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Bafauri
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Bafauri

Steamed chana dal dumplings

Bafauri comes from the same Chhattisgarhi home kitchens that make fara and chila, and it is the region's answer to a fried pakora without the frying. Soaked chana dal is ground coarse with ginger, garlic and chilli, mixed with onion and herbs, then steamed into little dumplings that are firm, nubbly and high in protein. They are eaten hot at teatime with tomato chutney, and many families also toss them in a quick mustard-seed tadka. Chef's tip: grind the dal with only 2–3 tablespoons of water; a wet paste spreads flat in the steamer and loses the rough texture that makes bafauri good.

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Guyanese black puddingRice blood sausage

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Hachis parmentier for toddlersBeef and mash bake for toddlers

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Agi bulgogi (toddler bulgogi)

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On Chengdu's back streets, dan hong gao vendors work a row of tiny copper pans, pouring in a sweet egg batter, adding a spoon of filling and folding each cake in half like a soft taco. Breakfast-goers order a few with brown sugar and sesame, and a few with savoury fillings like pickled mustard greens. The mistake is a lid-less pan: the cakes must be covered so the top steams through while the base turns golden. A small 10–12 cm frying pan works at home. Chef's tip: let the batter rest 10 minutes after adding the raising agent so tiny bubbles form; the cakes come out spongy rather than flat.

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Thabdi pendaCaramelised milk pendas

Rajkot's sweet shops are famous across Gujarat for thabdi, a crumbly, toffee-brown penda that starts as plain milk and sugar and ends, two hours later, as something close to caramel fudge. The milk is boiled down in a wide iron kadai, a spoon of curd splits it slightly to give the trademark grainy texture, and the sugar browns slowly with it until the whole mass is the colour of milky tea. The usual mistake is rushing on high heat: the milk catches and tastes burnt rather than caramelised. Chef's tip: use a wide, heavy pan and a flat wooden spatula, and keep scraping the bottom and sides every minute once the milk is half reduced.

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Herbata z sokiem malinowymTea with raspberry syrup

In Polish homes a bottle of sok malinowy, the raspberry syrup made each July from garden or forest raspberries, waits in the pantry for winter. When someone comes in from the frost, or lies in bed with a cold, it goes into a glass of hot black tea, sometimes with a slice of lemon; grandmothers insist it makes you sweat the chill out, and the drink is traditionally given at the first sign of a sniffle. It also appears simply after a winter walk or with a slice of cake. The tea turns ruby, tastes of summer berries with a light tannic edge, and is sweet enough without sugar. The usual mistake is pouring syrup into boiling tea straight from the kettle: the fresh raspberry aroma cooks off and only sweetness is left. Let the tea cool for a minute or two first. It is ready when the tea is deep amber, the syrup has fully swirled through and it smells clearly of raspberries. No homemade syrup? Use a good shop-bought raspberry syrup, or make the quick one in the optional steps. Chef's tip: brew the tea weaker than usual, about two minutes, so the fruit stays in front.

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Church bazaars and tea tables from the Free State to the Karoo would hardly be complete without a tin of hertzoggies, the little tartlets said to be named after Prime Minister J.B.M. Hertzog, who was supposedly very fond of them. Each one is a short, buttery pastry cup with a teaspoon of apricot jam hidden under a domed coconut meringue that bakes crisp and pale gold on top and stays chewy inside. They are best with a cup of rooibos or strong filter coffee, and they keep well in a tin for several days. Overfilling with jam is the common mistake: it bubbles up through the meringue and glues the tartlets into the tin. Chef's tip: whisk the whites until the sugar has completely dissolved before folding in the coconut, or the meringue will weep syrup as it cools.

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Pão com linguiça (grilled sausage roll)

Outside every São Paulo football ground on match day, and above all on the streets around the Allianz Parque, carts with smoking griddles sell pão com linguiça: a coiled Tuscan-style pork sausage split open, crisped on the plate and tucked into a roll with vinaigrette and a splash of chilli sauce. It is fast, juicy and filling, eaten walking to the gate. The sausage is raw pork and must be cooked through. Chef's tip: once the sausage is nearly cooked, split it lengthwise and press it cut side down on the griddle; it browns all over and finishes cooking evenly.

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HilachasShredded beef in tomato sauce

The name means 'threads', and that is how the beef should look: pulled into fine strands and simmered with potato and carrot in a brick-red sauce of tomato, tomatillo and dried guajillo chilli. Hilachas is everyday food in Guatemala City, served at lunch counters with white rice and tortillas, and it is a thrifty way to stretch a piece of flank. Rushing the first simmer is the classic mistake: if the beef doesn't fall apart easily, it shreds into chewy chunks instead of threads. Chef's tip: shred the meat along the grain with two forks while it is still warm; cold beef tears unevenly.

