Peanut-crusted potato cutlets
Diamond-shaped cutlets of potato and sweet potato with fresh coconut and roasted peanuts, dipped in a cassava-flour batter and coated in coarse peanut powder, then fried until golden. They're crunchy outside, soft and gently sweet inside. Serve hot with coconut and tomato chutney (use a farari one without onion or garlic). Makes 20.
A new country every day, from every cuisine on the site.
When the clam beds of the Zuari and Mandovi rivers are full after the monsoon, Goan kitchens cook tisryo (clams) as sukhe, meaning dry: no gravy, just shells coated in a coarse, spiced coconut masala. It is a Saturday-lunch side dish with fish curry and rice, eaten with the fingers, picking each clam out of its half-shell. Chef's tip: grind the coconut masala without water and only briefly, so it stays coarse and clings to the shells.
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.
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.
Pozole verde is the green pozole of Guerrero, where Thursday is pozole day and families gather round big bowls of it in Chilpancingo and Acapulco. The broth gets its colour and body from tomatillos, green chillies, coriander and toasted pumpkin seeds (pepitas) blended into a creamy sauce, and it is full of plump, chewy hominy (maíz pozolero), the nixtamalised corn kernels that open like flowers as they cook. This vegetarian version swaps the usual pork for oyster mushrooms and chickpeas, which give the soup a meaty bite. Serve it with the garnishes in little bowls so everyone builds their own: shredded cabbage, radish, onion, oregano, lime and crisp tostadas. Chef's tip: toast the pumpkin seeds only until they puff and start to pop; if they turn brown the whole pot tastes bitter and goes khaki instead of bright green.
Tkemali is Georgia's table sauce, made in Samegrelo, Guria and Imereti from sour cherry plums. Green tkemali comes from unripe plums in late spring; the red one is made at the end of summer, when the plums colour and every family cooks a big pot to bottle for the winter. It goes with almost everything: boiled potatoes, beans, fried courgettes, mchadi and cheese. Traditionally it is flavoured with ombalo (pennyroyal), which is hard to buy, so dried mint stands in here. A common mistake is boiling the herbs and garlic for too long, which turns the sauce dull and brown; they go in only for the last few minutes. Chef's tip: if your plums are sweet supermarket ones, add a squeeze of lemon; tkemali should be properly sour.
In Jalisco and Guerrero, a pot of red pozole means a crowd: it is made for Independence night on 15 September, for Christmas and New Year, and in Guerrero towns every Thursday is 'jueves pozolero'. Big, chewy kernels of hominy and tender pork simmer in a broth coloured with dried guajillo and ancho chillies, and the bowl is finished at the table with crunchy cabbage, radish, onion, lime and a rub of dried oregano between your palms. It tastes even better the next day, so make the whole pot. Chef's tip: strain the chilli purée through a sieve into the pot, so the broth is silky and free of chilli skins.
Pounded yam, iyan in Yoruba, is the pride of Ekiti and Oyo tables, where it is still pounded in a big wooden mortar on Sundays and at celebrations, the thud of the pestle carrying down the street. Boiled white yam is beaten until it becomes a smooth, elastic, slightly sticky dough that is torn off by hand and dipped into egusi, efo riro or okra soup. At home most people now use a stand mixer or food processor instead of a mortar. It has to be true African white yam (puna yam), not orange sweet potato, which some shops label as yam. Chef's tip: pound or mix the yam while it is still very hot; as it cools the starch sets and it turns lumpy instead of stretchy.
The tlayuda is the late-night street food of Oaxaca City: a huge, thin, slightly leathery corn tortilla spread with black bean paste and asiento (unrefined pork lard), scattered with quesillo (Oaxaca string cheese) and cabbage, folded and toasted over charcoal until crisp and smoky. This vegetarian version swaps the asiento for browned butter, which gives the same toasty richness, and is topped with avocado, tomato and salsa. Real tlayudas are about 30 cm across and hard to find outside Oaxaca; use the largest corn tortillas you can get, or flour tortillas of 25 cm (then they are not gluten free). Quesillo is made with animal rennet in Oaxaca; for a vegetarian dish use low-moisture mozzarella or a string cheese made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: spread the beans thinly; a thick layer makes the tortilla soggy and stops it crisping.
Tortelli di zucca are the Christmas Eve dish of Mantua, in Lombardy, where the dense orange pumpkins of the Po plain are roasted and mashed with crushed amaretti biscuits, spicy fruit mostarda and hard cheese. The filling is sweet, salty and a little hot all at once, a taste that goes back to the Renaissance Gonzaga court. They are served simply, with melted butter, sage and more cheese. Chef's tip: roast the pumpkin rather than boil it, and make the filling the day before; a dry, rested filling is easy to pipe and the flavours blend.
