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Lynyvi varenyky
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Lynyvi varenyky

Lazy curd dumplings

Lynyvi varenyky, 'lazy dumplings', are the Ukrainian weekday breakfast for families who love varenyky but have no time to fill them: the curd cheese goes into the dough itself, which is rolled into a log, sliced and boiled for a few minutes. They come out soft, tender and lightly sweet, finished with melted butter and a spoon of sour cream, sometimes with jam. The mistake is adding too much flour to make the dough easier to handle, which makes the dumplings heavy; the dough should stay soft and a little sticky. Chef's tip: dust your hands and board rather than the dough, and boil one test dumpling first; if it falls apart, add just one more tablespoon of flour.

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Kuzuyu is what Japanese mothers make when someone has a chill or an upset stomach, and what many people sip on a frosty winter evening, especially in Nara, whose Yoshino mountains have produced the finest hon-kuzu starch for centuries. Kudzu root starch is stirred into water with a little sugar and cooked until the milky liquid suddenly turns clear, glossy and gently thick, somewhere between a hot drink and a soft pudding you drink from the cup. Grated ginger warms it; some families add a spoon of matcha or a squeeze of yuzu. It tastes clean, mildly sweet and comforting, and it is traditionally given to people recovering from colds. The mistake almost everyone makes once is sprinkling kudzu into hot water, where it forms rubbery lumps at once. Always crush it and dissolve it completely in cold water first, then heat it while stirring without stopping. It is ready when there are no white streaks left, the drink is translucent and it coats the back of a spoon. Chef's tip: real hon-kuzu comes in chalky lumps; crush them with the back of a spoon in the cold water and they dissolve in seconds.

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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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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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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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Paneer soda (rose soda)

Every Tamil town once had a soda shop with crates of Codd-neck bottles sealed by a glass marble, and the pop of the marble being pushed down was the sound of a hot afternoon. Paneer here means rose water, not cheese, and paneer soda is rose syrup topped with that sharp local fizz, sold in Madurai, Tiruchi and Coimbatore by the bus stand and at temple festival stalls in Chithirai and Vaikasi, the hottest months. It is sweet and floral at first, then the bubbles and a touch of lime cut through and leave the mouth clean. The mistake most people make is boiling the rose water with the sugar: the scent cooks away and you are left with plain syrup. Make the syrup first, let it cool, and only then stir in the rose water. The syrup is ready when it is clear and slightly thickened, like thin honey, and the finished drink should be rosy pink and still foaming as you hand it over. Chef's tip: chill the syrup, the soda and the glasses well; warm soda loses its fizz the moment it meets the syrup.

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Pilgrims leaving Mashhad carry home boxes of saffron nabat, crystals of rock candy grown on a string and tinted gold with Khorasani saffron. Across Iran a glass of chai nabat is what you are handed when you feel unwell, after a shock, after an exam, or late at night when the evening meal sits heavy; it is traditionally drunk to settle the stomach and warm you up. The tea is brewed strong in a teapot that sits on top of the kettle, then poured clear and amber into small glasses, and the nabat stick is stirred until it softens the tea with a gentle, honeyed sweetness and a faint saffron aroma. Black tea has a moderate amount of caffeine, so give children a weaker glass. A common mistake is boiling the leaves or letting them steep on direct heat, which turns the tea bitter and murky; Persian tea is "dam" — brewed gently on steam. It is ready when the leaves have sunk, the tea is clear and reddish-amber and it smells of bergamot or cardamom. Chef's tip: hold the glass up to the light; if you can't see through it, top it up with hot water, as Iranians do.

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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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Suanmeitang (sour plum drink)

Old Beijing sold suanmeitang from brass bowls at street corners in summer, chilled with blocks of river ice, and the Qing court drank a version as a cooler. Today it comes in big jugs at copper-pot hotpot restaurants, where its sourness cuts through mutton and sesame sauce; families brew a pot every few days all summer. Smoked wumei plums give a deep, almost bacon-like smokiness, hawthorn adds fruity acid, licorice softens the edges and rock sugar rounds everything off, with dried osmanthus on top for a honeyed scent. It should be dark ruby, clear and refreshing, tart first and sweet after. The common mistake is boiling it hard for hours: the plum stones and hawthorn seeds release bitterness and the brew turns muddy. Simmer gently, strain early and chill fast. It is ready when the plums have collapsed and the liquid tastes clearly sour-sweet with a smoky finish. Licorice root is traditionally used in small amounts; people with high blood pressure, heart or kidney problems, or who are pregnant should keep the licorice out or check with a doctor. Chef's tip: add the osmanthus only after the heat is off, or its perfume vanishes.

