IrioMashed potato, corn and beans
Irio is a Kenyan mash of potatoes with whole corn and kidney beans, fried onion, chilli and butter. It's hearty and comforting. Serve it with a simple tomato stew, as here, or tomato sauce.

Carob and mint milk shake
A chocolatey-tasting shake made with carob powder instead of chocolate, blended with milk, yogurt, honey, fresh mint and ground brazil nuts. Creamy and lightly minty. Serve cold.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
Irio is a Kenyan mash of potatoes with whole corn and kidney beans, fried onion, chilli and butter. It's hearty and comforting. Serve it with a simple tomato stew, as here, or tomato sauce.
Injera is the bread, plate and spoon of the Ethiopian and Eritrean highlands: a wide, pale, sour flatbread made from teff, a tiny grain grown on the plateaus around Gondar, Gojjam and Shewa. A simple batter of teff and water is left to ferment for two or three days until it bubbles and smells pleasantly sour, then poured onto a hot griddle and steamed under a lid until its top is covered in little 'eyes'. It is eaten at every meal, with stews spooned on top and torn pieces used to pick them up. This home version uses 100% teff, so it is naturally gluten free. Chef's tip: keep the starter somewhere warm (around 24°C); in a cold kitchen it barely sours and the injera turns out flat and bland.
Anyone who orders shikanji in Indore expecting lemonade gets a surprise: here it is a spoonably thick drink of slow-reduced milk, saffron and cardamom, with a gentle tang from thick yogurt and plenty of chopped dry fruit. It is a late-night treat at Sarafa and Chhappan Dukan, poured from steel jugs into glasses after a round of savoury snacks. Think of it as somewhere between a lassi and a cold rabri. Chef's tip: the milk must be completely cold before the yogurt goes in, or the drink splits into grainy curds.
Kagoshima, at Kyushu's southern tip, is Japan's sweet potato heartland. The crop is so closely tied to the region that the Japanese word for sweet potato, satsuma-imo, means 'Satsuma potato', after the old name of Kagoshima. Imo kenpi are its simplest snack: thin batons of sweet potato fried until crisp, then tossed in a syrup that sets into a glassy shell. Kids grab them from bags at the corner shop, and grandparents make them at home with the autumn harvest. They are crunchy, sweet and a little salty. Chef's tip: fry the potato twice, slowly first, then hot. That drives out the water and gives a snap that lasts for days.
In Imereti, the region around Kutaisi in western Georgia, this flat round cheese bread is everyday food, and it is the one most families make at home: a tender, quick dough leavened with matsoni (Georgian yogurt) and soda, wrapped around a cheese ball and cooked in a dry frying pan. It is cut into wedges like a pizza and set on the table for breakfast, for a feast, or packed for a long car journey. Georgian imeruli and sulguni cheeses are hard to find outside Georgia, so this uses mozzarella with feta for the salty tang. Choose cheeses labelled vegetarian (microbial rennet). Children love it plain, still warm. A common mistake is rolling it out with heavy pressure, which tears the thin dough so the cheese leaks and burns in the pan. Chef's tip: press it out gently with your fingertips from the centre outwards, and if a small hole appears, pinch a scrap of dough over it before it reaches the pan.
On cold evenings in Busan, the city that made Korean fish cake famous, steam rises from street stalls where folded fish-cake skewers bob in a long tray of broth. You help yourself to a skewer, dip it in soy sauce and sip a paper cup of the hot broth while you stand. Bupyeong market has rows of fish-cake shops, and many families buy a bag there to make this simple soup at home. Radish, dried anchovies and kelp give the broth its clean, sweet flavour. Chef's tip: pull the heads and black guts off the dried anchovies before using them, because the guts make the broth bitter.
In Batac and Vigan, in the Ilocos region, empanada is not a baked pastry but a big, crunchy, bright-orange turnover fried to order at night markets and by the plaza. The thin rice-flour crust gets its colour from annatto, and inside goes shredded green papaya, mung bean sprouts, crumbled Vigan longganisa (a garlicky pork sausage) and a whole egg. Vendors fold it in seconds and slide it into hot oil, then hand it over with a little bowl of spiced sugarcane vinegar to pour in with every bite. It is a pork snack for evenings out. Chef's tip: roll the dough very thin on a banana leaf or baking paper; the leaf lets you flip the dough over the filling without tearing it.
Epis is the jar that lives in every Haitian fridge, in Port-au-Prince flats and in Haitian kitchens in Miami, Montreal and Boston alike, and it's made fresh most weeks. Flat-leaf parsley, spring onion, garlic, sweet peppers and thyme are pounded or blended with a few cloves, a little scotch bonnet, oil and lime into a loose green paste. It is the first thing into the pot for rice and beans, legim and soup joumou, and it's rubbed over vegetables and tofu before they're fried. Raw it smells bright and herby; cooked it turns sweet, savoury and gently warm with clove. Chef's tip: use whole cloves and grind them yourself; just three or four give epis its signature warmth, but more turns it medicinal.
Pol roti is the hearty coconut flatbread that rural Sri Lankans eat for breakfast or an evening meal, cooked on a flat iron pan (thachchi) and torn up with lunu miris, parippu or a spicy potato curry; you'll see it stacked in glass cases in kades from Anuradhapura to Matara. Wheat flour is mixed with lots of freshly grated coconut, finely chopped onion and green chilli, and the dough is patted out thick by hand, so the roti come out chewy, with toasted coconut flecks and a sweet, savoury smell. The common mistake is rolling them thin: pol roti should be a good 1 cm thick and soft inside. Chef's tip: pat each roti out on a banana leaf or oiled baking paper and flip it straight onto the pan; it's too soft and crumbly to lift any other way.
