week and the Fridays of Lent call for a meatless table, and adobong tokwa (tofu adobo) is the answer many families reach for. Firm tofu is fried until it has a golden skin, then simmered in a reduced sauce of cane vinegar, soy sauce, a whole head of garlic, bay leaves and whole peppercorns until the sauce clings, sour and salty with a little sweetness. It tastes even better the next day and is eaten with mounds of plain rice. Chef's tip: press the tofu well and fry it properly; a dry, golden crust is what soaks up the adobo sauce instead of turning it watery.
Ohn no khao swe is the comforting coconut noodle soup that Burmese families serve for weekend lunches and for crowds at donation feasts, especially around Mandalay and Yangon. Wheat noodles sit in a rich, mildly spiced coconut broth thickened with chickpea flour, and everyone adds their own toppings: lime, sliced raw onion, chilli flakes, coriander and crispy fried noodles. It's normally made with chicken; tofu and chickpeas take its place here. Chef's tip: stir the coconut milk in at the end and keep it at a gentle simmer; a hard boil makes the coconut split and turn oily.
Poke (say 'POH-keh', meaning 'to cut into pieces') is Hawaii's everyday snack: in local markets and at the deli counters of Honolulu, raw cubed fish is tossed with soy, sesame oil, sweet Maui onion, seaweed and inamona (roasted candlenut). Tofu poke has become a standard option at those same counters, and it's how this recipe is written; the original uses raw tuna (ahi) instead of tofu. Serve it as a pūpū (snack) or over rice. Chef's tip: press the tofu well and dry it; firm, dry cubes soak up the dressing instead of watering it down.
Amok is the dish Cambodians proudly serve to visitors, especially around Siem Reap and the Tonlé Sap, where it is traditionally made with freshwater fish. This home version keeps everything that makes it amok, the fragrant kroeung, thick coconut cream and a beaten egg that sets it into a soft, spoonable custard, but fills the banana-leaf cups with firm tofu and sweet pumpkin instead. Noni leaves (slok ngor) usually line the cups; young spinach gives the same green layer. Serve it with plain jasmine rice for a special dinner. Chef's tip: stir the custard in one direction only while you mix the coconut cream and egg; Cambodian cooks say this keeps it silky, and it also stops air bubbles that leave holes once steamed.
Encebollado is the morning soup of Guayaquil and the Ecuadorian coast, sold from street carts and small cevicherías from dawn and famous as a cure after a late night: tuna poached in a broth of tomato, cumin and chilli, with soft chunks of yuca, topped with a heap of lime-pickled red onion and coriander, and eaten with banana chips (chifles) and popcorn. The mistake is boiling the tuna until it goes dry; poach it gently and add it back at the end. Chef's tip: pickle the onion at least 20 minutes ahead so it turns pink and loses its sharpness.
Venezuelan empanadas are big, crisp half-moons made with white precooked corn flour, fried to order at beach kiosks on Margarita Island and at breakfast stands across Caracas. Compared with the small, potato-filled Colombian empanadas, they are larger, paler and often a little sweet in the dough, and the classic vegetarian fillings are simply grated white cheese or black beans with cheese (like an arepa dominó). Eat them hot with guasacaca or a squeeze of lime. Chef's tip: add a spoonful of sugar to the dough; it helps the crust turn golden and blistered in the oil.
In Salta, in Argentina's far northwest, empanadas are small, sealed with a tight twisted edge (the repulgue) and so juicy that locals eat them leaning forward with their feet apart. The filling is hand-cut beef with potato, spring onion, cumin and paprika, plus chopped hard-boiled egg; they are eaten at Sunday gatherings, at peñas with folk music and on any public holiday. The mistake that ruins them is filling them while the beef is still warm: the fat melts the pastry. Chill the filling until it is firm. Chef's tip: add a few spoonfuls of the cooking juices to the cold filling; they set to a jelly in the fridge and melt in the oven, which is where the famous juiciness comes from.