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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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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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Thambili (king coconut water)

All along Sri Lanka's roads, from Galle Road in Colombo to the highways into Kandy and the beaches of the south coast, vendors stack bright orange king coconuts in pyramids under umbrellas. The thambili is a variety grown on the island for drinking: smaller than a green coconut and sweeter, with a faint saltiness that makes it more refreshing than any bottled drink. It is drunk any time of day in the heat, after a long bus ride, after a cricket match, and given to people recovering from a fever because it is gentle on the stomach. The water is clear, lightly sweet and nutty, and the soft jelly inside is eaten with a spoon made from a slice of the husk. The common mistake is hacking at the side of the nut; the blade glances off and the water spills. Trim the pointed top with downward strokes until a pale circle shows, then pierce it. It is ready to drink when a small hole opens straight into the water without husk fibres. Outside Sri Lanka, young green or Thai coconuts are the nearest substitute. Chef's tip: chill the coconuts for a few hours before opening; the water tastes sweeter cold, and use a heavy knife and a towel, keeping fingers well clear.

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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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Melon juice (cantaloupe drink)

Afternoon merienda across the Philippines means something cold from a plastic cooler at the school gate, a jeepney stop or a carinderia: sago't gulaman, buko juice or this melon drink, with ribbons of orange cantaloupe suspended in sweet water. Vendors scrape the melon with a special spiral shredder, a kayod ng melon, so you get thin strands to chew through a fat straw. It tastes fresh, sweet and gently musky, more refreshing than a smoothie because the water stays clear and light; some stalls add evaporated milk, but the plain version is the classic. The common mistake is using a melon that is not fully ripe, which gives pale, crunchy strands and a flat drink; choose one that smells sweet at the stem end and gives slightly when pressed there. Shred straight into the jug so the juice from the melon is not lost. It is ready when the strands are soft and floating, the water has turned faintly orange and it tastes of melon rather than plain syrup. Chef's tip: a box grater's coarse side or a fork scraped along the flesh both work if you don't own a melon shredder.

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Lahpet yay (Burmese milk tea)

Yangon runs on lahpet yay. From before dawn, crowded teashops set out tiny plastic stools on the pavement, and the tea comes with mohinga, palata or a plate of samusa; people linger again at four in the afternoon to talk. The tea is a dark, very strong brew of cheap black leaf that has been boiled and kept hot in a kettle, mixed in the cup with condensed milk and evaporated milk. Regulars order in code: cho seint is sweet and creamy, kya seint is strong and less sweet, pawsein is the standard. It should be thick, silky, sweet, faintly smoky and bitter underneath. The common mistake is brewing it like ordinary tea: it ends up thin and the condensed milk just tastes of sugar. Boil the leaves hard and then let them stand so the liquor is almost black; the bitterness is needed to stand up to the milk. It is ready when the tea poured from height into the cup has a light froth and the colour of milk chocolate. It is strongly caffeinated, so not one for children or late evenings. Chef's tip: pour the finished tea between two jugs a few times to cool it slightly and give it the teashop froth.

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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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Sharbat-e rivas (rhubarb sherbet)

For a few weeks in spring, after Nowruz, sellers come down from the Alborz foothills, the mountains of Khorasan and Kurdistan with bundles of rivas, the thick-stalked wild rhubarb. People peel and eat the stalks raw with salt, cook them into khoresh, and boil the rest into syrup to keep the taste of the season into summer. Sharbat-e rivas is pink, sharp and refreshing, like sour cherry and green apple together, softened by sugar and lifted by mint. The common mistake is boiling the rhubarb hard and pressing it through the sieve, which makes the syrup cloudy, brownish and stringy; simmer gently and let it drip on its own. Use only the stalks, never the leaves, which are poisonous. The syrup is ready when it is clear, rose-coloured and coats a spoon in a thin film; it keeps for two weeks in a clean bottle in the fridge, and should be thrown away if it fizzes, smells of alcohol or grows mould. Garden rhubarb is a good substitute for rivas; the reddest stalks give the prettiest colour. Chef's tip: a strip of lemon peel in the pot brightens the colour and stops the syrup tasting flat.