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Hiyashi tomato is the simplest thing on any Japanese izakaya menu in July and August: ripe tomatoes, chilled until icy, cut into wedges and served on a small plate, sometimes on crushed ice, to cool down a hot evening in Tokyo or Osaka. Many bars sprinkle salt; this home version leaves it out and offers a few drops of rice vinegar and toasted sesame oil instead, so the tomato's own sweetness and acidity do the work. About 0.0 g added salt; roughly 0.03 g per portion occurs naturally in the tomato. The usual mistake is using hard, pale supermarket tomatoes: this dish is only as good as the fruit, so buy deep red ones that smell of tomato at the stalk. Chef's tip: chill the plate as well as the tomatoes, so the wedges stay cold to the last bite.

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Daging masak hitam, 'black-cooked beef', is a centrepiece of Hari Raya open houses and kenduri feasts across Malaysia, and it is just as good on an ordinary weekday with rice and cucumber. Beef is braised slowly with blended shallots, garlic, ginger and dried chillies, whole spices, tamarind and both sweet and dark soy sauce until the gravy reduces to a sticky, almost black glaze. It tastes better the next day, which is why cooks make it ahead for festivals. The usual mistake is reducing too fast over a high heat: the sugar in the sweet soy scorches and turns bitter. Chef's tip: once the gravy starts to thicken, stir from the bottom every few minutes and lower the heat.

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DhansakMutton and lentil curry

Dhansak is the Parsi Sunday lunch in Mumbai and the old Gujarat towns of Navsari and Surat, traditionally the first meat dish cooked when the meatless days after a death are over, and a weekend favourite the rest of the time, always with brown rice (rice browned in caramelised sugar and onion) and kachumber. Mutton is cooked together with toor, masoor, moong and chana dal, pumpkin, aubergine, tomato and fenugreek leaves, then the dal and vegetables are pureed into a thick, gently spiced sauce with dhansak masala. Veg version: leave out the mutton and cook the same dal and vegetables with vegetable stock. The usual mistake is not pureeing the dal finely; it should be smooth and velvety around the meat. Slow-cooker option: everything except the tempering on low for 8 hours, then blend. Chef's tip: fry the dhansak masala in ghee at the end and pour it over; it gives the dish its aroma.

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Sev tameta nu shaakSev and tomato curry

Sev tameta nu shaak is roadside-dhaba and home food from Kathiyawad in Saurashtra, cooked when the vegetable basket is nearly empty but there are tomatoes and a tin of sev. Ripe tomatoes simmer with garlic, red chilli and a little jaggery into a thin, sweet-sour-hot gravy, and a handful of crisp gram-flour sev goes on top at the very last moment, so it is half-crunchy, half-soft when you eat it with bajra rotla, thepla or rotli. The usual mistake is stirring the sev in too early, which turns the curry into a paste. Most sev is made from gram flour, but check the packet if you avoid gluten. Chef's tip: use thick sev (ratlami or bhavnagari), which holds its crunch far longer than nylon sev.

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BulaloBeef shank and marrow soup

Bulalo is the pride of Batangas, south of Manila, served at roadside eateries on the way to Tagaytay where the cool upland air makes a steaming bowl the thing to order. Beef shank on the bone simmers for hours until the meat falls away and the marrow turns soft and wobbly, giving a clear, beefy broth seasoned just with fish sauce, onion and peppercorns. Corn on the cob, cabbage and pechay go in at the end. Spoon the marrow onto rice and dip the meat in fish sauce with calamansi and chilli. The usual mistake is skipping the first blanch: the broth turns grey and murky. Slow-cooker: after blanching, cook on low for 10 hours, adding the vegetables for the last 30 minutes on high. Chef's tip: keep the pot at a lazy simmer, never a boil, for the clearest broth.

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Gremolata

Gremolata is the Milanese finishing touch spooned over ossobuco on Sunday tables across Lombardy, and it brightens any slow-cooked stew, roast vegetables, beans or grilled fish. Flat-leaf parsley, lemon zest and raw garlic are chopped together so finely that they become a fragrant green confetti; the fresh, sharp flavour wakes up a dish so much that you need far less salt. About 0.0 g salt per portion. The usual mistake is grating the white pith with the zest, which makes it bitter; take only the yellow skin. Make it no more than an hour ahead, as the garlic gets harsh and the parsley darkens. Chef's tip: chop the garlic first with a few parsley leaves, so the juice soaks into the herbs instead of sticking to the knife.

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Blåbärssoppa (warm bilberry drink)

Every first Sunday of March, the 90-kilometre Vasaloppet ski race from Sälen to Mora is fuelled by blåbärssoppa: volunteers at the feeding stations hand thousands of skiers paper cups of the warm purple drink, and Swedes drink it from thermoses on winter hikes, after skating and on the ski slopes. It is made from wild bilberries, the small dark forest berries with purple flesh, cooked with sugar and thickened with potato starch so it is just thick enough to coat the cup. It is sweet, softly tart and tastes intensely of berries, with a silky, almost glossy body. The common mistake is stirring the starch straight into the hot pot: it forms jelly lumps at once. Always mix potato starch with cold water first, take the pot off the boil, then stir it in and bring back just to a bubble; long boiling thins it again. It is ready when it turns glossy and coats a spoon in a thin film. Bilberries are sold frozen in Nordic shops; cultivated blueberries work too, with a squeeze of lemon for sharpness. Chef's tip: it is just as good cold the next day, or served as a soup with whipped cream and almond biscuits.

