Cashew apple juice
Everyone in Ceará and Rio Grande do Norte has a cashew tree nearby, and in the season, roughly September to December, the fleshy yellow and red cashew apples hang heavily above the nuts. Their juice is the region's everyday drink: pale, cloudy, sweet-tart and faintly astringent, it leaves a slight dryness in the mouth that people love with fried fish or a plate of baião de dois. Fresh cashew apples rarely travel, so outside Brazil use frozen cashew-apple pulp (polpa de caju) from Brazilian shops. This is the fruit, not the nut, but anyone with a cashew allergy should still avoid it. Over-sweetening to hide the astringency is a common mistake, as the juice turns syrupy. Chef's tip: a few drops of lime and plenty of ice soften the dryness far better than extra sugar.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
Harissa is Tunisia's essential condiment, made in every household from the dried red chillies of Nabeul and Cap Bon, which are hung in strings on house walls in late summer to dry. It goes into lablabi, brik, kafteji, couscous and soups, and is spread on bread with olive oil as a snack. Homemade harissa is brighter and less salty than the tubes. Chef's tip: toast the caraway and coriander seeds only until they smell warm; burnt seeds make the paste bitter.
Typhoon shelter crab comes from the boat people of Causeway Bay, who cooked for visitors on sampans moored in the harbour's storm shelters, and Hong Kong restaurants still serve it piled under a golden mountain of fried garlic. Crab pieces are dusted in starch and fried, then tossed in a wok with a huge amount of crisp garlic, dried chilli, fermented black beans and spring onion. Chef's tip: fry the garlic slowly over a medium heat; it should turn golden and crunchy, never dark, or it tastes bitter.
No Fassi wedding or engagement feast is complete without bastila, a showpiece pie brought out as the first course and broken open at the table. Under its crackling layers of buttered pastry sit three fillings: shredded chicken cooked with saffron, ginger and onion, soft lemony eggs set in the reduced cooking juices, and crunchy almonds ground with sugar and cinnamon. The top is dusted with icing sugar and a lattice of cinnamon, so every bite is sweet, savoury, crisp and tender at once. Serve it hot with nothing more than a green salad. Chef's tip: make the fillings a day ahead and chill them; cold fillings are easier to layer and keep the pastry crisp.
Safi and Essaouira are sardine country, and cooks along that Atlantic coast have always made the most of the cheap, silvery catch by turning it into kefta. Fresh fillets are chopped with chermoula herbs and spices into tender, rich fish balls, then simmered in a peppery tomato sauce until they soak up its flavour. They taste nothing like tinned fish: soft, savoury, a little lemony. Eat them from the pan with bread, or as part of a Friday spread of salads. Chef's tip: chill the mixture for 15 minutes before rolling; oily sardines firm up in the cold and the balls hold together in the sauce.
Irish stew, stobhach Gaelach, is the plain and honest pot of the Irish countryside, still made in farmhouse kitchens from Kerry to Donegal and served in Dublin pubs on St Patrick's Day. Lamb on the bone simmers slowly with onions, carrots and two kinds of potato: waxy ones that hold their shape and floury ones that melt and thicken the broth naturally, so no flour is needed. Thyme and parsley are the only seasoning. Chef's tip: use lamb neck or shoulder on the bone; the bones give body to the broth that lean leg never will.
Brought by Hainanese cooks and now sold at kopitiam and hawker stalls in every Malaysian town, chicken rice looks plain but is all about restraint. The chicken is barely simmered and plunged into iced water, which leaves the meat silky and the skin firm and slightly jellied. The rice is fried in rendered chicken fat with garlic, ginger and pandan, then cooked in the poaching stock until each grain is glossy and fragrant. A punchy chilli-ginger-lime sauce and a bowl of the clear broth complete the plate, with cucumber slices on the side. Chef's tip: keep the poaching water at a bare shiver, never a boil; boiling tightens the meat and splits the skin.