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Oblepikha tea (sea buckthorn tea)

Sea buckthorn grows wild along the rivers of Altai and the Baikal shore, and by October its thorny branches are crowded with tiny orange berries. Siberians freeze them by the bucketful, and all winter a glass teapot of oblepikha tea glows on café tables from Irkutsk to Moscow, ordered after skiing or against the dark afternoons. The taste is sharp and tropical, somewhere between passion fruit, pineapple and lemon, with a faint oily richness from the berries, softened by honey and warmed by ginger. The common mistake is pouring boiling water straight onto the honey and berries: it dulls the fruit, makes the honey taste flat and can turn the tea bitter. Let the kettle settle for a couple of minutes first. It is ready when the tea is a cloudy sunset orange, smells of citrus and ginger and the berries have released their juice. Outside Russia, look for frozen sea buckthorn in Eastern European or Nordic shops, or use unsweetened sea buckthorn purée. Chef's tip: crush a big batch of berries with honey, keep it in a jar in the fridge for a week, and spoon it into mugs whenever you want a cup.

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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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Malai cha (cream tea)

In Bogura, the town famous for its sweet doi, and in the lanes of Old Dhaka around Nazira Bazar, tea stalls keep a wide karai of milk barely simmering all evening. Layers of skin build up on top; the tea-maker lifts them off as malai and lays a thick spoonful on every cup of strong, sweet milk tea, poured into small unglazed clay bhar that give the tea a faint earthy smell. People stand around after maghrib prayers or late at night, sipping through the cream and finally eating it with a finger. The tea is malty and syrupy-sweet; the malai is soft, rich and slightly caramelised. The usual mistake is boiling the milk hard: a rolling boil breaks the skin into flakes and you never get a thick sheet. Keep it at a lazy shiver and lift the skin every 5 minutes. The tea is ready when it is the colour of milky caramel and coats the back of a spoon; the malai is ready when it lifts off as a wrinkled, leathery sheet. Strong CTC tea makes this fairly caffeinated. Chef's tip: soak clay cups in water for ten minutes first, so they don't drink up the tea or smell dusty.

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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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Pisco sour

Lima drinks its pisco sour as the aperitif before a long ceviche lunch, and celebrates it every year on the first Saturday of February; the recipe took shape in the city's bars in the 1920s. It is for adults only and stronger than its pillowy look suggests. Underneath a thick white foam you get sharp Peruvian lime, a clean sweetness and the floral, grapey warmth of quebranta pisco, with the bitters adding a spicy smell to every sip. The texture should be silky, almost creamy, never thin. The classic mistake is squeezing the limes too hard or too early: the oil from the pith turns the drink bitter within half an hour. Halve the limes, press each half gently by hand just before mixing and stop when the juice slows. The egg white is raw, so use pasteurised egg white for anyone pregnant, for babies, older people or anyone unwell, or swap in 30 ml aquafaba. It is ready when the foam stands about 1 cm high and is firm enough to hold the drops of bitters on its surface. Sip one slowly and drink responsibly. Chef's tip: shake once without ice first to whip the egg white, then again with ice; the foam will be twice as thick.

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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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Lingondricka (lingonberry cordial)

In Sweden the jug of red lingondricka sits on the table at weekday dinners, in school canteens and at the julbord, poured beside meatballs, pyttipanna or a Saturday pea soup. Lingonberries grow wild in the forests of Norrland and Dalarna, and in late August families pick them by the bucket with a wooden berry rake. Cooked with sugar and strained, they become a cordial that is both sweet and sharp, with a slight bitter-almond edge from the skins, bright enough to cut through rich, creamy food. The common mistake is boiling the berries hard for a long time: the cordial turns jammy and brownish, and the pectin can make it set in the bottle. Bring it just to the boil, crush, then simmer only briefly. The syrup is ready when it is clear ruby, flows like a thin syrup and tastes tart then sweet. Lingonberries are sold frozen in Nordic and Eastern European shops; cranberries work as a substitute, with a little more sugar. Bottled hot into sterilised bottles it keeps 2 months in the fridge, or 6 months frozen. Throw it out if you see mould or it fizzes. Chef's tip: mix one part cordial to five of chilled sparkling water for a party version.

