Palm heart salad
Iquitos restaurants and the riverside cafés of the Peruvian Amazon serve ensalada de chonta as a cool counterpoint to grilled fish and juanes: long, pale ribbons of fresh palm heart, crisp and faintly sweet, tossed with tomato, avocado, red onion and lots of lime. At Belén market you can watch sellers shave the chonta into curls with a big knife. Outside the Amazon, fresh palm heart is hard to find, but good jarred hearts of palm cut into thin strips work well, and the salad becomes a ten-minute job. It's crunchy, juicy and sharp, perfect with rice and beans or any fried snack. Where most people go wrong is adding the avocado and salt early, so the salad turns soupy and grey; dress it at the last moment. Chef's tip: slice the palm hearts lengthwise on a mandoline or with a peeler for thin, curling ribbons that look like the Iquitos original.
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Sukumawiki (collard greens) finely chopped and cooked quickly with cumin, onion, tomato and a little turmeric, chilli and coriander-cumin powder until just tender. Its name means 'push the week', because it's cheap enough to stretch the budget to the end of the week. Serve hot with ugali.
Along the coastal Andhra delta, where the Godavari meets the sea near Kakinada and Bhimavaram, prawns come in fresh every morning and often end up as iguru. The word means cooked down: the onion-chilli masala is reduced until it clings to the prawns, with only a spoonful of sauce left in the pan. It goes onto hot rice with ghee, alongside sambar or pappu, and is a favourite in Telugu homes on weekends. Chef's tip: cook the masala fully first and add the prawns only for the last few minutes, so they stay plump.
Rougaille is the Creole tomato sauce at the heart of Mauritian home cooking, made in every kitchen from Port Louis to Mahébourg and also in the Seychelles and Réunion. Tomatoes are cooked down with onion, garlic, ginger, thyme and chilli until thick, and then something is simmered in it: sausages, salted fish, or, in many homes on a weeknight, hard-boiled eggs. Serve with rice, lentils (dholl) and chatini. Chef's tip: cook the tomatoes until the oil separates at the edges; watery rougaille tastes thin.
All over Korea, small lunch restaurants bring sundubu jjigae to the table still boiling in a black stone pot, with a raw egg on the side to crack in while it bubbles. The stew is built on very soft, unpressed tofu, which breaks into creamy curds in a red, chilli-oil broth. Seafood and pork go in together here, though you can use just one. Have it with a bowl of rice and some kimchi; it's especially welcome on a cold day. Chef's tip: fry the chilli flakes gently in oil with the pork and garlic before adding liquid; this red chilli oil gives the stew its colour and a deep, rounded heat.
Walk through Xi'an's Muslim Quarter or any Shaanxi bus station and you will see cooks chopping steaming braised pork on thick wooden blocks and stuffing it into split, griddle-crisped buns. The bread, called baijimo, has a crackly shell with an 'iron ring' edge, a 'tiger-back' top and a spiral 'chrysanthemum heart' inside; the pork is slow-cooked in a soy broth with a dozen warm spices until it falls apart. Chopped with green chilli and coriander and moistened with the braising juices, it makes one of the world's oldest sandwiches. Eat it hot in the hand, with cold liangpi noodles or a bowl of soup alongside. Chef's tip: keep the braising liquid as a master stock in the freezer; the next batch of pork tastes even better.
Rotkohl, called Blaukraut in Bavaria and Austria, is the purple braised cabbage that sits next to dumplings and potatoes on German plates from autumn to Christmas. Red cabbage is cooked slowly with apple, onion, vinegar, bay and clove until meltingly soft, sweet-sour and glossy, a deep wine-red because the acid keeps the colour bright. Traditionally it's started in goose fat or lard; oil works perfectly and keeps it vegan. It's one of those dishes that is better the next day, so families make a big pot before Christmas. Chef's tip: add the vinegar at the start, not the end; without acid the cabbage turns an unappetising blue-grey as it cooks.
Smashed avo became the signature breakfast of Sydney and Melbourne cafés in the 1990s and 2000s, and today it's on the menu of almost every café in Australia, from Bondi to Fitzroy, eaten on weekend mornings with a flat white. Ripe avocado is crushed roughly with lemon, salt and chilli and piled thickly onto toasted sourdough, then topped with salty crumbled feta and, often, a soft poached egg. It's creamy, sharp, crunchy and salty all at once. Chef's tip: smash the avocado with a fork, not a blender, and leave it chunky; the contrast between the rough avo and the crisp toast is the whole point.
On scorching May afternoons in Patna, handcarts with steel pots and heaps of lemons sell sattu sharbat by the glass: roasted gram flour whisked into cold water with black salt, roasted cumin, lemon and a bit of raw onion and chilli. It is filling enough to stand in for lunch and is the drink rickshaw pullers and farm workers swear by to beat the loo, the hot summer wind. It tastes savoury, nutty and sharp all at once. Chef's tip: whisk the sattu into a little water first to a smooth paste, then dilute it; tipping it straight into a full glass leaves dry lumps.
Smažený sýr, a thick slab of breaded Edam fried until molten, is the dish every Czech student orders at a Prague hospoda and the one vegetarian main that turns up on nearly every menu from Brno to the Šumava mountain huts. It comes with tatarská omáčka (tartare sauce) and either boiled potatoes or chips, and a cold pivo on the side. The joy is the crunch giving way to stretchy, salty cheese. Chef's tip: chill the breaded slices for 20 minutes and double-coat them, otherwise the cheese bursts out into the oil before the crumb is golden.