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Limau asam boi (lime with sour plum)

Order 'limau ais asam boi' at a kopitiam in Penang or a hawker centre in Kuala Lumpur at the hottest part of the afternoon and it arrives in a tall, sweating glass: freshly squeezed calamansi or small green limes, a little syrup, ice and one wrinkled, salted dried plum. The plum slowly leaches salt and fruity sourness into the drink, so every sip changes, starting bright and sweet and ending salty and tangy; you squash the plum with your straw halfway through for a stronger hit. It goes with char kway teow, nasi lemak or anything fried. The usual mistake is using bottled lime juice, which tastes flat and bitter against the plum. Squeeze fresh limes, and add the syrup gradually because asam boi is already salty-sweet. It is ready when the glass is frosted and the plum has started to plump up. Asam boi is sold in jars in Chinese and Southeast Asian groceries; Japanese umeboshi is saltier but works if you halve the amount. Chef's tip: make the lime-syrup base ahead and keep it cold, then pour over fresh ice only when you serve.

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Ipoh white coffee

Ipoh's old town kopitiams, with their marble tables and morning crowds queueing for kai si hor fun and egg tarts, gave Malaysia its 'white coffee'. The name comes not from milk but from the roast: beans are roasted with palm-oil margarine, lighter than the dark, sugar-roasted kopi of the rest of the country, then brewed and served with condensed milk. It is smoother and less bitter than ordinary kopi, nutty and buttery, pale caramel in the cup, drunk hot at breakfast or iced in the afternoon heat. At home, buy ground Ipoh-style white coffee from an Asian grocer; you cannot easily reproduce the margarine roast in a kitchen. The common mistake is brewing it like espresso: forced extraction makes it bitter and kills the soft, toasty flavour. Steep it in a cloth sock or a coffee filter with water just off the boil. It is ready when the brew is reddish-brown and clear, not inky. This is a strong coffee with real caffeine, not for children. Chef's tip: warm the cups with hot water first; white coffee cools fast and loses its aroma.

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Neer mor (spiced buttermilk)

From April to June, when Chennai and Madurai bake at forty degrees, temples, shops and political parties set up 'thaneer pandhal' sheds by the roadside, offering free neer mor to every passer-by from great clay pots. At home it comes after a rice meal of sambar and rasam, or in the middle of the afternoon. The curd is churned and thinned with water until barely white, then seasoned with green chilli, ginger, curry leaves, coriander and a pinch of asafoetida, sometimes finished with a tempering of mustard seeds. It should be very thin, salty, tangy and herby, with a little chilli heat and a lingering savoury scent. The common mistake is using too little water: it then drinks like a heavy lassi rather than a thirst-quencher. Aim for about one part curd to four parts water. It is ready when the buttermilk is smooth, cold and pale green-flecked, and smells of curry leaf. It keeps a day in the fridge. Chef's tip: crush the ginger, chilli and curry leaves rather than chopping them; bruising releases far more flavour into the thin liquid.

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Variyali sharbat (fennel cooler)

On May afternoons in Ahmedabad and Surat, when the loo wind blows and nobody wants a hot drink, Gujarati homes keep a bottle of variyali sharbat concentrate in the fridge. Fennel seeds are soaked, ground with rock sugar, strained and mixed with lemon and a little black pepper, then diluted with iced water for guests, after lunch, or to break a fast, since nothing in it is off-limits on upvas days if you use rock salt. It is pale green and cloudy, with a sweet aniseed taste, a sharp lemon finish and a faint peppery tingle. The common mistake is grinding dry fennel straight away: it stays gritty and the flavour is harsh. Soak the seeds for at least two hours so they swell and grind into a smooth paste. It is ready when the strained concentrate is silky, smells clearly of fennel and tastes very sweet, as it will be diluted three or four times. The concentrate keeps 5 days in the fridge in a clean bottle. Chef's tip: add a few mint leaves or a pinch of cardamom when grinding for a more rounded cooler.

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Haldi doodh (turmeric milk)

In homes from Punjab to Kerala, a mother or grandmother hands round haldi doodh on cold winter nights, after a fall in the playground or whenever someone starts sniffling; it is drunk at bedtime, steaming, in a steel tumbler. Milk is simmered with turmeric, a few grinds of black pepper and sometimes ginger or cinnamon, then sweetened with jaggery. It is golden, warming and gently earthy, with a soft peppery heat and a slightly grainy feel if the turmeric is fresh-ground. It is traditionally drunk for colds and aches, as a comfort rather than a cure. The common mistake is adding raw turmeric powder to hot milk at the end: it tastes chalky and bitter. Simmer it in the milk for a few minutes so the raw edge cooks out. It is ready when the milk turns an even deep yellow, smells mellow and has a thin skin forming on top. Add jaggery off the heat, as it can curdle boiling milk. Turmeric stains, so use a steel pan. Chef's tip: a teaspoon of ghee stirred in at the end makes it rounder and is how many families make it.