Night markets and seaside stalls from Port Dickson to Kuantan announce ikan bakar by smell long before you see the charcoal: whole fish or stingray wings smeared with red sambal, laid on banana leaf and grilled until the leaf blackens and the paste caramelises onto the flesh. The leaf keeps the fish moist and lends a faint tea-like smokiness, while the sambal brings shrimp-paste depth, tamarind sourness and steady heat. It is eaten with the fingers, with plain rice, cucumber and a sharp dip called air asam made from tamarind, chillies and shallots. Chef's tip: score the fish right down to the bone so the sambal seeps into the cuts and the thickest part cooks at the same pace as the tail.
At Mori, a small fishing town on the railway north of Hakodate, ikameshi has been sold as a station lunchbox since the war years, when rice was scarce and squid was plentiful. It is still one of Japan's best-known station bentos and a star of the regional food fairs that department stores hold all over the country. Small squid are stuffed with soaked glutinous rice, pinned shut and simmered in a sweet soy sauce until the rice swells into a sticky, savoury filling. Slice them into rounds to serve warm or at room temperature. Chef's tip: use small squid with bodies about 15 cm long, as larger ones need longer cooking and turn rubbery before they soften again.
Erissery is the golden, slightly sweet pumpkin dish of the Onam sadya in Kerala, and a favourite in homes all through the harvest season when the yellow mathanga pumpkins are piled up in the markets. Soft pumpkin and red cowpeas are bound with a coconut, cumin and green chilli paste, and the whole pot is crowned with grated coconut fried in coconut oil until it turns the colour of cinnamon. That crunchy, nutty topping is what makes it erissery. Serve with rice and parippu, or scoop it up with chapati. Chef's tip: keep the pumpkin pieces large so some stay whole while others melt into the sauce.
Pol sambol sits on the table at almost every Sri Lankan meal, from breakfast hoppers and string hoppers in a Kandy home to a rice packet bought at a roadside kade. Grandmothers grind it on a stone (miris gala) so the chilli and onion bruise into the coconut, and it turns a bright brick red, hot, sour and salty all at once. Most island recipes add a spoonful of Maldive fish (dried tuna flakes); we leave it out to keep it vegetarian and add a little extra onion and lime for depth. A common mistake is using dried desiccated coconut straight from the packet, which tastes dusty; fresh or frozen grated coconut gives the proper moist texture. Chef's tip: rub the chilli, onion and salt together first with your fingers until they turn juicy, then work in the coconut so every flake turns red.
Walk through Police Bazaar in Shillong in the morning and you will find small jadoh stalls serving bright yellow rice cooked with pork, ginger and plenty of local Lakadong turmeric. For Khasi families it is breakfast, lunch and festival food all at once, usually eaten with a pork side such as doh khlieh and a sharp chutney. Village versions add pork blood or offal; this home version keeps to pork shoulder. Chef's tip: let the rice rest, covered, for ten minutes after cooking; the grains firm up and stop being sticky.
Lukhmi are Hyderabad's answer to the samosa: flat, square, crisp little pastries with a filling of spiced mutton keema, fork-crimped at the edges. In the Deccani homes of the old city they are a fixture of wedding dinners and the evening iftar table in Ramadan, and a plate of them often arrives with Irani chai at the city's old cafés. They can be shaped a day ahead and fried just before guests come. Chef's tip: cook the keema until completely dry and let it cool fully; a damp or warm filling makes the pastry burst in the oil.
In the Veneto and the mountain valleys of the north-east, polenta is the old daily staple, poured steaming onto a wooden board in the middle of the table. Its classic autumn partner is funghi trifolati: mushrooms sautéed with garlic, parsley and a splash of white wine until glossy and deeply savoury. Soft polenta is spooned into bowls with the mushrooms on top, a warming supper for a cold night. Chef's tip: whisk the cornmeal into the water in a thin stream; if it goes in all at once, it lumps and no amount of stirring will fix it.
Khatti dal, 'sour dal', is the everyday dal of Hyderabad's old city, cooked in Muslim and Telugu homes alike and ladled over plain rice with a fried papad and a dry vegetable on the side. Toor dal is cooked with tomato and green chilli, mashed smooth, soured with tamarind and finished with a sizzling bagaar of garlic, dried red chillies, cumin and curry leaves. It is thinner and sharper than a north Indian dal, and on Fridays it often sits next to a biryani as the comforting partner. Chef's tip: let the garlic in the bagaar turn properly golden before pouring it over; pale garlic tastes raw and harsh in a sour dal.
Irani chai came to Hyderabad with Persian migrants who opened cafés across the old city, and it is now the city's signature drink, poured at all hours in places around the Charminar, often with Osmania biscuits or a bun maska. Unlike masala chai, it has no spices: strong tea is brewed slowly in a sealed pot (dum), while full-fat milk is simmered separately with a little khoa until thick and creamy. The two are mixed only in the cup, giving a rich, mellow, slightly sweet tea. Chef's tip: seal the tea pot lid with a little dough or foil, as the cafés do, so the brew steeps without losing steam or strength.
Every year on 3 October the city of Leiden celebrates Leidens Ontzet, the end of the Spanish siege of 1574, and the whole town eats hutspot. The story goes that a hungry boy found a pot of stewed root vegetables left behind in the abandoned Spanish camp. Today it is a rough, orange mash of winter carrots, onions and potatoes boiled together in one pot, then stamped coarsely with butter. In the rest of the Netherlands it turns up all autumn and winter as a weekday supper. It is traditionally served with slow-braised beef (klapstuk); here it goes with a fried egg or a spoon of piccalilli, which suits it just as well. Chef's tip: layer the vegetables with the potatoes on top and the carrots at the bottom, in just enough water to reach the potatoes; the potatoes steam, the carrots soak up the flavour of the onions, and nothing turns watery.