Sattu paratha is a Bihari breakfast that keeps farmers going until lunch. Sattu, roasted bengal gram ground to a fine flour, is mixed with onion, garlic, green chilli, carom seeds and a dash of pickle masala, then rolled into wholemeal dough and cooked on a hot tawa until blistered. The filling is savoury, punchy and high in protein, and the bread stays soft for hours, which is why it's packed for long journeys. Serve with curd or chokha and a pickle. Chef's tip: moisten the filling just enough to clump; a dry sattu filling bursts through the dough and burns on the tawa.
Satti is how Zamboanga City starts the day: small skewers of grilled chicken or beef, smoky from charcoal, drowned in a thin, spicy, slightly sweet red sauce and eaten with ta'mu, little rice cakes cooked in woven palm-leaf pouches. Satti houses near the port open before sunrise and are busiest on weekend mornings. It is a cousin of Malaysian and Indonesian satay, but the sauce is runnier and spiced with chilli and a little peanut. Pressed rice cubes or plain rice stand in well for ta'mu at home. Chef's tip: thread the chicken in small, flat pieces and close together; they cook fast and stay juicy before the outside dries.
Night-time in Padang and Bukittinggi brings out the sate carts, fanning charcoal under skewers of beef that were already simmered tender in spices before they ever met the grill. That two-stage cooking is what sets West Sumatra's satay apart, and so is the sauce: no peanuts at all, but the spiced cooking broth thickened with rice flour into a smooth, glossy, turmeric-yellow gravy with plenty of chilli and ginger. It is ladled generously over the skewers and over slices of ketupat rice cake on a banana leaf, then finished with fried shallots and a crisp cracker. Chef's tip: keep the cooking broth; it's the base of the sauce, and the deeper it tastes, the better your sate.
When a Balinese village gets ready for a temple festival, the men gather the night before to chop, pound and mix sate lilit, while the women prepare the offerings. 'Lilit' means to wrap: instead of threaded chunks, a soft mixture of minced fish, grated coconut and base genep spice paste is moulded around lemongrass stalks or flat bamboo sticks and grilled over coconut-husk embers. The result is tender and lightly springy inside, browned and smoky outside, with the lemongrass perfuming every bite. Eat them hot with rice, sambal matah and a wedge of lime. Chef's tip: knead the mixture firmly until it feels sticky and chill it before shaping, or it will slide off the sticks on the grill.
The town of Kajang, just south of Kuala Lumpur, built its name on satay, and evenings there still smell of lemongrass smoke drifting from long charcoal troughs. Kajang skewers are cut in larger chunks than most, soaked in a yellow marinade of turmeric, lemongrass, cumin and fennel, and grilled while being basted with oil brushed on through a lemongrass stalk. They come with a chunky, sweet-spicy peanut sauce, cubes of compressed rice (nasi impit), raw onion and cucumber. Order them by the dozen with friends as a starter or a whole supper. Chef's tip: thread a small piece of chicken skin or fat between the meat on each skewer; it melts over the coals and keeps the satay juicy.
In the Okinawan language, sata andagi simply means 'sugar deep-fried'. These round doughnuts came from Chinese sweets brought to the old Ryukyu kingdom and have been a family treat on the islands for centuries, made for celebrations and sold warm in paper bags at Naha's Makishi market. They are dense and cakey inside with a thick, crunchy crust, and as they fry they split open into a shape Okinawans call a smile, a sign of good luck. Okinawa's dark kokuto sugar gives them a caramel flavour; brown sugar works too. Chef's tip: fry in oil that is only warm, about 150°C. Slow frying lets the balls cook through and crack open, while hot oil seals them shut and leaves the middle raw.
Bryndzové halušky is Slovakia's national dish, cooked in every koliba (timber shepherd's restaurant) in the Liptov and Orava valleys and fought over each summer at the halušky-eating contest in Turecká. Little grated-potato dumplings are tossed while hot with bryndza, a tangy, spreadable sheep's cheese, and finished with a sour milk drink called žinčica. The traditional topping is crisp smoked bacon; here golden fried onions bring the same savoury crunch, and meat-eaters can add bacon on their own plates. Chef's tip: grate the potatoes at the last moment and work fast; grated potato left standing turns grey and watery and the dumplings go heavy.
Sarva pindi, also called ginne appa or tapala chekka, is a thick, crisp rice-flour bread from rural Telangana, pressed by hand into a heavy pan, studded with holes and baked slowly in oil until the base is golden and crunchy. The dough is full of soaked chana dal, peanuts, sesame, green chilli, curry leaves and coriander, so every bite is savoury and nutty. It is the snack that waits on the stove when children come home from school, and a favourite for Sankranti and long train journeys because it keeps well. Chef's tip: press the dough into a cold pan, not a hot one; it spreads evenly and the holes stay open as it heats.
In June the steep lanes of Alfama and Mouraria fill with smoke during the Santos Populares, Lisbon's street festivals for Saint Anthony, and almost every grill is loaded with sardines. They are salted, grilled whole over charcoal until the skin blisters, and laid on a thick slice of country bread that soaks up their juices. Add roasted green peppers and a salad of tomato and onion, and that is the whole feast. Chef's tip: salt the sardines with coarse salt 30 minutes before grilling and keep them chilled; the salt firms the skin so it doesn't stick to the grill.
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