In the Lowcountry around Charleston, South Carolina, shrimp and grits started as a fisherman's breakfast and is now brunch on every restaurant menu in town. Stone-ground grits are simmered slowly until creamy and finished with sharp cheddar and butter, then crowned with prawns cooked fast in a smoky, lemony pan sauce with spring onions. Chef's tip: whisk the grits into the liquid a little at a time and keep stirring for the first five minutes; lumps form only at the start.
Named after a 19th-century governor of Sichuan, gong bao chicken is weeknight food in Chengdu: small cubes of tender thigh meat tossed in a wok with scorched chillies, tingling Sichuan pepper and crunchy peanuts. Its signature is the glossy sauce Sichuan cooks call 'lychee flavour', sweet and sour in equal measure, clinging lightly rather than pooling on the plate. The chilli here perfumes the oil more than it burns, so it is the gentlest of the classic Sichuan stir-fries. Serve it with plain steamed rice and a green vegetable such as stir-fried pak choi. Chef's tip: mix the sauce in a bowl before you light the hob, because the whole stir-fry is over in about four minutes and there is no time to measure once the wok is hot.
Sichuan families say no dish is more homely than hui guo rou, literally 'meat returned to the pot': pork belly is simmered whole, cooled, sliced paper-thin and then fried again with fermented chilli bean paste until the fat turns translucent and the slices curl into little cups. It was once the treat cooked after ancestral offerings, when the boiled pork came back to the kitchen, and it is still the dish many Chengdu people crave most when they are far from home. The flavour is rich, salty and savoury with a slow chilli warmth rather than a sharp burn, and the leeks bring a sweet, green crunch. Eat it with a big bowl of rice to soak up the red oil. Chef's tip: chill the boiled pork for 15 minutes in the freezer before slicing; firm pork gives clean, even 3 mm slices that curl beautifully in the wok.
Ker sangri is a true desert dish from the Thar in Rajasthan: ker are small, sour wild caper berries and sangri are the thin, chewy bean pods of the khejri tree, both picked in summer and sun-dried to last the year. Soaked, boiled and fried in plenty of mustard oil with chilli, mango powder and coriander, they become tangy, earthy and almost pickle-like. It keeps for days, which is why it travelled with camel herders. Serve with bajra roti or puri, or as a side to dal baati. Chef's tip: taste a ker berry after boiling; if it is still very bitter, boil it again in fresh water before frying.
Kerak telor is the Betawi snack of Jakarta, cooked over charcoal by vendors at the Jakarta Fair and around Monas: a little soaked sticky rice is cooked in a tiny wok, an egg cracked on top, then the wok is turned upside down over the coals so the bottom forms a crust. It is finished with serundeng, a spiced toasted coconut, and fried shallots. Vendors usually add dried shrimp to the coconut; this version doesn't. Chef's tip: soak the sticky rice overnight; half-soaked grains stay hard in the middle.
Down the southern backwater districts of Travancore, around Kottayam and Alappuzha, the everyday fish curry has no coconut at all: just a brick-red gravy of chilli, shallots and coconut oil, made sour and smoky with kudampuli (Malabar tamarind). It is traditionally made in a clay pot (manchatti) and left to sit, because it tastes better hours later or the next morning, when the fish has soaked up the sourness. Kingfish, sardines and mackerel are the usual choices; eat it with boiled red Kerala rice or tapioca. Chef's tip: once the fish is in, never use a spoon — hold the pot with a cloth and swirl it so the sauce coats the pieces without breaking them.
Street vendors in Leshan, the river town below the Giant Buddha, used to cut their poached chicken by tapping a wooden stick against the back of the cleaver, and that knocking gave bang bang ji its name. It is a cold dish, eaten as a starter at banquets or bought by the bagful for a picnic: silky shreds of chicken piled on cool cucumber and drenched in a nutty, sweet, tingling sauce of sesame paste, chilli oil and ground Sichuan pepper. The contrast of cold meat, crisp vegetable and rich dressing makes it ideal for a hot day. Serve it with other cold plates, a bowl of rice or simply some flatbread. Chef's tip: beat the cooked breasts gently with a rolling pin before shredding; the fibres loosen and pull apart into long, soft strands that hold the sauce.