Poulet DG, short for "poulet directeur général", earned its name in Yaoundé in the 1980s as a dish rich enough for the boss; now it is the centrepiece at weddings and Sunday lunches across Cameroon. Chicken is browned and simmered with tomato, peppers, carrots and green beans, then fried ripe plantain is folded in at the end, so every mouthful is savoury and sweet. The mistake is stirring the plantain in too early, when it breaks up and goes mushy; add it in the last few minutes. Chef's tip: choose plantains that are yellow with lots of black spots, ripe enough to caramelise but still firm.
Across Burkina Faso and northern Côte d'Ivoire, "bicycle chicken" is the lean village chicken once carried to market strapped to the back of a bike; in Ouagadougou and Bobo-Dioulasso it is grilled whole at open-air stalls in the evening and eaten with fries, attiéké or a chunk of bread. The birds are smaller and firmer than supermarket chicken, so a small free-range or poussin works best at home. The mistake is grilling a whole chicken over high heat from the start, which burns the outside before the inside is safe; start it on indirect heat or in the oven, then char it. Chef's tip: spatchcock the bird so it cooks evenly and fast.
Pouding chômeur ('unemployed person's pudding') was created in Québec during the Depression of the 1930s, from the cheapest ingredients: flour, sugar, a little butter and hot syrup. As it bakes, the light batter rises through the syrup, which settles underneath as a rich caramel sauce. Today it's made with maple syrup and is a fixture of Québec sugar shacks (cabanes à sucre) in March and April, and of family Sunday dinners. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream. Chef's tip: pour the syrup on boiling hot and spoon the batter over in blobs; never stir them together.
Potjiekos is the long, sociable cook of South African weekends: a cast-iron three-legged pot (potjie) sits over a small fire for hours while friends talk around it, and the rule is that once the layers are in, nobody stirs. The lamb is browned at the bottom, then potatoes, carrots, butternut, green beans and mushrooms are stacked on top so the hardest vegetables are nearest the heat. A heavy casserole on the hob or in the oven works just as well. Some cooks add a glass of red wine or beer; this version uses stock only, and you may swap 150 ml of it for wine if you like. The mistake is stirring the pot, which turns the neat layers into mush. Chef's tip: add only a little liquid; the vegetables give off their own juice as they steam.
Tocăniță is the everyday stew of Romanian home cooking, and the mushroom version is a fixture of the Orthodox fasting days, when Transylvanian cooks use forest mushrooms gathered in the Apuseni hills and city cooks use button mushrooms from the market. Onions, garlic, tomato, white wine and thyme cook down into a thick, glossy sauce, without the sour cream and paprika of a Hungarian paprikás. It is always eaten with hot mămăligă and a spoon of the sauce over the top. Chef's tip: brown the mushrooms in batches in a hot pan; crowding them is the usual mistake, and they then stew grey in their own water instead of turning golden.
No Slovenian Easter or Christmas table is complete without potica, a yeasted dough rolled thin around a honeyed walnut filling and baked in a fluted ring mould called a potičnik. When sliced, each piece shows a tight spiral of pale dough and dark nuts. Families in Ljubljana and across Carniola argue about the best filling, but walnut with honey is the classic one, eaten with coffee from Christmas morning until the tin is empty. Unlike a braided Romanian cozonac, the beauty is all in the thin, even swirl. Chef's tip: spread the filling no thicker than the dough and roll it up tightly; a loose roll or a thick layer leaves a gap between dough and filling once baked, the most common potica fault.
Adobo is the dish Filipinos call national, cooked in some form in nearly every home from Ilocos down to Mindanao, and the meat versions are what most people know. In Catholic households, though, Holy Week and the Fridays of Lent call for a meatless table, and adobong tokwa (tofu adobo) is the answer many families reach for. Firm tofu is fried until it has a golden skin, then simmered in a reduced sauce of cane vinegar, soy sauce, a whole head of garlic, bay leaves and whole peppercorns until the sauce clings, sour and salty with a little sweetness. It tastes even better the next day and is eaten with mounds of plain rice. Chef's tip: press the tofu well and fry it properly; a dry, golden crust is what soaks up the adobo sauce instead of turning it watery.
Ohn no khao swe is the comforting coconut noodle soup that Burmese families serve for weekend lunches and for crowds at donation feasts, especially around Mandalay and Yangon. Wheat noodles sit in a rich, mildly spiced coconut broth thickened with chickpea flour, and everyone adds their own toppings: lime, sliced raw onion, chilli flakes, coriander and crispy fried noodles. It's normally made with chicken; tofu and chickpeas take its place here. Chef's tip: stir the coconut milk in at the end and keep it at a gentle simmer; a hard boil makes the coconut split and turn oily.
Poke (say 'POH-keh', meaning 'to cut into pieces') is Hawaii's everyday snack: in local markets and at the deli counters of Honolulu, raw cubed fish is tossed with soy, sesame oil, sweet Maui onion, seaweed and inamona (roasted candlenut). Tofu poke has become a standard option at those same counters, and it's how this recipe is written; the original uses raw tuna (ahi) instead of tofu. Serve it as a pūpū (snack) or over rice. Chef's tip: press the tofu well and dry it; firm, dry cubes soak up the dressing instead of watering it down.