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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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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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DakbaeksukPoached whole chicken

Dakbaeksuk is a whole chicken simmered plain in a big pot, a dish Koreans eat on the boknal 'dog days' of midsummer and at valley restaurants in the mountains, where families sit on platforms by the stream. Unlike samgyetang it is not stuffed; the bird simmers with a fistful of garlic, a few jujubes and dried roots such as astragalus until it falls apart, and you eat the meat with salt and pepper and drink the milky broth. Suitable as part of a balanced diet: high in protein, with no flour or added sugar. About 420 kcal and 8 g carbohydrate per portion; restaurants finish with rice porridge in the broth, so keep that portion small or use brown rice. The usual mistake is boiling it fiercely, which makes the meat stringy; it should simmer gently. Chef's tip: skim the fat off the broth before serving; it tastes cleaner and lighter.

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Bellini

Venice invented the Bellini in the late 1940s, when a bar owner near San Marco mixed puréed white peaches with Prosecco and named the pale pink result after the Renaissance painter Giovanni Bellini. It is still a seasonal pleasure, best from July to September when white peaches are ripe and scented, and drunk late in the morning, at weddings or before lunch on the lagoon. This is a drink for adults only, though a gentle one. It should taste of fresh peach first, soft and perfumed, with the Prosecco adding light fizz and dryness, and the texture should be smooth and lightly velvety, never pulpy. The usual mistake is pouring the Prosecco fast onto the purée: it foams over and the peach stays sunk at the bottom. Tilt the glass, pour slowly in two goes and give a single gentle stir. It is ready when the drink is an even blush pink from top to bottom with a fine, slow bead. Enjoy it with food and drink responsibly. Out of season, use frozen white peach purée or ripe yellow peaches with a little more lemon. Chef's tip: a single raspberry blended into the purée gives the classic pink colour without changing the taste.

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Bombai motai (Sri Lankan candyfloss)

On Galle Face Green at sunset, and at every Vesak fair, the bombai motai seller walks with a glass box of pink candyfloss and a little bell, handing it out in small cones. You can spin a home version without a machine: sugar boiled to the hard-crack stage, then flicked from a fork in thin threads over two spoon handles. Children love to watch, but they must stay well back while the sugar is hot. Contains no major allergens. Chef's tip: make it on a dry day; humidity melts the threads back into sticky sugar.

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French 75

The French 75 took its name from the light field gun of the First World War, because Parisian bartenders of the late 1910s and 1920s said it hit you just as hard. It has stayed a celebration drink in Paris and beyond: raised at weddings, New Year's Eve and long weekend brunches. It is for adults only and stronger than it tastes, so drink responsibly. A good one is bright and lemony with gin botanicals underneath, then a fine, persistent Champagne fizz that makes it feel light and dry. The common mistake is putting the sparkling wine in the shaker, which either blows the lid off or leaves the drink completely flat. Shake only the gin, lemon and syrup with ice, strain them into the glass and top with Champagne there. It is ready when the shaker is frosted, the foam has risen and fallen once, and a steady stream of small bubbles runs up the flute. Any dry traditional-method sparkling wine such as crémant works in place of Champagne; check the label if vegan matters. Chef's tip: twist the lemon peel over the glass, not into the shaker; the oil on the surface is the first thing you smell.

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FororoToasted corn porridge

Fororo is the name for finely ground toasted corn, and for the smooth porridge made from it that grandmothers in Lara, Barinas and the rest of the Llanos give to children before school or to anyone feeling under the weather. It tastes gently nutty, like warm popcorn in a cup, sweetened with panela and scented with cinnamon. If you can't find fororo flour, toasting fine cornmeal in a dry pan gives the same result. The common mistake is tipping the flour straight into hot milk, which makes lumps. Chef's tip: whisk the flour into a little cold milk first, then pour it into the pot.

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KikomandoChopped chapati with bean stew

Kampala students named this after a commando film hero, the joke being that it gives you the strength to survive on almost no money, and roadside chapati makers from Makerere to Wandegeya still sell it all evening. Hot chapatis are chopped into strips and folded through a quick, peppery bean stew, so the bread soaks up the sauce yet keeps a little chew. Raw onion, tomato and green chilli on top make it fresh and crunchy. The mistake is drowning it: the beans should be thick enough to cling, not soup. Ready-made chapatis work well, but check they are made with oil if you want it vegan. Chef's tip: warm the chapatis in a dry pan until they puff and blister before chopping; cold ones turn rubbery in the sauce.

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