Good Friday in Jamaica means fish, and escovitch fish is the dish families line up for, though you'll also find it any day at the seaside stalls of Hellshire Beach and Port Royal. Whole red snapper (or thick fillets) are seasoned, fried until the skin shatters, then buried under onion, carrot, chocho and peppers that have been briefly warmed in vinegar with pimento and scotch bonnet. The fish soaks up the sharp, hot pickle as it sits, so it is as good at room temperature as it is fresh from the pan. Serve with bammy or festival. Chef's tip: make the pickle while the fish fries and pour it over hot fish; it sinks in better, and a few hours later the flavour is even deeper.
Hünkar beğendi is a dish from the Ottoman palace kitchens of Istanbul; its name means 'the sultan was pleased', and a well-known story links it to a royal banquet of the 1860s. Today it is a special Sunday or guest dish in Istanbul homes and old-style lokanta restaurants. Tender chunks of lamb are braised slowly with tomato and peppers, then spooned over beğendi, a silky purée of fire-charred aubergine whisked into a light cheese sauce. The smoky, creamy base against the rich stew is the whole point. Chef's tip: char the aubergines directly over a gas flame until the skins are black and collapsing; the oven alone won't give that smoky flavour.
Hu pi jian jiao, 'tiger-skin peppers', is everyday home cooking in Hunan, the province famous for loving chilli even more than Sichuan does. Long green peppers are pressed into a hot, dry wok until their skins blacken in stripes like a tiger's coat, then glazed with soy, black vinegar and a touch of sugar. In Changsha it's eaten with plenty of rice, which tames the heat. Chef's tip: press the peppers flat with a spatula as they cook so the whole skin touches the iron and blisters evenly.
Semmelknödel are the bread dumplings of Bavaria and Austria, made to use up yesterday's rolls (Semmeln) soaked in warm milk and bound with egg, onion and parsley. With a creamy mushroom sauce, Semmelknödel mit Schwammerlsoße, they become a full meal and a favourite in Munich beer gardens and Alpine inns from late summer, when foraged chanterelles and ceps reach the markets. Chef's tip: simmer the dumplings in barely trembling water, never a rolling boil; hard boiling breaks them apart, which is the most common Knödel disaster.
In Salta, Jujuy and Tucumán in Argentina's Andean northwest, humitas are made in late summer when the corn is young and milky. Fresh kernels are grated off the cob and cooked with onion, red pepper, squash and a little sweet paprika, then bound with cheese, wrapped in the fresh green husks (chala), tied with strips of husk and simmered. They come out soft, sweet and savoury, like a delicate corn pudding. Chef's tip: grate the corn on a box grater; it releases the milky juice that sets the humita, which cut kernels never will.
Huevos rancheros, 'ranch-style eggs', is the big country breakfast eaten all over Mexico: corn tortillas briefly fried in oil, topped with fried eggs and drowned in salsa ranchera, a warm, chunky sauce of charred tomatoes and serrano chillies, with refried beans on the side. The runny yolks mix with the spicy tomato sauce and the soft tortilla soaks it all up. Serve with avocado and coffee. Choose queso fresco made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: fry the tortillas only for a few seconds a side; you want them pliable with crisp edges, not hard like tostadas, so you can cut them with a fork.
Huevos a la mexicana is the everyday scrambled egg breakfast cooked in homes and fondas all over Mexico, named because its red tomato, white onion and green chilli match the colours of the Mexican flag. The vegetables are cooked just long enough to soften and release their juices, then the eggs are stirred through gently into soft, juicy curds with a fresh chilli kick. Serve with warm corn tortillas and refried beans, and make tacos at the table. Chef's tip: take the pan off the heat while the eggs still look a little wet; they keep cooking on the plate.
Hudut is the heart of Garifuna cooking on the Caribbean coast of Honduras, in towns such as Trujillo and La Ceiba, and in Belize and Guatemala's Livingston: whole fish or fish steaks simmered in a coconut broth (sere) with garlic, onion and herbs, served with a pounded mash of green and ripe plantains (fufu) that is dipped into the soup. The mistake is mashing only green plantain, which is heavy; a mix of green and a few ripe ones gives a slightly sweet, smooth mash. Chef's tip: fry the fish briefly before it goes into the broth so it holds its shape.
Breakfast in Guiyang means a steaming bowl of rice noodles at a counter, and the version from the Huaxi district on the city's southern edge is the one people queue for. Silky noodles sit in a clear, deeply beefy broth under slices of slow-cooked shin, and each diner finishes the bowl at the table from pots of tangy pickled mustard greens, toasted chilli and fresh herbs, so it is sour, spicy and savoury exactly to taste. The broth is light enough for the morning but rich in flavour. Serve it as a whole meal; a few extra pickles on the side are all it needs. Chef's tip: blanch the beef and rinse it before the long simmer; skipping this is the common mistake that leaves the broth cloudy and scummy.
Hủ tiếu came to southern Vietnam with Teochew Chinese and Cambodian influences, and in Saigon it's as everyday as pho, sold from street carts at dawn and again late into the night. The broth is light and clear, sweet from pork bones, daikon and dried shrimp, and the bowl is loaded with sliced pork, minced pork, prawns and often quail eggs. Clear, chewy noodles and a spoon of crispy garlic oil set it apart. Many people order it khô, dry, with the noodles tossed in sauce and the soup on the side. Chef's tip: toast the dried squid over a flame before it goes in the pot; it gives the broth a sweet, savoury depth that's hard to place.
Esquites are the cup version of elote, sold by street vendors across Mexico City from big pots: corn kernels sautéed with butter, onion, green chilli and epazote, simmered in a little salty water, then spooned into cups and topped with mayonnaise, lime, crumbled cheese and chilli powder. Each spoonful is sweet, buttery, tangy and warm, with a splash of the corn broth at the bottom. They make a great snack or side for tacos. Choose cotija or feta made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: let the kernels brown slightly in the butter before adding the water; those toasty bits give esquites their depth.