Along Zhongshan Road and the night markets of Xiamen, cooks fry this on wide griddles all evening, one portion after another. Small fresh oysters are scattered into a batter of sweet potato starch and water, which sets clear and chewy, then eggs are swirled over the top so it ends up crisp at the edges and soft and gooey in the middle. It is salty from the sea, eggy and pleasantly sticky, with a squeeze of sweet chilli sauce to balance it. Eat it hot from the pan as a snack or with rice porridge for a light supper. Chef's tip: stir the batter just before pouring it in; the starch sinks to the bottom within seconds.
Texans call it a 'bowl of red', and at chili cook-offs from San Antonio to Terlingua the rules are firm: chunks of beef, a sauce made from dried chillies, cumin and garlic, and no beans in the pot. Beef chuck braises slowly in a brick-red purée of toasted ancho and guajillo chillies until it falls apart at a touch. Serve with chopped onion, grated cheese and crackers or cornbread. Chef's tip: toast the dried chillies only until they smell fragrant and soften, about 30 seconds per side; burnt chillies make the whole pot bitter.
Along the beach road from Kuala Terengganu to Marang, roadside huts sell keropok lekor in paper bags, still hot from the wok. These are long, grey-white sausages of fish and sago starch, boiled until they float and then sliced and fried, so the outside puffs and crisps while the inside stays dense, bouncy and tasting clearly of the sea. Locals dip them in a sweet, garlicky chilli sauce and eat them with tea in the late afternoon. They freeze well after boiling, ready to fry any time. Chef's tip: knead the fish with ice-cold water; keeping the dough cold is what gives the springy bite.
Truck drivers stopping on Geleshan, the hill outside Chongqing, made this dish famous at roadside canteens in the 1980s, and it still arrives at tables there as a platter that looks like nothing but dried chillies. Hidden among them are small pieces of chicken fried twice until the outside is dry and crunchy and the inside juicy, then tossed with garlic, ginger and handfuls of Sichuan pepper. Eating it is a game: you hunt through the red pile with chopsticks for the morsels, which are smoky, salty, numbing and surprisingly moreish with a cold beer or a pot of tea. Serve it with rice and a mild soup or stir-fried greens. Chef's tip: fry the chicken in two batches and give it a second, hotter fry; crowding the oil is the most common mistake and leaves the coating soft.
Cincinnati, Ohio has hundreds of 'chili parlors', a tradition started by Greek-Macedonian immigrants in the 1920s, and their chili is nothing like the Texan kind. Minced beef is simmered (not browned) in water with tomato and a warm spice mix of cinnamon, allspice, clove, cumin and a little cocoa until it becomes a fine, thin sauce. It is ladled over spaghetti and buried in finely grated cheddar: a 'three-way'. Add onions for a four-way, beans for a five-way. Chef's tip: break the raw mince up in cold water before heating; that gives the signature smooth texture.
Lucknow's galouti kebab is said to have been created in the kitchens of the Nawabs of Awadh for a ruler who had lost his teeth, and 'galouti' means something that melts. The minced lamb is ground again until it's almost a paste, tenderised with raw papaya, scented with a dozen spices plus rose water and saffron, and fried gently on a flat griddle. In the old city around Aminabad they are sold all day on small, flaky ulte tawe ka paratha with sliced onion and mint chutney, and they are a must at Ramadan iftars. Chef's tip: chill the mixture well before shaping; the patties are meant to be fragile, and a cold mixture is the only way to get them into the pan in one piece.