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Mugicha (roasted barley tea)

From the rainy season in June until the cicadas fall quiet in September, almost every Japanese household keeps a tall jug of mugicha in the fridge. It is poured for children coming in from summer club practice, for grandparents after an afternoon nap, and alongside cold sōmen at lunch, because it carries no caffeine and can be drunk all day. Whole barley grains roasted until deep brown give a cup that tastes of toast, a little of coffee and a little of popcorn, with a clean, dry finish and no sweetness at all. Supermarkets sell it in tea bags, but loose roasted grains simmered in a pan make a rounder, darker brew. The usual mistake is leaving the grains in the jug or letting the hot tea sit out on the counter for hours: it turns bitter and, being a grain infusion, it sours quickly in summer heat. Strain it, cool it fast in a sink of cold water, and drink it within two days. It is ready when the liquid is a clear amber-brown and smells like freshly toasted bread. Chef's tip: dry-toast the grains for two minutes before brewing to wake up a bag that has been open a while.

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Maesil-cha (green plum tea)

In early June the hillsides of Gwangyang are picked clean of hard green maesil, and Korean kitchens across the country fill with jars of plums buried in sugar. Over about a hundred days the sugar draws out the fruit's juice and becomes maesil-cheong, a golden syrup that is both a cooking ingredient and a drink. Iced, it is the summer cooler; hot, it is traditionally drunk after a heavy meal for digestion. It tastes bright and tart, like green apple and apricot, rounded by the sugar. The common mistake is putting damp plums or plums with stalks into the jar: water and stalk ends invite mould and unwanted fermentation. Pick out each stalk with a toothpick and dry the fruit completely. The syrup is ready when the plums have shrivelled and float in clear amber liquid. A little foaming early on is normal, but if it smells strongly of alcohol, grows fuzzy mould or turns slimy, discard it. Remove the plums at 100 days, because their stones contain natural compounds best kept out of a long-stored syrup. Chef's tip: use half white and half light brown sugar for a rounder, toffee-edged syrup.

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Misutgaru (multigrain powder drink)

Misutgaru began as travellers' food, a powder of roasted grains that kept for weeks and could be stirred into water on the road. Today it is the drink of Korean summer: mothers shake it with cold milk for breakfast before school, office workers buy it as misutgaru latte from cafés, and farmers drink it at midday in the fields of July. The powder is a mix of roasted barley, glutinous and brown rice, black and yellow soybeans, and sesame, and it tastes of toasted cereal and peanut, lightly sweet, with a thick, creamy body that fills you up like a light meal. The common mistake is tipping the powder into a full glass of milk and stirring: it floats, clumps into dry balls and never fully mixes. Shake it in a jar with a little liquid first, or blend it, then add the rest. It is ready when the drink is smooth, beige and frothy with no dry flecks, and slightly thickened after a minute's rest. Use water or soy milk for a dairy-free version, and note that the barley means it is not gluten free. Chef's tip: a pinch of salt makes the grain flavour taste rounder and less flat.

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Nước sấu (sấu fruit drink)

When Hanoi's tamarind-like sấu trees drop their small green fruit in May and June, street vendors start selling glasses of nước sấu: a few candied fruits, a ladle of ginger syrup, cold water and crushed ice. Families make big jars to last until the season ends in August. It is sipped with a spoon so you can bite into the crunchy-soft fruit at the bottom. It tastes sour and sweet at once, with a clean ginger warmth and a flavour a little like green mango and plum. Traditional cooks soak the peeled fruit in limewater to keep it crisp; a salt soak works well at home. The common mistake is skipping the blanch and slow syrup: raw fruit stays acrid and the syrup clouds. Blanch the fruit briefly, then cook it gently in sugar until it turns translucent yellow-green and the syrup is clear and glossy. Store it in a sterilised jar in the fridge for up to 2 months with a clean spoon; discard if it fizzes, smells fermented or shows mould. Fresh sấu is rare abroad; look for frozen sấu in Vietnamese shops, or use firm green ambarella. Chef's tip: slash each fruit a few times so the syrup soaks all the way in.

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Trà sen (lotus tea)

Every June and July, before sunrise, boats slip between the pink lotus on Hanoi's West Lake to gather flowers for trà sen. The finest lotus tea is made by stripping the tiny white rice-like anthers from hundreds of blooms and layering them with green tea, a labour that makes it one of Vietnam's most expensive gifts, kept for Tết. Families do a simpler version at home: a spoon of Thái Nguyên green tea is tucked into the heart of a fresh flower in the evening, the petals closed and tied, and by morning the leaves have taken on a sweet, creamy, slightly vanilla-like perfume. It is brewed in a small clay pot and drunk in tiny cups in the early morning. The common mistake is brewing with boiling water, which flattens the lotus scent and makes the green tea bitter. Rinse the leaves quickly and brew at 80–85 °C. It is ready when the cup is pale gold and the steam smells of flowers before tea. No fresh lotus? Buy ready-made lotus-scented tea from Vietnamese shops and start at the brewing step. Chef's tip: pick a bud that is just about to open; a fully open bloom has already lost its scent.