Houskové knedlíky are the sliced bread dumplings that sit beside almost every sauce in a Prague pub, from mushroom svíčková-style cream sauces to sweet-sour dill gravy. Unlike the round German Semmelknödel, these are a soft yeast dough rolled into a log with crisp cubes of stale roll inside, simmered whole, then cut into thick, spongy slices that drink up gravy. Czech grandmothers still slice them with a length of thread rather than a knife, which keeps the crumb open instead of squashing it. Chef's tip: cut the cooked loaf with a piece of cotton thread wrapped around it and pulled tight; a knife presses the slices into dense, gluey discs.
In the villages of Crete and the mountains of Epirus, hortopita is what cooks make from whatever greens are growing on the hillsides: wild fennel, sorrel, poppy leaves, nettles and chard. Many families bake it during Lent, when cheese and eggs are put aside, so the filling relies on olive oil, leeks and a big handful of herbs for flavour. It is earthy, a little bitter and very fresh. This version uses easy-to-buy chard, spinach, fennel fronds and leeks, with a spoonful of rice to soak up the juices. Serve warm or cold with olives and a glass of something cold. Most shop fillo is made without butter or egg, but check the label to keep it vegan. Chef's tip: salt the chopped greens and leave them for 20 minutes before squeezing; skipping this is the most common mistake, and it makes hortopita watery.
Named after the Hortobágy puszta, Hungary's great grassland in the east, these savoury pancakes are a favourite starter in Hungarian restaurants and a clever family meal. Thin palacsinta are filled with finely chopped paprika chicken, folded into parcels, and baked in the paprika-soured cream sauce until bubbling. Chef's tip: chop the cooked chicken very finely or pulse it briefly; a fine filling makes neat, tight parcels.
Ptitim was invented in Israel in the 1950s, when rice was scarce and the Osem factory was asked to make a wheat substitute; the little toasted pasta pearls soon became the dish every Israeli child grew up on. In homes from Haifa to Be'er Sheva it is cooked like a pilaf, first toasted in oil until nutty, then simmered in stock until plump and chewy. This version folds in courgette, red pepper and peas for a quick weeknight dinner or lunchbox side. Chef's tip: toast the dry ptitim until it smells like popcorn and turns light gold; it gives a much nuttier flavour than boiling it like pasta.
Ptichye moloko, 'bird's milk', is named for the impossible treat in old fairy tales, and in 1978 Moscow's Praga restaurant turned it into a cake: a cloud of vanilla soufflé on a thin sponge, glazed with dark chocolate. Soviet shoppers queued for hours for the boxed version, and it is still the cake for birthdays and 8 March. The soufflé has always been set with agar, a seaweed jelly, which makes it naturally free of gelatine and gives a clean, springy bite. Chef's tip: boil the agar syrup to exactly 110°C (a thread forms between two fingers); undercooked syrup leaves the soufflé weepy and soft.
Fanesca is cooked in Ecuador only once a year, in the days before Easter, and families spend a whole day shelling, peeling and stirring. Traditionally it gathers twelve grains and legumes (said to stand for the apostles) in a thick soup of squash, milk and peanut, with salt cod in the pot. This version leaves the fish out and keeps the festival garnishes: hard-boiled egg, fried ripe plantain, fresh cheese and parsley. It's rich and very filling; small bowls are enough. Chef's tip: cook everything the day before and reheat; like many big feast soups, fanesca tastes better on day two.
Mexican horchata is a sweet, milky-looking agua fresca made from rice soaked overnight with cinnamon, then blended and strained. It is quite different from the Valencian horchata de chufa made from tiger nuts. Sold everywhere from Mexico City street stalls to taquerías in Oaxaca, it cools the mouth after a spicy taco and tastes of cinnamon, vanilla and toasted grain. We blend in almonds for extra creaminess and keep it dairy free, so it is vegan. Chef's tip: strain twice, the second time through a fine cloth; a gritty horchata is the most common mistake, and that silky texture is what you're after.
In Lagos, ewa agoyin is the breakfast you buy from a woman with a big cooler of soft, mashed beans and a second pot of almost-black pepper sauce glistening with palm oil. The name points to the Agoyin, people from neighbouring Togo and Benin who made the dish famous in Lagos markets, and it is eaten with soft, chewy agege bread or fried plantain. The beans are the small, naturally sweet brown 'honey beans' (ewa oloyin), cooked until they collapse. The sauce is the star: dried chillies and onions fried slowly in palm oil until deep brown, smoky and slightly bitter-sweet. Chef's tip: don't rush the sauce; the onions need to go from soft to very dark brown slowly over a medium-low heat, which is where the smoky depth comes from.
Gaziantep gave Turkey this hearty soup, named after Ezo, a bride from a village near the city whose sad story is still told in folk songs. Unlike the smooth mercimek soup, ezogelin keeps some texture: red lentils, bulgur and a little rice simmer together with tomato and red pepper paste until thick and soft, and plenty of dried mint goes in at the end. In southeast Turkey it is a winter staple, eaten in the morning and as a light supper with bread and a squeeze of lemon. It thickens as it stands, so add a splash of water when you reheat it. Chef's tip: rub the dried mint between your palms over the pot to release its oils just before you serve.
Born in the 1950s in Chaclacayo, just east of Lima, this rotisserie chicken has grown into a national obsession, with its own holiday on the third Sunday of July and a pollería on almost every block. The bird is marinated in soy sauce, lime, garlic, cumin and ají panca, then roasted until the skin is lacquered and dark. At home a hot oven does the job, and the meal is not complete without chips, a simple salad and a jar of creamy green ají sauce. Chef's tip: dry the skin well and leave the chicken uncovered in the fridge overnight after marinating; it roasts up much crisper.
Fabada is the great midday stew of Asturias, on Spain's green, rainy north coast, eaten in winter at long lunches in village casas de comida and cider houses, usually followed by a quiet afternoon. Big, buttery fabes (Asturian white beans) cook slowly with the compango: smoked Asturian chorizo, morcilla, pork belly and lacón (cured pork shoulder). The beans should end up creamy inside and whole outside, in a thick, orange broth coloured by the chorizo. Large dried white beans such as judión or butter beans are the closest substitute if you can't find fabes. Chef's tip: make it the day before; it thickens and tastes better after a night in the fridge.