On a Georgian table in July and August the tomato and cucumber salad is not dressed with oil and lemon but with ground walnuts loosened with water and vinegar, so the dressing turns creamy and nutty. You find it in Tbilisi kitchens, in Kakhetian village gardens where the tomatoes come off the vine warm, and next to every khachapuri. It takes fifteen minutes and is best eaten as soon as it is made. A common mistake is salting the tomatoes too early, which floods the bowl with juice and thins the dressing; dress and salt just before it goes to the table. Chef's tip: use purple (opal) basil if you can find it; its clove-like scent is what makes this salad taste Georgian.
Kespe is the plainest and most comforting of Kazakh soups: home-made egg noodles, cut thin with a knife, simmered in broth with potato, carrot and onion. The name comes from 'kesu', to cut. Grandmothers in villages around Karaganda and Pavlodar make it on winter evenings and for anyone feeling unwell, and in Kyrgyzstan the same soup goes by the same name. It is usually cooked in mutton broth; this version uses a well-browned vegetable broth. Chef's tip: dry the cut noodles for 20 minutes before cooking; they hold their shape and don't cloud the broth.
Kouign-amann (say 'kween-ah-MAHN', Breton for 'butter cake') was created in the fishing port of Douarnenez in the 1860s, reportedly by a baker who folded butter and sugar into bread dough when flour was short. Today Breton bakeries sell it as a rich treat for afternoon coffee: flaky layers of bread dough with butter and sugar folded through, baked until the sugar melts into a dark, crunchy caramel. This home version makes individual ones in a muffin tin. It takes an afternoon, mostly waiting time. Chef's tip: keep the dough and butter cold between every fold; warm butter is the common mistake and it oozes out, so you lose the layers.
Rafute comes from the cooking of the old Ryukyu court in Okinawa, where pork has long been the most important meat. Thick blocks of skin-on belly are boiled to remove fat, then braised slowly in awamori, the local rice spirit, with soy, bonito stock and the islands' dark brown sugar. Today it is a dish for family celebrations and the Okinawan New Year, a staple of izakayas in Naha, and a topping for Okinawa soba. Expect deep amber pieces that hold their shape but cut with chopsticks. Chef's tip: cook it the day before; chilling lets you lift off the set fat, and the flavour soaks deeper into the meat overnight.
Ketoprak is a Jakarta cart dish, made to order: the seller grinds peanuts, garlic and chilli in a wide stone mortar, loosens them with water and sweet soy, then tips fried tofu, rice cake, rice vermicelli and bean sprouts on top. It is a cousin of gado-gado but simpler, with no egg-and-greens platter, and the raw-garlic sauce is the whole point. Eat it at lunch with plenty of crackers. Chef's tip: grind the garlic with the hot fried peanuts so the garlic mellows slightly; a raw paste made with cold nuts is harsh.
The river port of Wanzhou on the Yangtze gave the country kao yu, now a late-night favourite in every Chinese city: a whole fish, split open and grilled over charcoal until the skin crackles, then laid in a metal tray of bubbling chilli broth and kept hot over a burner in the middle of the table. Friends pick at the crisp skin and soft flesh, then work through the potatoes, bean sprouts and celery underneath, which soak up the spicy, savoury, faintly numbing sauce. This home version uses a hot oven and a roasting tin. Serve it with rice and plenty of cold drinks. Chef's tip: dry the fish inside and out with kitchen paper and oil the tin well; a wet fish steams instead of crisping and sticks to the metal.
Ask for key wat at a restaurant in Addis Ababa and you get a bowl of tender beef drowned in a sauce so red it gives the dish its name: key means red in Amharic. It is everyday celebration food, cooked for Sunday lunch, weddings and the end of a fast, and it shares the slow-cooked onion base of doro wat but with chunks of beef and a sharper, more peppery heat. The sauce should be thick and glossy, with a layer of red oil on top. Spoon it over injera with a cooling plate of greens or lentils beside it. Chef's tip: cut the beef into small, even 2 cm cubes so it soaks up the sauce and becomes tender in under an hour and a half.