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Moreton Bay bugsSlipper lobster with garlic butter

Moreton Bay bugs are the flat, shovel-nosed slipper lobsters caught off the Queensland coast around Brisbane and the Sunshine Coast, and for Queenslanders they are a summer treat, split and grilled at the beach house. The tail meat is sweet and rich, somewhere between lobster and prawn. Buy them raw, frozen or fresh, from a fishmonger and ask them to halve them if you like. A common mistake is overcooking, which makes the meat rubbery; it is ready the moment it turns white. Chef's tip: grill flesh side down first to mark it, then turn and baste in the shell.

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Kadha (spiced herbal decoction)

When the fog settles over Delhi, Lucknow and the plains of Uttar Pradesh in December, or whenever the monsoon brings coughs round the house, someone puts a pan of kadha on the stove. Tulsi leaves, ginger, black pepper, cinnamon, cloves and sometimes a little ajwain are boiled hard until the water reduces by half, then sweetened with jaggery and sipped in small cups, morning or night. It is not a gentle tea: it is hot, peppery, clove-numbing and earthy, with a dark amber colour and a sweet edge. It is traditionally drunk for coughs and colds; it does not replace medical care, and anyone who is pregnant, on medication or giving it to small children should keep it mild and check with a doctor. The common mistake is simmering it gently like tea: kadha needs a steady boil so the spices give up their strength and the liquid reduces. It is ready when the volume has halved and the brew is deep amber and pungent. Chef's tip: crush the pepper and cloves just before they go in; whole spices hardly flavour the water in this short time.

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Douzhi (fermented mung bean drink)

Douzhi is the breakfast that divides Beijing. It is the sour liquid left over when mung beans are ground and their starch settles out to make noodles and jelly; left to ferment for a day or two, the grey-green whey turns tangy, a little cheesy and sulphurous. Old Beijingers drink it piping hot at dawn in hutong shops around Qianmen and Huguosi, with a dish of finely shredded salty pickle dressed in chilli oil and crisp fried dough rings (jiaoquan) from the bakery. First-timers often say it smells like stale socks; regulars say it tastes like home. The texture is thin and slightly creamy, the flavour sour, a little bitter and savoury. The common mistake is boiling the soured starch hard: it separates into grey water and sludge. Bring it up slowly, stirring, and take it off as soon as it froths. The ferment makes only a trace of alcohol, well under 1%. Ferment at 20–25 °C; normal signs are fine bubbles, a sour, yogurt-like smell and a grey colour. Discard it if you see fuzzy mould, pink or black patches, a slimy texture or a putrid smell. Chef's tip: save 100 ml of a good batch to start the next one, as Beijing workshops do.

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Kafae boran (old-style Thai coffee)

Before espresso bars reached Bangkok, coffee in Thailand meant kafae boran from Hainanese-Chinese shophouses and market carts: a dark robusta roast mixed with toasted grains, poured through a long cotton sock called a tung tom and stirred into thick sweetened condensed milk. Uncles still order it hot at 6 am with patongko dough sticks, and in the afternoon heat the same brew is poured over crushed ice and topped with evaporated milk as oliang or kafae yen. The taste is strong, roasty and slightly smoky, sweet and creamy, with a faint caramel-cereal edge from the grains; the iced version is silky and cold. The common mistake is brewing it like filter coffee with too little grounds: once milk and ice go in, it tastes thin. Use plenty, steep it in the sock and pour it through twice. The brew is ready when it is opaque, nearly black and leaves a brown film on a white spoon. It is high in caffeine, so not one for children or late evenings. Chef's tip: rinse the cloth sock in hot water only, never soap, and keep it in a jar of clean water in the fridge between uses so the coffee oils season it.

10 minThaiDrinksGluten free
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Tisane de tilleul (linden tea)

Carpentras, at the foot of Mont Ventoux, has been France's linden capital for over a century. In late June the flowering lime trees are harvested by hand, the blossoms and their pale papery bracts dried in the shade, and in July the town's linden market sells them by the sack. In French homes a tisane de tilleul is what you drink after dinner, at the end of a long day or before bed, often with a slice of lemon or a little honey; Proust's famous madeleine was dipped in one. It tastes softly floral and sweet, a little like honey and fresh hay, with a smooth, almost silky feel. The common mistake is using fully boiling water and steeping for fifteen minutes: the tea turns dull brown and slightly astringent. Let the kettle settle to about 90 °C and steep for 5–7 minutes, covered. It is ready when the infusion is pale gold and smells of a summer garden. It is traditionally drunk to unwind; if you take regular medication, have a heart condition, or want to give it to young children, check with a doctor first. Chef's tip: keep the pot covered while it steeps so the scented oils stay in the tea instead of the kitchen.

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TsagaaSweet rice with raisins and curd

Tsagaa is a sweet, buttery rice dish served during Tsagaan Sar, the Mongolian Lunar New Year, when white foods (tsagaan idee) stand for purity and a good year ahead. Rice is cooked soft, then mixed with butter, sugar, raisins and crumbled aaruul or fresh curd, and served in small bowls to guests during the round of family visits. A common mistake is using long-grain rice, which won't turn creamy; use short-grain. Chef's tip: soak the raisins in hot water first so they're plump and juicy.