Yuba is the thin skin that forms on soy milk as it heats, and in Kyoto and the temple town of Nikko it is a delicacy in its own right. Workshops in Kyoto's old streets have made it for centuries for monks' shojin ryori, the Buddhist vegetarian cuisine that relied on it for protein. Fresh yuba is soft, creamy and faintly sweet, and the first sheets of the day, eaten warm with a drop of soy, are prized above all. It needs patience rather than skill: just a wide pan, gentle heat and good soy milk. Serve as a starter with wasabi soy, or roll the sheets and slice them. Chef's tip: use unsweetened soy milk with at least 7% protein (check the label). Thin supermarket drinks won't form a skin.
Provoleta is the first thing off the grill at an Argentine asado: a thick round of provolone-style cheese, invented by Italian immigrants in Buenos Aires, cooked in a small iron pan or straight on the grate until the outside forms a golden crust and the inside turns molten. It comes to the table bubbling, sprinkled with oregano and chilli flakes and drizzled with chimichurri, to scoop up with crusty bread. Many provolones use animal rennet, so check the label and choose one made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: chill the cheese well before cooking; cold cheese forms a crust before the middle melts and runs.
Holvaitar is one of the oldest sweets of Bukhara: flour slowly roasted in butter until it smells like toasted nuts, then cooked with a sugar syrup into a soft, spoonable halva and topped with walnuts. Bukharan families make it for Navruz in March, for the 'Thursday' remembrance meals, and for women after childbirth, served warm in small bowls with green tea. It is closer to a pudding than to the brittle sesame halva sold in the bazaar. Chef's tip: patience at the roasting stage is everything; stop when the flour is the colour of milky coffee — paler tastes raw, darker turns bitter.
Holubtsi, 'little doves', are the cabbage rolls of Ukrainian family feasts, made by the trayful for weddings, christenings and Christmas in homes from Lviv to Poltava. This version contains pork: tender cabbage leaves wrap a mix of pork and beef mince, rice, onion and carrot, and the rolls bake slowly in a tomato and soured cream sauce. Serve with more soured cream and dill. Chef's tip: core the cabbage and simmer the whole head, peeling off leaves as they soften; they come away without tearing.
Hokkaido grows most of Japan's sweetcorn, and in late summer roadside stands around Sapporo and Furano sell cobs so sweet people eat them raw. Butter corn is how the island turns that harvest into a side dish: kernels hissing in a hot pan with Hokkaido's other pride, butter, and finished with soy sauce until the edges catch. You'll find it as a ramen topping, a beer snack in izakaya and a bento filler. Serve it hot beside grilled vegetables or rice. Chef's tip: let the kernels sit in the pan without stirring for a minute at a time. A few browned, almost toasted kernels give the dish its nutty, popcorn-like smell.
No children's birthday party in Australia, and in New Zealand too, is complete without a plate of fairy bread, a tradition going back about a hundred years. Soft white bread is spread with butter and pressed face-down into a pile of hundreds and thousands, the tiny round coloured sprinkles, then cut into triangles. It's sweet, crunchy, buttery and gloriously bright, and children love making it as much as eating it. Many sprinkles are coloured with insect-based carmine (E120) or glazed with shellac (E904); for a vegetarian plate, choose a brand that uses neither. Chef's tip: use soft, spreadable butter right to the edges; it's the glue that holds every sprinkle.
Fakes (say 'fah-KES') is the weekday soup of Greek homes, often made on a Wednesday or Friday, the traditional fasting days. Small brown lentils are simmered with onion, garlic, carrot, tomato and bay until thick and soft, then brightened at the table with red wine vinegar. It is cheap, filling and ready in well under an hour. Greeks eat it with olives, a wedge of feta for those who eat dairy, raw onion and bread. Chef's tip: add the vinegar off the heat just before eating, not while it cooks; boiling it is the usual mistake and flattens the sharp lift it is meant to give.
Faloodeh is the summer treat of Shiraz: thin rice noodles frozen in a rosewater syrup to make an icy, crunchy, chewy sorbet, sold in ice-cream shops across the city and in Tehran on hot evenings. Each glass is finished at the counter with a squeeze of fresh lime and, for many, a spoon of sour cherry syrup. It is very different from Indian falooda, which is a creamy milk drink; this one is dairy-free, sharp, floral and refreshing. Chef's tip: scrape the mixture with a fork every 30 minutes while it freezes, so you get snowy crystals rather than a solid block.
Hokey pokey is what New Zealanders call honeycomb toffee, and vanilla ice cream full of crunchy little nuggets of it has been the country's best-loved flavour since the mid-twentieth century; it's scooped into cones at dairies and beaches from Auckland to Invercargill. The honeycomb is a bubbling golden syrup toffee that foams up when bicarbonate of soda goes in and sets glassy and light. Folded through a rich no-churn vanilla base, it stays crunchy at first and slowly turns chewy and toffee-like. Chef's tip: don't stir the sugar once it starts to melt; swirl the pan instead, or it will crystallise and turn grainy.
Fara is what a Chhattisgarhi kitchen does with yesterday's rice: it is kneaded with rice flour and hot water into a soft dough, rolled into little fingers, steamed and then tossed in a crackling tadka. Served at teatime or packed for long bus journeys, it is soft and chewy inside with spots of crispness from the pan. Some families spoon it into a thin, tangy curry instead, but the dry tempered version is the one sold in Raipur's snack corners. Chef's tip: knead the dough while it is still hot from the water; cold rice dough cracks and the fara split as they steam.