Diners and drive-ins across the American Midwest have smashed burgers on hot griddles for a century, and the style is now everywhere from food trucks to backyard cookouts. A ball of beef is pressed hard onto a very hot pan so it spreads thin and develops a deep brown, lacy crust, then gets a slice of cheese and goes into a soft toasted bun with pickles and a tangy sauce. Two thin patties per burger is the classic. Chef's tip: smash within the first 30 seconds only; pressing later squeezes out the juice.
Sheermal is a soft flatbread made with milk and ghee instead of water, lightly sweet, and brushed with saffron milk so it bakes to a glossy amber colour. In Lucknow's old quarters like Chowk and Aminabad, bakers still make it in tandoors each morning, and families buy it for Eid, weddings and Ramadan iftar, eating it alongside rich kormas or simply with a cup of milky tea. It sits halfway between bread and pastry. The usual mistake is adding too much flour while kneading because the dough feels sticky; a dry dough gives a tough, crumbly sheermal. Chef's tip: oil your hands instead of flouring the surface, and let the rich dough rise until it is truly doubled.
On Tunisia's coast, especially in Sfax, Mahdia and the fishing towns of Cap Bon, couscous for Friday lunch is made with fish instead of meat: a red, peppery broth of tomato, harissa and caraway in which the vegetables cook first and the fish is poached at the end, while the couscous steams on top. The broth is ladled over the grains at the table until they glisten. The mistake is boiling the fish too long, so it breaks into the broth; poach it gently for the last 10 minutes only. Chef's tip: oil and rub the couscous between your palms before and after the first steaming so every grain stays separate.
The Cobb salad was born at the Brown Derby restaurant in Hollywood in the 1930s, and it is still a lunch classic in Los Angeles delis and hotel coffee shops. Rows of chopped chicken, crisp bacon (pork), hard-boiled egg, avocado, tomato and blue cheese sit on crisp lettuce, and everyone mixes them with a sharp red wine vinegar dressing at the table. Chef's tip: chop everything to roughly the same small size so each forkful gets a bit of everything.
Eggs Benedict belongs to New York, where two Manhattan restaurants still argue over who served it first, and it remains the star of weekend brunch from diners to grand hotels. Toasted English muffins carry warm ham (pork), softly poached eggs and a blanket of buttery, lemony hollandaise. Chef's tip: use the freshest eggs you can get for poaching; their whites hold together instead of spreading into wisps.
On summer nights the pavements of Changsha and Wuhan fill with folding tables, plastic gloves and mountains of glossy red crayfish, the season's great shared feast from May to August. Each little shell is sucked for its spicy sauce before you twist off the tail for a sweet, firm bite of meat; the sauce is hot from chillies and bean paste, numbing from Sichuan pepper and rounded out with garlic and a bottle of lager. Large shell-on prawns make an easy swap if you can't buy live crayfish. Serve with cold drinks, cucumber, steamed buns or rice to mop up the sauce, and lots of napkins. Chef's tip: once the crayfish turn red, simmer them for no more than 8 minutes; longer and the tail meat goes mushy and comes away in shreds.
Khambir is the everyday bread of Ladakh: a thick, round wholewheat loaf with a dent pressed into the middle, browned on a griddle and finished in the heat of the kitchen stove. In homes in Leh and Kargil it appears at breakfast, torn into chunks and dipped into salty butter tea, or spread with apricot jam made from the region's dried apricots. The crust is chewy and toasty, the inside dense and slightly sour. Bakers in Leh's old town still sell it warm in the mornings. Chef's tip: let the dough rise until truly doubled; under-risen khambir is heavy and gummy in the middle.
Toad in the hole has been a thrifty family supper across northern England for two centuries, and children still love it for the name as much as the taste. Plump pork sausages are browned in a hot tin, then a simple egg-and-milk batter is poured around them and puffs up into a golden, crisp Yorkshire pudding. It is always served with onion gravy and green vegetables. Chef's tip: the fat must be smoking hot when the batter goes in, and the oven door must stay shut for the first 25 minutes, or the batter will not rise.