Colombian empanadas are small, crunchy half-moons made with yellow corn dough rather than wheat, sold hot from street stands across Bogotá, Medellín and Cali and eaten with a squeeze of lime and a spoonful of ají. The classic filling mixes potato with hogao and often meat; this version keeps the potato and hogao, seasoned with cumin and coriander, which many families make on its own anyway. They are crisp outside and soft and savoury inside. Chef's tip: roll the dough thin, about 3 mm; thick corn dough stays heavy and absorbs oil.
Elote (corn on the cob) is sold all over Mexico from street carts in the evening: grilled or boiled cobs speared on a stick, slathered in mayonnaise and crema, rolled in crumbly cotija cheese and dusted with chilli powder, with a squeeze of lime. Charring the corn adds smokiness to the sweet kernels, and the creamy, salty, sour and hot toppings make it irresistible. Serve it at a barbecue or as a snack; kids can skip the chilli. Cotija is often made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian-rennet feta or a vegetarian hard cheese if that matters to you. Chef's tip: let the cobs cool for a minute before spreading the mayonnaise, so it clings rather than sliding off.
Empanadas de humita are the vegetarian favourite at every Argentine empanada shop, from Tucumán, which claims the best empanadas in the country, to the delivery menus of Buenos Aires. The filling is sweetcorn and onion cooked with red pepper, nutmeg and a little white sauce until creamy, then folded into wheat pastry discs and closed with the twisted edge (repulgue) that tells you what's inside. Unlike the husk-wrapped humita en chala, these are baked and golden. Chef's tip: chill the filling until firm before filling; warm filling melts the pastry and the empanadas open in the oven.
Töltött káposzta is the dish Hungarians make for Christmas and the wedding feasts of the countryside, a huge pot that tastes better each day. It is a pork dish: soured cabbage leaves are rolled around a filling of pork mince, rice, onion and paprika, then layered with chopped sauerkraut and smoked pork ribs or sausage and simmered for hours. It is served with a dollop of soured cream and bread. Chef's tip: look for whole soured cabbage heads (sold for this dish in Eastern European shops); if you cannot find them, blanch fresh savoy leaves and add extra sauerkraut.
Eggah is the omelette Egyptian families make at home for breakfast or a light supper, often on a Friday morning alongside ful, falafel, cheese and baladi bread. It is thick and set rather than folded, packed with spring onion, parsley and dill and warmed with cumin, and it's cooked slowly so it puffs and browns on both sides. Slice it into wedges and eat it hot from the pan or cold in a sandwich. Chef's tip: grate the onion and squeeze it dry; wet onion makes the eggs weep and the eggah falls apart when you flip it.
Hoppers (appa) are the crisp-edged, bowl-shaped pancakes that street cooks in Colombo, Kandy and Jaffna make in rows of small round pans every evening; an egg hopper has an egg cracked into the soft centre so it steams to a runny yolk. The batter of rice flour, coconut milk and yeast (traditionally toddy) is left to ferment until it's light and slightly sour, which gives the lacy, golden rim and the spongy middle. They're eaten hot with pol sambol and lunu miris, and plain hoppers come with sweet jaggery for dessert. Kerala's appam is a cousin, but Sri Lankan hoppers are thinner and crisper and the egg version is their own. The common mistake is a batter that's too thick, which gives heavy, pale hoppers; it should flow like single cream. Chef's tip: swirl the pan in one quick full turn the moment the batter goes in, then cover at once.
Efo riro, literally 'stirred greens', is the Yoruba vegetable stew cooked in homes from Ibadan to Lagos on any ordinary weekday, and eaten with pounded yam, eba or plain rice. Leafy greens are wilted into a rich base of blended peppers fried in palm oil with iru, the pungent fermented locust beans that give the dish its savoury backbone. Most families add assorted meats, stockfish and crayfish; some keep a little smoked fish on the side for those who want it. This version leans on mushrooms, iru and a touch of smoked paprika instead. Chef's tip: squeeze the blanched greens really dry before they go into the sauce; wet spinach thins the stew and washes out the flavour.