Shingara is Bengal's samosa, and every Kolkata sweet shop fries a batch for the evening tea crowd. It differs from the North Indian kind in small, important ways: the pastry is flecked with nigella seeds, the potatoes are diced rather than mashed, and in winter the filling gets cauliflower florets, fried peanuts and a few raisins, all tempered with panch phoron. The shape is a tall cone with a tight pleated top, so it stands upright on the plate. Chef's tip: dice the potato small (1 cm) and cook it only until just tender; mushy potato turns the filling into mash and loses that Bengali bite.
Fårikål has been voted Norway's national dish, and on the last Thursday of September families from Bergen to Tromsø hold Fårikålens festdag, when the new season's lamb meets the autumn cabbage harvest. There are only a handful of ingredients: bone-in lamb, wedges of white cabbage and a generous pouch of whole black peppercorns, layered in a heavy pot and left to simmer until the meat slides off the bone and the cabbage turns sweet and silky. It is eaten with plain boiled potatoes and, in many homes, lingonberry jam. The thing that ruins it is drowning the pot: add only a little water, because the cabbage releases plenty of its own juice. Chef's tip: tie the peppercorns in a muslin bag so you get their warmth without crunching on them, and make it a day ahead; it tastes even better reheated.
Farinata is a thin, golden chickpea-flour pancake sold by the slice from wood-fired ovens in the sciamadde (old bakeries) of Genoa's port district, where people eat it hot, on paper, with black pepper. It is just chickpea flour, water, olive oil and salt, with a crisp top and edges and a soft, custardy middle. In Nice it is called socca, in Livorno cecina. Start the batter 4 hours ahead (or the night before): resting is essential. Chef's tip: heat the oiled tin in the oven before pouring in the batter; the sizzle sets the base at once and gives crisp, lacy edges.
Hogao (or guiso) is the base and topping of Colombian home cooking, from Antioquia to Cali: ripe tomatoes and long spring onions (cebolla larga) cooked slowly in oil with garlic and cumin until soft and jammy. It is spooned over patacones, arepas, boiled potatoes and yuca, stirred into beans and rice, and served in a little bowl at the table. Chef's tip: cook it low and slow; a fast, hot hogao tastes raw and sharp, while a patient one turns sweet.
Fasolada is sometimes called the national dish of Greece, and it is the soup that fed families through winters and long Lenten fasts. It is humble and filling: small white beans simmered slowly with carrot, celery, onion and tomato until the broth turns thick and creamy, then finished with a generous pour of raw olive oil. On a cold weekday it is dinner on its own, eaten with olives, pickled peppers, raw onion and bread. Soak the beans the night before. Chef's tip: let it simmer gently with the lid ajar and stir now and then so some beans break and thicken the broth; boiling it hard is the common mistake that splits the beans and leaves the soup thin.
Fasole bătută, 'beaten beans', is the fasting-day spread of Romania: on Christmas Eve and through Lent, plates of it appear in homes from Bucharest to the monasteries of Bucovina. Soft white beans are mashed smooth with garlic and oil, then crowned with a tangle of slow-fried onions stained red with paprika. It is spread thickly on bread, or served beside pickles and mămăligă. Chef's tip: beat the beans while they are still warm; cold beans turn stiff and pasty, and a common mistake is adding too little liquid, so loosen with a splash of cooking water until the purée is light and fluffy.
This domed green cake sits in every Swedish konditori window and is the cake for name days, birthdays and the last week of September, which Swedes call Prinsesstårtans vecka. It was first written down in the 1930s by Jenny Åkerström, cookery teacher to three young Swedish princesses, and they adored it. Under the smooth marzipan lie airy sponge layers, raspberry jam, thick vanilla custard and a tall mound of whipped cream. Shop versions often set the cream with gelatine; here the custard is firmed with cornflour and the cream with a little mascarpone, so it is fully vegetarian and still slices cleanly. Chef's tip: assemble the cake the day before you need the custard and sponge, but cover it with marzipan only a few hours before serving; marzipan sweats in the fridge overnight.
Hodu gwaja (호두과자) were first sold at Cheonan station in South Chungcheong in the 1930s, and the town's walnut orchards still supply the pieces of nut hidden in every one. Today you find them in paper bags at every motorway service station in Korea: bite-sized, walnut-shaped cakes with a soft, eggy shell around sweet red bean paste and a chunk of walnut. They are made in a hinged cast-iron mould; a madeleine or Japanese takoyaki pan works too, though the shape will differ. Eat them warm, on the day. Chef's tip: heat the mould properly before the first batch; the first cakes are always the palest, so judge doneness by the colour of the later ones.
Fataya are the half-moon pastries sold in paper cones outside schools and at bus stops all over Dakar, and fried by the dozen at home for baptisms and Tabaski. The dough is soft and short, the filling is minced beef cooked with onion, garlic and a little chilli, and they come with a sharp onion-and-mustard sauce for dipping. The common mistake is overfilling, which makes them burst in the oil; a heaped teaspoon per small round is enough. Chef's tip: let the filling cool completely before you fill the dough, or the steam softens the pastry and it tears.
Every Lebanese bakery, or furn, sells fatayer bi sabanekh warm from the oven in the morning: soft three-cornered pies filled with spinach that has been salted and squeezed, then mixed with onion, sumac, lemon and olive oil until it is tart enough to make you pucker. They go into school lunch boxes, onto picnic blankets and onto every buffet at Lebanese parties, and they freeze well. The usual problem is a filling that leaks and makes the pies burst open; wring out the spinach hard and seal the seams firmly so they stay closed in the oven. Chef's tip: let the sumac, lemon and onion sit together for ten minutes before adding the spinach so the onion softens and loses its raw bite.
Fattet hummus belongs to Damascus, where breakfast restaurants in the old city serve it in deep bowls on Friday mornings, and it has spread to Beirut's Sunday tables too. The name comes from fatt, to break up, for the toasted flatbread at the bottom, which is topped with warm chickpeas in their broth, then a thick, garlicky sauce of yogurt and tahini, and finally sizzling pine nuts in butter or oil with a dust of paprika and cumin. The contrast is the point: crunchy and soft, hot and cool. Assembling it too early is the common mistake, since the bread soaks up the sauce and goes soggy; build it just before eating. Chef's tip: let the yogurt come to room temperature first, so it doesn't cool the chickpeas down too much and the bowl stays warm.