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Calamansi juice

Every Filipino household seems to have a calamansi bush or a bag of the little green fruit in the fridge, from Manila condos to farmhouses in Mindoro, the island that grows most of them. At lunch in the dry season the juice comes out iced in a big pitcher; in the rainy months, when everyone has a cough, a lola stirs the same juice into hot water with a little sugar or honey and hands it over at bedtime. It tastes like a lime crossed with a mandarin: sharp, floral and slightly bitter at the edges, with a pale green-gold colour. The usual mistake is squeezing the fruit hard and letting the seeds and pith fall in, which turns the juice bitter within minutes; halve each fruit across, squeeze gently over a small strainer and stop before the peel folds. It is ready when the sugar has fully dissolved, the juice tastes bright rather than harsh and a cold glass fogs on the outside. Chef's tip: dissolve the sugar in a little warm water first, as it never melts properly in iced juice.

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Divul kiri (wood apple drink)

In Sri Lanka's dry zone, around Anuradhapura, Polonnaruwa and down towards Hambantota, wood apple trees fruit through the hot months, and roadside sellers crack the hard grey shells open for you. Divul kiri, wood apple with coconut milk, is what families blend at home in the afternoon heat or offer guests during the Sinhala and Tamil New Year season in April. The pulp is brown, sticky and full of seeds, with a sour, funky smell that turns fruity once it meets creamy coconut milk and dark jaggery. The drink is thick and smooth, tangy-sweet and a little smoky. The common mistake is blending the seeds in: they break and make the drink gritty and bitter. Squeeze the pulp by hand and strain out every seed before blending. It is ready when it is thick enough to coat a glass, pale caramel-brown and tastes clearly sour under the sweetness. Outside Sri Lanka, look for frozen or tinned wood apple pulp in South Asian shops; there is no true substitute, though tamarind pulp with a few soft dates gives a similar sweet-sour idea. Chef's tip: pick a fruit that sounds hollow when tapped and smells strongly when cracked; it is fully ripe.

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Sharbat-e bidmeshk (willow blossom sherbet)

Kashan and the villages of Qamsar and Niasar are famous for distilling flowers in spring: rose water in May, and before that araq-e bidmeshk, the distillate of the fuzzy catkins of the musk willow. In summer, when the desert heat settles over the old houses, the same bottles go into sharbat-e bidmeshk, a pale syrup diluted with icy water and served to guests in tall glasses, sometimes with swollen basil seeds. It is traditionally drunk to calm the nerves and cool the body. The taste is delicate, sweet and haunting, somewhere between honeysuckle, musk and fresh hay. The common mistake is adding the distillate to hot syrup; the heat drives the scent away within minutes, so cool the syrup completely first. The syrup is ready when it is clear and pours like thin honey, and the finished sherbet should smell floral the moment you lift the glass. Look for the distillate in Iranian shops; there is no true substitute, though rose water with a few drops of orange-blossom water makes a pleasant but different drink. Chef's tip: a squeeze of lemon in the syrup stops it crystallising in the fridge, where it keeps for a month.

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Sharbat-e zaferan (saffron sherbet)

Big steel urns of golden saffron sherbet are poured for guests at Iranian weddings and engagement parties, and the same drink is handed out on the street as nazri during Muharram and at memorial gatherings, when families offer something sweet and cool in the name of the departed. Saffron from Khorasan is ground with a sugar cube, bloomed in a little water and stirred into syrup with rose water and lemon. The result is honey-sweet and floral, with saffron's faint bitterness and hay-like perfume at the end, and a colour that should be a clear, sunny orange-gold. The usual mistake is dropping whole threads straight into cold water, which gives a pale, patchy drink and wastes expensive saffron; grind it first and let it bloom for at least 10 minutes. You know the bloom is ready when the water is a deep red-orange and smells strongly of saffron. Taste before serving: it should be sweet but finish clean, with the lemon just noticeable. Chef's tip: an ice cube placed on the ground saffron and left to melt slowly gives the deepest colour of all, an old Iranian trick.

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Yansoon (anise tea)

Every Cairo ahwa has yansoon on its menu, chalked up next to tea and helba, and in Egyptian homes it is the drink of evenings, colds and upset stomachs. It is made with green aniseed, often from Upper Egypt, simmered briefly and sweetened. People reach for it after a feast at Eid, during winter coughs, or simply at night because it is caffeine-free and traditionally drunk to calm and help sleep. It is pale gold and sweet, with a soft liquorice scent and a slightly peppery warmth at the end. Many Egyptian mothers give a weak version to infants, but herbal teas are not suitable for babies under six months; ask your doctor first. The common mistake is boiling the seeds for too long, which makes the tea cloudy and bitter: crush them lightly, boil for only a few minutes, then let them steep off the heat. Also do not swap in star anise, a different plant with a harsher taste. It is ready when the liquid is light golden and smells strongly of anise when you lift the lid. Chef's tip: a thin slice of lemon or a few drops of lemon juice brightens the cup without hiding the anise.