Steaming bowls of this prawn soup land on almost every table in central Thailand, from riverside shophouses in Ayutthaya to family dinners in Bangkok, where it sits in the middle to be shared with rice and two or three other dishes. The broth is thin but loud: sour from lime, salty from fish sauce, hot from crushed bird's eye chillies, and perfumed by bruised lemongrass, galangal and torn makrut lime leaf, which flavour the soup but are left in the bowl. This is the clear style (nam sai) with a spoonful of roasted chilli paste for colour and a gentle sweetness; the creamy nam khon style adds evaporated milk, which we leave out to keep it dairy free. Serve it piping hot with plain jasmine rice. Chef's tip: simmer the prawn heads and shells for five minutes before anything else goes in, and the soup tastes of the sea rather than of water.
Along the Belgian coast, from Ostend to De Panne, tomaat-garnaal is the starter that tells you you are at the seaside: a hollowed raw tomato heaped with tiny, sweet North Sea grey shrimp in homemade mayonnaise, served with lettuce, lemon and often a few chips. The shrimp are caught and boiled on the boats, so they come ready-cooked and peeled. Because the dish has so few parts, everything depends on good ripe tomatoes and very fresh shrimp. The thing people often get wrong is drowning the shrimp in mayonnaise; use just enough to bind them so their sweetness comes through. Chef's tip: salt the hollowed tomatoes and turn them upside down for 10 minutes so they do not leak water onto the plate.
Eetch is a Western Armenian dish from the old Cilician towns, carried by families to Aleppo, Beirut and the Armenian quarters of American cities. Fine bulgur is stirred into a hot sauce of onion, red pepper, tomato and pepper paste and left to drink it up, then finished with lemon, parsley and spring onion and eaten at room temperature, often scooped up with lettuce leaves. Unlike a herb-heavy raw bulgur salad, eetch is cooked, so it is rich and tomatoey, and it is a fixture of Lenten tables, picnics and mezze spreads. It keeps for days, which makes it a favourite for lunchboxes. Chef's tip: take the pan off the heat before adding the bulgur and keep the lid on; the grains soften in the residual heat and stay separate instead of turning to porridge.
In early summer, Kolkata's bazaars sell baby green jackfruit (echor), and Bengali households cook it into a dalna rich enough to be called gachh-patha, 'mutton from the tree'. The jackfruit is boiled, fried with potato and simmered in a ginger, cumin and tomato gravy, finished with ghee and garam masala. Its chewy, meaty texture soaks up the spice. It is a Sunday lunch dish, eaten with rice or luchi. Chef's tip: buy jackfruit no longer than your forearm, with pale seeds; older fruit is fibrous and the seeds are hard.
Pappu (dal) is the backbone of an Andhra meal, and tomato pappu is the one most Telugu households cook on an ordinary weekday. Toor dal is cooked with plenty of ripe tomatoes, onion, green chillies and a little tamarind, then mashed to a thick, rustic consistency and finished with a fierce garlic and red chilli popu (tempering). It's tangier and hotter than a North Indian dal, and it's mixed into hot rice with a spoon of ghee and eaten with avakaya pickle and a crisp fried vegetable. Chef's tip: mash the dal and tomatoes together with a whisk or a wooden mathu while hot; it gives the creamy, slightly rough texture that blending never does.
Rasam is the thin, sour, peppery broth that runs through every Tamil Nadu meal, poured over rice after sambar or sipped from a tumbler when you have a cold. This tomato version is the everyday kind: ripe tomatoes and tamarind simmered with crushed garlic, black pepper and cumin, then lifted with a tempering of mustard seeds, dried chilli and curry leaves. It's light, warming and ready in 25 minutes. Serve it with plain rice and a dry vegetable, or on its own in a cup. Chef's tip: once you add the spice mix, take the rasam off the heat as soon as it froths up; boiling it hard turns the flavour flat and the pepper harsh.
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.