Feteer meshaltet comes from the villages of the Nile Delta, in Sharqia, Menoufia and around, where it is baked for weddings, feast days and for guests, and sent home with visitors in a cloth. A soft dough is stretched paper-thin, brushed with lots of ghee or butter and folded over and over into a round that bakes into dozens of crisp, flaky layers. Eat it warm, torn with your hands, dipped in honey or 'asal eswed (sugar-cane molasses) or with white cheese and olives. Chef's tip: let the dough balls rest in butter until they feel loose and silky; dough that hasn't relaxed tears when you stretch it, and torn dough is the most common reason a feteer comes out tough.
Hinava is the dish Kadazandusun families set out at Kaamatan, Sabah's harvest festival in May, and on weekend tables in Kota Kinabalu and Penampang. Strips of raw mackerel are soaked in sour lime juice, then tossed with sliced shallots, ginger, red chilli and grated seed of bambangan, a wild mango, which adds a musky tang. The result is sharp, clean and crunchy, with firm, pearly fish. Eat it as a starter or alongside rice and grilled meat. Chef's tip: slice the fish very thinly and evenly so the lime firms each strip the same way, and season with salt only at the end.
In Rio de Janeiro, feijoada has its own days: Wednesdays and Saturdays, when botecos and restaurants put the big pots on and lunch stretches into the afternoon. Black beans simmer slowly with carne seca (salt-dried beef), salted pork ribs, smoky sausages and bacon until the broth is thick, dark and glossy. The full spread, feijoada completa, comes with white rice, garlicky shredded couve, crunchy farofa and slices of orange to freshen the palate. Our vegetarian feijoada covers the meat-free version; this is the classic. Start a day ahead, because the salted meats must soak. Chef's tip: mash a ladleful of cooked beans with the fried onion and garlic and stir it back in; it thickens the broth naturally.
Hideg meggyleves is a chilled sour cherry soup served as a starter in Hungary at the height of summer, from family lunches in the cherry-growing villages around Pest county to the terraces of Balaton restaurants. Sour cherries simmer briefly with sugar, cinnamon and cloves, then the soup is thickened with sour cream and served icy cold, pink and gently tangy. Some cooks add a splash of red wine for grown-ups. It is eaten before the main course, not as dessert, though no one complains if you have it after. Chef's tip: chill it for at least 3 hours; the flavour rounds out and the spices soften as it cools. A common mistake is boiling it after the cream goes in, which curdles it.
In Andong, the old Confucian town of North Gyeongsang, the scholars of the yangban class were said to want the food from jesa, the rite offered to ancestors, without waiting for a rite to come round, so they cooked the same dishes and called them heotjesatbap (헛제삿밥), 'fake rite rice'. Restaurants by Andong's dam still serve it: a bowl of rice to be mixed with brown, white and green namul and seasoned with soy sauce, never chilli, because ritual food avoids red pepper and garlic. The full table includes grilled fish and beef skewers; this vegetarian version keeps the vegetables and tofu jeon that make up most of it. Chef's tip: cook each namul separately with only salt, soy or sesame, so each keeps its own taste and colour when you mix the bowl.
Balchão started as a way to keep the catch from the Goan monsoon season: prawns cooked down in a fierce red masala with vinegar and sugar until they keep like a pickle. In Goan homes a jar sits in the fridge to spoon beside rice and dal, and a fresh batch is served as a main curry on Sundays. Its taste is bold: hot, sharp and sweet all at once. Chef's tip: fry the masala slowly until the oil separates and it turns a deep brick colour; undercooked balchão tastes raw and vinegary.
Fërgesë is the dish people in Tirana order at lunchtime in a small clay pot, still bubbling, with a basket of bread for dipping. Soft fried peppers and tomatoes are folded through gjizë, Albania's fresh salted curd cheese, then baked until the top spots golden. The meatless version with peppers is the everyday one across central Albania; it is rich, tangy and gently spicy. Ricotta mixed with a little feta is a good stand-in for gjizë outside Albania. Chef's tip: cook the tomatoes down until thick before the cheese goes in; a watery fërgesë that splits in the oven is the usual mistake.
In the rice paddies and forests of Gilan on the Caspian coast, fesenjan is cooked with duck or chicken in autumn, when walnuts are freshly cracked and pomegranates ripen; across Iran it now marks Yalda night in December and big family dinners. Ground walnuts are toasted, then simmered slowly with pomegranate molasses until their oil rises and the sauce turns almost chocolate-brown, thick and glossy, tangy first and gently sweet after. Chicken thighs braise in it until they are spoon-tender. Serve it over saffron chelow rice with a crisp tahdig. Chef's tip: stir the walnut paste over a low heat for a full hour; the longer, slower cook is what darkens the sauce and brings the walnut oil to the surface.
Henakisoa sy voanjobory is a highland dish from the countryside around Antsirabe and Fianarantsoa, cooked for family gatherings: pork simmered for a long time with Bambara groundnuts, a hard, round pulse that turns creamy and nutty, until the meat is tender and the beans have thickened the sauce. This dish contains pork. It is eaten with rice and a fresh tomato salad. The mistake is not soaking the dried pulses, which then never soften; soak them overnight. Chef's tip: if you can't find Bambara groundnuts, black-eyed beans or borlotti give a similar result in less time.
Satay smoke drifts along Javanese streets every evening, where sellers fan charcoal grills set up on the pavement and serve skewers with peanut sauce, rice cakes and sliced shallot. Tofu and tempeh are naturals for it: they drink up a sweet-savoury marinade of palm sugar, tamari, coriander and garlic and pick up dark, sticky char at the edges. The sauce here is cooked until smooth and glossy, sweeter and milder than the grainy dressing on gado-gado, made for dipping. Chef's tip: soak the bamboo skewers for 30 minutes and brush the satay with marinade as it grills — the sugar caramelises into the dark, slightly burnt edges that make satay taste like satay.