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Berezovy sok (birch sap)

For two or three weeks at the end of March and into April, while there is still snow under the trees and before the buds open, the birches around Moscow, Tver, Vologda and across the north start to run. Families tap a few trees at the dacha and drink the sap straight from the jar: clear, cold, very faintly sweet, tasting of rainwater and fresh wood. Because it spoils within two or three days, villagers bottled the rest with sugar, raisins and lemon zest, letting it ferment slightly into a sparkling drink that kept into early summer; like any ferment it makes a trace of alcohol, well under 1% if drunk young. Only tap with the owner's permission, choose trees thicker than 20 cm, drill one small hole and plug it with a wooden peg afterwards so the tree heals. The common mistake is sealing the bottles tight at warm room temperature, which can make them burst; keep them cool and open the caps daily. The bottled sap is ready when the raisins float, a ring of fine bubbles forms on top and it tastes gently sparkling. Chef's tip: drink the first glass straight from the tree; it is never quite as good again.

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Mauritian vanilla tea

In Mauritius the kettle goes on for dité at breakfast and again at four, when the heat of the day breaks and someone brings out gato piment, a packet of biscuits or a slice of gato patate. The tea is grown on the island's central plateau, around Curepipe and the Bois Chéri hills, and the local favourite is black tea perfumed with vanilla, the same vanilla that grows on the neighbouring islands. It is drunk strong, very sweet and milky, often with evaporated or condensed milk: a round, creamy cup with a soft caramel-vanilla scent and no bitterness. The common mistake is boiling the tea leaves with the milk until they stew; brew the tea in water first, then add hot milk. It is ready when the tea is the colour of milky caramel and the kitchen smells of vanilla. A cup has about as much caffeine as ordinary black tea. If you cannot find vanilla-scented Mauritian tea, a strong black tea and a split vanilla pod do the job well. Chef's tip: dry the used vanilla pod and bury it in your sugar jar; next time the sugar alone will scent the tea.

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Helba (fenugreek tea)

Helba is the other hot drink chalked on the board of every Egyptian coffee house, ordered in winter by students and old men playing dominoes alike. At home it is brewed when someone has a cold, after childbirth, or simply on chilly nights in the Delta, and is traditionally drunk to soothe the chest and the stomach. Fenugreek seeds are boiled until the water turns amber-yellow; the cup tastes nutty and toasty, like maple and celery, with a pleasant bitterness that sugar softens. Some people add a splash of milk at the end. Fenugreek is not advised during pregnancy, can lower blood sugar and may interact with blood thinners, so check with your doctor if you take medication; it can also make your sweat smell faintly of maple, which is harmless. The common mistake is boiling unrinsed seeds hard for a long time, which gives a slimy, very bitter tea. Rinse them, toast them briefly and boil only 8–10 minutes. It is ready when the liquid is clear golden-amber and smells of warm maple. Chef's tip: soak the seeds overnight first for a milder, rounder brew, and eat the softened seeds with a spoon as Egyptians do.

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Winter melon tea

All over Taiwan, from Tainan's old markets to Taipei's night-market stalls, winter melon tea is sold in plastic cups packed with ice through the steaming summer. Despite the name there is no tea in it: chunks of winter melon are cooked down for hours with brown and white sugar until the melon disappears into a thick, dark, toffee-scented paste, which is set into blocks and later dissolved in hot water and chilled. The drink tastes of caramel and light molasses with a gentle, grassy melon note, and it is often mixed half and half with lemon juice or fresh milk. The common mistake is stopping too early, when the mixture is still runny: it will not set and it tastes boiled rather than caramelised. Keep stirring until a drop on a cold plate sets firm and the paste pulls away from the pan. Ready blocks keep 2 months in the fridge, or 6 months frozen; make the drink whenever you want it. If you cannot find winter melon (ash gourd, available frozen in Asian shops), there is no good substitute. Chef's tip: a final 10 minutes on low heat with constant stirring gives the deep, smoky colour that market versions have.

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Papaya milk

Kaohsiung claims papaya milk as its own: the southern port city's fruit stalls, and the famous old shop on Liuhe night market's doorstep, have been blending it since the 1960s, when sweet red-fleshed papayas from Pingtung became cheap and plentiful. It is now sold all over Taiwan, a thick orange-pink shake in a tall cup, drunk on sticky evenings while walking between food stalls or in the morning with a scallion pancake. It tastes of ripe papaya and cold milk, sweet and mellow, with a smooth, slightly airy body. The classic mistake is making it in advance: papaya contains the enzyme papain, which starts working on milk proteins within about 20 minutes and leaves the drink bitter and curdled-looking. Blend it just before drinking. Your papaya is ripe when the skin is mostly yellow-orange and gives slightly to a thumb, and it smells sweet at the stalk end; it is ready to serve when it is fully smooth, foamy on top and evenly coloured. Children love it, and with little added sugar it is a fine after-school snack. Chef's tip: chill the papaya well beforehand so you need less ice and the shake stays thick.