Ask anyone in Busan for a bowl of something filling at any hour and they will probably send you for dwaeji gukbap. Seomyeon has a whole alley of gukbap restaurants, open from early morning to late at night, serving the soup to market workers, students and people heading home after a night out. Pork bones are boiled hard for hours until the broth turns cloudy and white, then poured over sliced pork and rice. Each diner seasons their own bowl at the table with salted shrimp, chilli paste and a pile of garlic chives, with raw onion, green chilli and kimchi on the side. Chef's tip: season the soup in the bowl, not the pot; a little saeujeot at a time gives a clean, savoury depth that salt alone doesn't.
Dushbara is the test of a patient cook in Azerbaijan: dumplings so small that a dozen fit on a spoon, filled with lamb and onion and served in clear bone broth. Families in Baku and the Absheron towns make them for New Year and Novruz, everyone sitting around the table folding together. At the table each bowl gets dried mint, a little crushed garlic in vinegar, and sumac. Over-filling is the usual problem; too much meat and the edges won't seal, so the dumplings open in the pot. Chef's tip: make the broth from lamb bones the day before and chill it, so you can lift off the fat and the soup stays crystal clear.
Davao City on Mindanao is the Philippines' durian capital, and its roadside stalls sell the fruit by the kilo next to boxes of durian candy for travellers who can't carry a whole one home. Ripe durian pulp is cooked slowly with condensed milk, sugar and butter until it becomes a dense, chewy fudge that tastes of caramel, custard and that famously strong fruit. Chef's tip: frozen durian pulp works perfectly; thaw it fully and pick out any seeds and fibrous bits before you start.
Dulce de leche is Argentina's national sweet, spread on toast at breakfast, sandwiched in alfajores, rolled into panqueques and spooned onto flan. Argentine families traditionally make it by slowly cooking milk and sugar with a vanilla pod and a pinch of bicarbonate of soda, which helps it turn deep brown, until it becomes a thick, glossy caramel cream. It takes about three hours of gentle cooking and regular stirring. Chef's tip: use a wide, heavy pan and keep the heat low; the wider the surface, the faster the milk reduces, and the less it catches on the bottom.
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.
Duba wat is a fasting-season stew from the Ethiopian highlands, made when pumpkins are plentiful after the rains around Meskel in late September. Chunks of pumpkin are cooked in a classic red wat base of slow-cooked onion, garlic and berbere, so the sweetness of the squash plays against the heat of the spices. It is softer and sweeter than most wats and goes well with gomen and injera. Chef's tip: add the pumpkin only once the onion and berbere base is fully cooked and glossy; raw-tasting berbere spoils the dish.
In German-speaking Switzerland the Sunday breakfast table is not complete without a Zopf (Züpfe in Bern): a shiny, plaited white loaf made with milk and plenty of butter, sliced thick and spread with more butter and jam or honey. Bakeries from Bern to St Gallen bake them on Saturday nights, and many families plait their own on Sunday morning. The crumb is soft, light and faintly sweet from the butter, not the sugar, and the egg-yolk glaze gives a deep brown, glossy crust. Leftovers make excellent French toast (Fotzelschnitte). Chef's tip: let the shaped plait rest in a cool place for 15 minutes before glazing and baking; the strands hold their shape and the pattern stays crisp.
Dresden has baked Christstollen for more than 500 years, and every December the city holds a Stollen festival with a giant loaf paraded through the old town to the Striezelmarkt. The loaf's shape, folded over and dusted white, is said to show the Christ child wrapped in swaddling cloth. It's a rich, dense yeast bread, heavy with butter, raisins, candied peel and almonds, brushed with melted butter straight from the oven and buried in sugar. It's baked weeks before Christmas and sliced thinly through Advent. Chef's tip: wrap it tightly and let it rest for at least a week before cutting; the flavours ripen and the crumb turns moist.
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.