Khandvi are delicate, melt-in-the-mouth rolls from Gujarat, made by cooking gram flour with sour buttermilk until thick, spreading it paper-thin while hot and rolling it up. They're finished with a sizzling tempering of mustard seeds, sesame and curry leaves, plus fresh coconut and coriander. They're soft, tangy and gently spiced, and a favourite at Gujarati weddings and tea-time. They look tricky, but once you know when the batter is cooked, they're quick. Chef's tip: keep a plate by the stove and test the batter often; when a spoonful spread thin on the plate sets in 30 seconds and peels off in one piece, it's ready, and not a minute before.
Khanfaroosh are an old Emirati sweet, made by grandmothers in Ras Al Khaimah and Fujairah and served with Arabic coffee when guests arrive, at weddings and during Eid. A rice-flour batter rich with eggs, saffron, cardamom and rose water is shallow-fried in small rounds that puff up, golden-brown with a lacy edge and a soft, spongy middle. They are less sweet than they look and best eaten warm from the pan. Chef's tip: let the batter rest for 30 minutes so the rice flour softens; unrested batter fries up gritty.
Breakfast stalls from Chiang Rai to Mae Sai ladle this tangy red broth over soft rice noodles from dawn until it sells out, usually before noon. The soup is light but full-flavoured: pork ribs give body, cherry tomatoes give a fresh sourness, and dried cotton-tree flowers (dok ngiao) add a faint floral, earthy chew. Each diner finishes their bowl at the table with bean sprouts, shredded cabbage, crispy garlic and lime. Cubes of cooked pig's blood are traditional; they are optional here and left out by default. Chef's tip: blanch the ribs and throw that first water away, so the finished broth stays clear and clean-tasting.
Restaurants in Shaoshan, Mao Zedong's home village in Hunan, all put this pork on the menu because it was said to be his favourite food. What sets the Hunan way apart from the soy-dark braises of Shanghai is that the deep mahogany colour comes from caramelised sugar alone, with dried chillies and warm spices in the pot, so the sauce tastes cleaner and slightly smoky. After an hour of gentle simmering the cubes of belly are wobbly and melting under a sticky, sweet-salty glaze. It is celebration food at Hunan family dinners, eaten with steamed rice and a sharp stir-fried green vegetable to cut the richness. Chef's tip: dry the blanched pork well before it meets the caramel, so it doesn't spit, and stop the caramel at the colour of strong tea; a few seconds longer and it turns bitter.
Khao jee pâté is the breakfast sandwich of Vientiane, sold from glass-fronted carts on street corners since the French era left Laos its love of baguettes. It is a pork sandwich: a crisp, light baguette is warmed over charcoal, spread with pork liver pâté and filled with Lao-style cold cuts (pork sausage or ham), pickled papaya or carrot, cucumber, herbs, chilli sauce and a splash of Maggi-style seasoning. Pregnant people should avoid pâté because of listeria risk. Chef's tip: warm the bread until the crust crackles; a soft baguette makes a soggy sandwich.
In Georgetown bakeries, cheese rolls sit in the glass cabinet next to pine tarts and patties, and no Guyanese birthday party is complete without a tray. Short, buttery pastry is rolled around a sharp cheddar filling seasoned with mustard and hot pepper, then baked until the cheese bubbles out of the ends and crisps. They're eaten warm or at room temperature with a cold drink. Chef's tip: keep the butter and water ice-cold and handle the dough briefly; that's what gives flaky layers rather than a hard biscuit.
Around Pratunam market in Bangkok, the khao man gai stalls are easy to spot: a queue, pale poached chickens hanging in a glass cabinet, and a cook slicing with a cleaver at speed. Like its Hainanese ancestor, the dish pairs silky chicken with rice cooked in the bird's fat and broth, but the Thai plate stands apart for its sauce, a punchy mix of fermented soybeans (tao jiao), ginger, garlic, chilli and vinegar, and for the little bowl of clear broth with winter melon served on the side. Bangkok eats it for breakfast, lunch or a late supper, always with cucumber slices and coriander. Chef's tip: plunge the cooked chicken into iced water for 10 minutes; the skin firms to a jelly-like snap and the meat stays juicy.