A big sizzling griddle of boiled fresh beans and vegetables (peas, pigeon peas, black-eyed beans, soya beans, kidney beans, corn, cassava, sweet potato, baby potatoes and roasted plantain) tossed with sesame seeds, onions and a green chilli, ginger and garlic paste. It's filling, colourful and feeds a crowd at a barbecue. Serve sizzling hot straight from the tawa.
Order meze in an Istanbul meyhane and haydari is usually among the first small plates to land: very thick strained yogurt beaten with crumbled white cheese, garlic, dill and mint, then crowned with a drizzle of oil warmed with dried mint and chilli flakes. It is eaten with bread, beside roasted vegetables or with crisp börek, and it takes minutes once you have the yogurt. The mistake to avoid is using thin pouring yogurt, which gives you a runny sauce rather than a dip that holds its shape. Chef's tip: use Greek-style strained yogurt, or hang plain yogurt in a cloth for an hour, and check the beyaz peynir or feta is made with vegetarian rennet.
Walk through downtown Cairo in the evening and you will smell hawawshi before you see it: round baladi breads split open, packed with minced beef, onion, green chilli and warm spices, then baked until the bread turns crisp and the fat from the meat soaks into the crumb. Street stalls sell it wrapped in paper with pickles and tahini; at home it is a quick Friday supper. Pitta works well if you can't find baladi bread. The mistake most people make is packing in too thick a layer of meat, so the bread burns before the middle is cooked; keep it about 1 cm thick. Chef's tip: squeeze the grated onion in a sieve before mixing it in, or the filling turns wet and the bread goes soggy.
Hilsa, ilish, is the national fish of Bangladesh, and during the monsoon, when the shoals swim up the Padma and Meghna rivers, families in Dhaka and Chandpur cook it almost daily. Shorshe ilish is the most loved way: steaks of the rich, silvery fish gently simmered in a paste of ground yellow and black mustard seed, green chillies and mustard oil until the sauce turns sharp, creamy and nose-tingling. Eat it with plain white rice and nothing else. Hilsa is very bony, so warn guests and eat slowly; salmon steaks are an easier, less traditional swap. The common mistake is boiling the sauce hard after the mustard paste goes in, which turns it bitter. Chef's tip: grind the mustard seeds with a pinch of salt and a green chilli, and let the paste rest for 10 minutes before cooking; this tames the bitterness.
'Water-boiled fish' is Sichuan humour at its driest, because what arrives at the table in Chongqing and Chengdu restaurants is a great basin of silky fish slices half hidden under a red sea of chillies and Sichuan pepper, still crackling from a ladle of smoking oil poured over at the last moment. Underneath is a savoury broth of chilli bean paste with soft bean sprouts and celery. It is a dish for sharing with friends over beer or tea: you fish out the slices with chopsticks and leave the oil behind, as everyone does. Plain rice is essential, and something cooling such as smacked cucumber helps. Chef's tip: coat the fish in egg white and cornflour and give it no more than three minutes in the broth; the coating keeps each slice tender and stops it breaking up.
Shukto opens a traditional Bengali meal: a mild, slightly bitter stew of bitter gourd, raw banana, sweet potato, drumsticks and aubergine, eaten with the first mouthfuls of rice to wake up the palate. The vegetables are fried, then simmered with a paste of mustard and poppy seeds and finished with milk and a spoonful of ghee, so the bitterness is balanced by a creamy, faintly sweet sauce. It is a dish of West Bengal's home kitchens, cooked especially in spring. Chef's tip: fry the bitter gourd separately until well browned and add it at the end; this keeps its bitterness pleasant and stops it spreading through the whole pot.
Empanada gallega is the great pie of Galicia, baked in big trays and sold by the slice at every fiesta, market and bakery, and carried on picnics and pilgrimages to Santiago. A thin, crisp, bread-like crust (made with the olive oil from cooking the filling, so it's golden and full of flavour) encloses a moist filling based on a slow-cooked 'zaragallada' of onions and peppers with sweet pimentón. Tuna and pork are the usual fillings; this vegetarian version keeps the classic sofrito and adds hard-boiled eggs and green olives. Serve warm or cold, with a green salad. Chef's tip: drain the filling well and use some of its paprika-coloured oil in the dough; that is the Galician secret that makes the crust golden and savoury and ties the pie together.
Gazpacho is the cold soup of Andalusia, drunk from a glass or eaten from a bowl through the scorching summers of Seville and Córdoba. It began as a farm workers' meal of bread, oil, garlic and vinegar pounded in a wooden bowl; tomatoes and peppers came later and turned it into the bright red, refreshing soup we know. Ripe tomatoes, cucumber, green pepper, garlic, sherry vinegar and plenty of olive oil are blended until silky and chilled hard. Serve it with tiny dice of cucumber, pepper and onion and a few crunchy croutons. Chef's tip: add the olive oil last, in a thin stream with the blender running; it emulsifies the soup to a creamy, pale-orange texture instead of leaving a slick of oil on top.
Espinacas con garbanzos is one of the great tapas of Seville, served in little earthenware dishes in the bars around the cathedral and the Triana market. It carries the city's Moorish past in its spices: cumin, smoked paprika and a little vinegar, with a sauce thickened by a paste of garlic and bread fried in olive oil, the old Andalusian trick called a majado. Earthy chickpeas, soft spinach and a sauce rich enough to mop up with bread make it a filling vegan supper too. It is traditional in Seville during Lent. Chef's tip: pound the fried bread and garlic with the spices and vinegar into a thick paste before it goes into the pan; this majado is what gives the dish its smoky, velvety sauce, so don't skip it.
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