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Cowheel soup

In Trinidad and Tobago, cowheel soup is Saturday soup: the big pot people make at home or buy from roadside soup vendors after a fete, believed to set you right again. Cow heel is simmered for hours until gelatinous, then yellow split peas, pumpkin and 'provisions' such as dasheen, cassava, eddoes and green bananas go in, with green seasoning, a whole scotch bonnet for perfume and soft flour dumplings dropped in at the end. The broth turns thick and silky from the collagen and split peas. The usual mistake is bursting the scotch bonnet, which makes the pot fiercely hot; leave it whole and lift it out. A pressure cooker gets the cow heel tender in 50 minutes. Chef's tip: buy cow heel already cut and scraped by the butcher, then scrub it with lime before cooking.

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Indio viejoShredded beef in corn masa sauce

Masaya and Granada both claim indio viejo, a thick, tangy stew of shredded beef cooked into a sauce of corn masa, tomato, sweet pepper and achiote, sharpened with sour orange and scented with mint. It has the texture of a savoury porridge and is eaten for lunch with white rice and fried ripe plantain. The mistake that ruins it is tipping masa straight into the hot pot, where it forms lumps; whisk it into broth first. Chef's tip: add the sour orange juice only in the last few minutes, so it stays bright and fresh rather than flat.

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Socată (elderflower fizz)

In late May and early June, when elder bushes bloom white along every Romanian village lane and riverbank, grandmothers fill big glass jars with water, sugar, lemon slices and elderflower heads and set them on a sunny windowsill or balcony. Three or four days later the jar is fizzing gently and socată, the most beloved summer drink of rural Romania, is bottled and chilled for haymaking days, family lunches and long evenings in the courtyard. It is sweet and floral, like honeyed lemonade with the scent of muscat grapes, with a light natural sparkle. Like all young ferments it makes a trace of alcohol, well under 1% if drunk within a week. The common mistake is washing the flowers or picking them after rain: the pollen and wild yeast that start the fermentation are rinsed away and nothing happens. Pick dry, fully open heads on a sunny morning and just shake off insects. It is ready to strain when fine bubbles rise steadily and it smells floral and slightly tangy. Use only the flowers: elder stems, leaves and unripe berries are toxic. Chef's tip: a few raisins in the jar give the yeast a boost if your flowers are slow.

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Attaya (Senegalese mint tea)

Attaya is less a drink than an afternoon. In Dakar courtyards, Banjul markets and village shade trees across Senegal and the Gambia, someone, usually the youngest man present, sets a tiny enamel teapot on a charcoal burner after lunch and makes three rounds, slowly, for an hour or more while everyone talks. The first glass, lewel, is strong and bitter; the second, naani, is sweeter and softer; the third, ñetteel, is the sweetest and most minty. The saying is that the first is bitter like death, the second gentle like life, the third sweet like love. Each tiny glass carries a thick, pale foam made by pouring the tea back and forth from height. The tea is boiled very strong, so it is high in caffeine: keep the glasses small and do not give it to children. The common mistake is rushing the foam; pour slowly and patiently, from as high as you can control, until a 1 cm head stands on the glass. A round is ready when the tea is dark amber, very sweet-bitter and the foam holds. Chef's tip: warm the empty glasses with a little hot tea first; foam lasts far longer in a warm glass.

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Patacón maracuchoPlantain sandwich

In Maracaibo, the patacón is a sandwich where the bread is a whole green plantain, sliced lengthwise, fried, smashed flat and fried again until crisp. It's stacked with grilled meat, salty white cheese, lettuce, tomato and a flood of sauces, and sold from busy street stands late into the night. This version fills it with garlicky chicken. The common mistake is flattening the plantain after it has cooled, so it cracks. Chef's tip: press it between two sheets of baking paper with a heavy board while it is still hot from the first fry.

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Daiquiri

The daiquirí is named after a beach and the old iron mines east of Santiago de Cuba, where engineers and miners at the turn of the twentieth century mixed the local white rum with lime and sugar to cut the heat. Later Havana's bars turned it into a frozen blended drink, but in eastern Cuba it is still drunk the plain way, shaken, in the late afternoon or before a dinner of congrí and roast pork. It is a cocktail for adults only, short and clean: tart lime, a light touch of sugar and the soft, dry vanilla notes of light rum, served so cold it almost stings. The common mistake is a lazy shake, which leaves the drink warm, harsh and too strong. Fill the shaker with ice and shake hard for a full 12–15 seconds. It is ready when the tin is too cold to hold, there are tiny shards of ice on the surface and the drink has a fine foam at the rim. Have one and drink responsibly. Balance matters more than amounts: taste your limes, and add a little more syrup if they are very sour. Chef's tip: chill the coupe in the freezer first; a daiquirí loses its magic within minutes in a warm glass.

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KabalagalaBanana and cassava pancakes

Street sellers in Kampala pile these small, dense golden rounds into plastic tubs and sell them warm by the handful, and a whole lively neighbourhood of the city shares their name. Over-ripe sweet bananas are mashed into cassava flour, scented with cardamom and a pinch of chilli, then fried until crisp outside and soft and chewy within, a little like a doughnut that forgot to rise. Children eat them after school, adults dunk them in milky spiced tea at breakfast. The usual mistake is adding too much flour: the dough should be soft and just stop sticking to your hands, or the pancakes turn heavy and dry. Chef's tip: use bananas with black-speckled skins; the riper they are, the less sugar you need and the better they brown.

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