Khao piak sen is the soup Laotians crave on a cool morning or when they feel unwell, and roadside shops in Vientiane and Luang Prabang sell it from dawn. The noodles are cut by hand from a soft rice and tapioca dough and cooked straight in the broth, so their starch turns the soup thick, slippery and comforting. Instead of the usual chicken stock, this version builds a deep broth from dried shiitake, charred onion and ginger, and finishes it with crisp fried garlic, spring onion and coriander. Chef's tip: dust the cut noodles well with tapioca starch and keep them apart; they stick together into a clump in seconds if left in a pile.
Khao poon is celebration food in Laos, ladled out at weddings, baci ceremonies and big family gatherings, and sold at morning markets in Vientiane by women with huge steaming pots. Fine round rice noodles sit under a spicy, red-tinged broth of coconut milk, lemongrass and galangal, and everyone adds their own shredded cabbage, banana blossom, beansprouts, mint and lime. The usual chicken or fish is swapped for golden fried tofu and bamboo shoots. Chef's tip: fry the red chilli paste in the coconut cream until oil seeps out in red drops on the surface; that's when the colour and heat are fully released.
Every traditional Assamese lunch begins with khar, a mouthful of it mixed into the first ball of rice to settle the stomach. The defining ingredient is khar itself, an alkaline liquid filtered from the ash of dried bhim kol (seeded banana) peels; it gives the dish its soft, slightly soapy, earthy taste. Raw papaya and a handful of lentils are cooked in it with mustard oil, garlic and green chilli until silky. At home in Guwahati or Jorhat it is made several times a week. Chef's tip: outside Assam, use a small pinch of bicarbonate of soda in place of khar; too much tastes metallic, so start with ⅛ tsp.
No Filipino party table is complete without a platter of lumpiang shanghai, the pencil-thin pork spring rolls that disappear first at birthdays, Christmas Eve (Noche Buena) and family reunions. They came from the Chinese-Filipino cooks of Manila, and the filling is seasoned minced pork with carrot, onion and water chestnut, rolled tight in thin wrappers and fried until they crackle. Dip them in sweet chilli sauce or banana ketchup. Chef's tip: roll them no thicker than your finger; thin rolls cook through in the time the wrapper takes to turn golden.
Walk into almost any restaurant in Changsha and a split fish head blanketed in scarlet chopped chillies will be on the table next to you. The chillies are salted and fermented, so they taste bright, sour and fruity as well as hot, and the steam carries their juices into the sweet, soft fish beneath; the meaty cheeks and the jelly-like flesh around the head are the prized parts. A last drizzle of smoking oil wakes it all up. When the fish is gone, Hunanese diners tip plain noodles into the leftover juices, and so should you. Chef's tip: buy the head from a fishmonger who has just cut it, with clear eyes and bright red gills; if that's hard to find, thick bone-in fish steaks work just as well.
Chambo is a tilapia from Lake Malawi, and fried chambo with nsima (stiff maize porridge) is what visitors to Mangochi, Cape Maclear and Nkhata Bay are served at lakeside lunches. The fish is fried or grilled whole, then topped with a fresh tomato and onion relish; the nsima is pinched off and used to scoop up the fish and juice. The mistake is skipping the relish, which keeps the meal fresh; make it while the fish fries. Chef's tip: any whole tilapia or sea bream works if you can't find chambo.
Khash is a winter ritual in Armenia: friends gather in the early morning between November and March, often at the weekend, to share bowls of plain broth made from beef feet that have cooked all night. Everyone seasons their own bowl at the table with crushed garlic and salt, crumbles dried lavash into it and eats with radishes, pickles and fresh herbs. The broth is rich, sticky with gelatine and deliberately unseasoned in the pot. Skimping on the cleaning and soaking is the classic error; it leaves the broth grey and smelling of the farmyard instead of clean and milky-white. Chef's tip: ask the butcher to clean the feet and saw them into pieces for you.