Torly is a tray of mixed vegetables (potatoes, courgettes, carrots, green beans, peas, peppers) baked in a tomato and garlic sauce until soft and slightly caramelised at the edges. The name is Turkish, a reminder of Ottoman times, but it has long been an everyday Egyptian home dish, usually cooked when the summer markets are full of courgettes and served with white rice or vermicelli rice. Many families add meat; this meat-free version is just as common in fasting seasons. Chef's tip: cut the potatoes and carrots smaller than the courgettes, so everything is tender at the same moment.
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.
Dovğa is green, tangy and cooling, the soup Azerbaijanis drink cold from glasses on hot Baku afternoons and eat hot in bowls when the Absheron wind turns chilly. Yogurt is thinned, thickened with rice and egg, then packed with chopped spinach, dill, coriander, mint and sorrel, until the soup is more herbs than dairy. It is served at weddings and at Novruz to settle the stomach after rich food, and many cooks add chickpeas. Unlike Armenian spas, there is no fried onion or wheat; the flavour is all fresh herbs and sour yogurt. Chef's tip: add the herbs only once the yogurt is boiling steadily and stable; they wilt in seconds, and the colour stays bright green.
In Kashmir paneer is called chaman, and kaliya is the name for a gravy coloured bright yellow with turmeric rather than red with chilli. Kashmiri Pandit cooks fry thick slabs of paneer, rest them in warm water so they stay spongy, then simmer them in milk with fennel, dry ginger and cardamom. The result is mild, sweet-scented and soothing, a dish that sits beside the fiery ones on a wedding or festival spread and is just as welcome on a weekday with rice. Chef's tip: use a generous spoon of good turmeric; the gravy should glow a deep gold, and the milk mellows any rawness.
On Friday afternoons the bakeries of Jerusalem's Mahane Yehuda market and every Jewish neighbourhood from Brooklyn to Golders Green fill with plaited, shiny challah for the Shabbat table, where two loaves sit under an embroidered cloth until the blessing. The dough is enriched with eggs, oil and a little honey, so the crumb is soft, faintly sweet and pulls apart in feathery strands, and the crust bakes deep mahogany. Leftovers make wonderful French toast. Chef's tip: brush the egg glaze twice, once before rising and once just before baking, for the deep, lacquered shine.
Yomari are the sweet dumplings of the Newars of the Kathmandu Valley, made once a year on Yomari Punhi, the full moon of December that marks the end of the rice harvest. Freshly milled rice flour is kneaded with hot water, pinched into a hollow cone, filled with chaku, a dark, fudgy Newari molasses, and toasted sesame, then shaped with a pointed tail like a fish or a teardrop and steamed. Children go from house to house singing for them, and families offer a few to the gods before anyone eats. The shell is soft and slightly chewy, and the filling melts into warm, smoky caramel. The usual mistake is mixing the dough with lukewarm water: it must be just off the boil so the starch swells and the dough stretches without cracking. Chef's tip: keep a bowl of warm water beside you and dip your fingertips often; damp hands smooth out cracks as you shape.
Hakka miners brought yong tau foo to the tin town of Ampang, on the edge of Kuala Lumpur, and families still drive there on weekends for big bowls of it. You choose your pieces from a counter, tofu, chillies, okra, aubergine and bitter gourd, each stuffed with a savoury paste, and the stall poaches or fries them and serves them in a light broth, with a sweet brown sauce and chilli sauce to dip. The traditional filling is fish and pork; this one is firm tofu, shiitake, water chestnut and carrot. It is a gentle, light meal. Chef's tip: press the stuffing in tightly and smooth it flush with a wet finger, so it stays put while it cooks.
Ethiopian families make doro wat for the biggest days of the year, especially Genna (Christmas) and Fasika (Easter), when it breaks weeks of meatless fasting. Its secret is patience: a mountain of red onions is cooked down slowly with no fat at all until jammy and dark, then enriched with spiced butter and fiery berbere. Chicken pieces and whole hard-boiled eggs simmer in the sauce until it is thick, glossy and brick red, with a deep, smoky heat. Ladle it onto injera, with ayib (fresh cheese) alongside to cool things down. Chef's tip: score the boiled eggs lightly all over before adding them, so the sauce seeps right into the whites.
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