From seaside towns like Whitby and Brighton to every high street chippy in the land, fish and chips wrapped in paper is Britain's Friday-night supper. Thick white fish is dipped in a light, bubbly batter and fried until it shatters, next to chunky chips cooked twice so they are fluffy inside and crisp outside. Serve with mushy peas, malt vinegar, salt and a lemon wedge. The classic batter uses cold beer; for an alcohol-free version use the same amount of ice-cold sparkling water. Chef's tip: mix the batter at the last moment and keep it ice cold; the bigger the temperature difference with the oil, the crisper the crust.
A complete barbecue meal on one big tawa: a tangy wheat and vegetable mix with three chutneys, crisp cheesy corn balls, baked stuffed capsicums and creamy cheesy pasta, all sizzling under hot barbecue sauce. Every part can be made ahead and finished on the jiko. It's a healthy and filling meal by itself.
In the lanes of Old Delhi, breakfast often means a leaf plate of khasta kachori broken into a hot, thin potato curry, with a dollop of pickle and a cup of chai. The kachoris are large and flat with a peppery filling of coarsely ground urad dal, fried slowly until they blister and puff, and the aloo sabzi is fiery with chilli and sharp with tomato and dried mango. It's a weekend dish, filling enough to last until lunch. Chef's tip: break the boiled potatoes by hand rather than chopping them; the rough edges melt into the gravy and thicken it naturally.
Khatkhatem is the vegetable stew Goan Hindu families cook for Ganesh Chaturthi and wedding feasts, when onion and garlic are kept out of the kitchen. It takes whatever the monsoon garden gives: pumpkin, sweet potato, raw banana, corn on the cob, drumsticks, yam and the long Goan cucumber, simmered with a little toor dal in a ground paste of coconut, red chillies and coriander seeds. The flavour comes from tirphal, a dried berry from the Western Ghats with a woody, citrusy, slightly numbing bite. Serve it with rice and a crisp papad as part of the festive spread. Chef's tip: add the vegetables in stages, hardest first; khatkhatem should have every vegetable tender but whole, not a mush.
Every winter, Hunan households hang strips of salted pork belly over a wood fire until they turn dark and smoky, and this quick stir-fry is the most common way to eat them through the cold months. Thin slices of the cured belly are fried until the fat turns clear and the edges crisp, then tossed with green garlic shoots, which turn sweet and tender and soak up the smoky fat, plus fresh chilli and fermented black beans for a salty, spicy kick. It is a plain everyday dish that sits beside rice on a farmhouse table. Serve it with steamed rice and a light soup. Chef's tip: simmer the cured pork before slicing; it softens the meat and draws out some of the salt, so the finished dish is savoury rather than harsh.
For the Miao people around Kaili in south-east Guizhou, a pot of sour soup is the heart of a meal, served in a wide pot over a burner with everyone dipping in. Their famous red sour soup is made by fermenting wild tomatoes with chillies for weeks, and it gives the broth a bright, tangy, lightly spicy taste that is fruity rather than vinegary. Chunks of fresh river fish, tofu and bean sprouts simmer in it until tender, and each piece is dunked in a little dish of chilli and herbs before eating. This home version gets close with very ripe tomatoes, fermented chillies and a splash of rice vinegar. Eat it with rice on a cold evening. Chef's tip: cook the tomatoes until they completely collapse into a thick red paste before you add any water; that is where the colour and the deep sourness come from.
Showing 54 of 10,569 recipes
Show more recipesPage 911 of 1,175
Indian
Italian
French
Chinese
Japanese
Mexican
Korean
Spanish
Persian
Tunisian
Hong Kong
Moroccan
Irish
Malaysian
American
Indonesian
Georgian
Kazakh
Ethiopian
British
Thai
Lao
Guyanese
Filipino
Armenian