Amok is the dish Cambodians proudly serve to visitors, especially around Siem Reap and the Tonlé Sap, where it is traditionally made with freshwater fish. This home version keeps everything that makes it amok, the fragrant kroeung, thick coconut cream and a beaten egg that sets it into a soft, spoonable custard, but fills the banana-leaf cups with firm tofu and sweet pumpkin instead. Noni leaves (slok ngor) usually line the cups; young spinach gives the same green layer. Serve it with plain jasmine rice for a special dinner. Chef's tip: stir the custard in one direction only while you mix the coconut cream and egg; Cambodian cooks say this keeps it silky, and it also stops air bubbles that leave holes once steamed.
Posta negra comes from the Caribbean coast, from Cartagena's old walled city and the towns around it, and it is what a family cooks for a birthday or a Sunday when the grandparents visit. A whole piece of beef is browned, then braised slowly with onion, a little cola-coloured panela (unrefined cane sugar) and Worcestershire-style sauce until the sauce turns nearly black and glossy, sweet and tangy at once. It is sliced and served with coconut rice, fried plantain and a tomato and onion salad. The most common mistake is letting the panela burn when caramelising: it should turn a deep mahogany and smell like toffee, not acrid smoke. Chef's tip: slice the meat across the grain only after it has rested, then return the slices to the sauce so they soak it up.
Portokalopita is a Greek orange cake with an unusual trick: instead of flour, it uses dried, torn fillo pastry, which soaks up an orange yogurt batter and then a hot orange syrup. It became a favourite in Greek homes in the 1990s and is now baked for coffee mornings, Sunday visits and village festivals across the country. The texture is like a moist sponge with crisp edges, very orangey and not too sweet. It keeps beautifully, so it is perfect for making the day before. Chef's tip: dry the fillo properly until crisp; using it soft is the usual mistake and gives a heavy, gummy cake.
Porotos granados is what central Chile cooks when the fresh beans arrive in late summer: tender cranberry beans shelled at the kitchen table, simmered with pumpkin until it collapses into a thick orange sauce, then finished with grated corn and basil. Families in the Valle Central eat it on hot days, often with pebre and a tomato salad; when the corn is blended in larger amounts it's called 'con mazamorra'. It's hearty but fresh-tasting, and fully plant-based. Chef's tip: add the corn only in the last 10 minutes; it's there to thicken and sweeten, and overcooked it turns floury.
In Pampanga, tocino is breakfast: thin slices of pork shoulder in a sweet, garlicky marinade, fried until the sugar caramelises at the edges, then served with garlic fried rice and a fried egg as 'tosilog'. Shop tocino is often bright pink from curing salts; this home version leaves those out, so it is a sweet marinated pork rather than a true cure, gets its warm red colour from annatto and paprika, and must be kept in the fridge and cooked within 3 days (or frozen). Look for pork with a little fat running through it so it stays juicy. Chef's tip: start it in a splash of water; the pork simmers through first, then the sugar glazes once the water is gone, so it doesn't burn before it's cooked.
Sisig comes from Angeles City in Pampanga, where cooks turned pig's head and ears into a sizzling, sour, peppery bar snack that is now on almost every Filipino menu. This home version is pork, using pork belly (and pig's ears if your butcher has them) that is boiled, grilled until charred, then chopped finely and fried with onion, chilli and calamansi juice. It arrives at the table crackling on a hot cast-iron plate, often with a raw egg stirred in. Eat it with rice, or as pulutan with drinks; a cold calamansi juice works as well. Chef's tip: chop the pork small but not to mince; you want little crisp edges and chewy bits in every spoonful.
Pootharekulu ('coated sheets') come from Atreyapuram village in the Godavari district, where women make translucent rice-starch films by dipping a cloth in batter and wiping it over a hot, upturned clay pot. Those whisper-thin sheets are then layered with ghee and powdered sugar or jaggery and folded into neat parcels that melt on the tongue. True rekulu need the special pot and years of practice, so this home method spreads a very thin rice batter on an upturned wok or non-stick pan and peels off the dried film. Sheets can also be bought ready-made in Indian shops; then just do the filling. Chef's tip: work with the sheets dry; brush ghee on, never sugar syrup, or they turn soggy and tear.
In Puducherry, the former French enclave on the Tamil coast, Creole families of mixed Tamil and French descent cook a fish curry that is softer and creamier than anything else along that shore. Assad is mild and pale, fragrant with fennel, pepper and curry leaves, with the fish poached in thin coconut milk and finished with a thick, rich pour. It is a Sunday-lunch and Christmas dish in these homes, eaten with plain rice or a crusty loaf from the town's bakeries. Chef's tip: add the thick coconut milk only at the very end and keep the curry below a boil, so it stays silky and white.
Töltött káposzta is the dish Hungarians make for Christmas and the wedding feasts of the countryside, a huge pot that tastes better each day. It is a pork dish: soured cabbage leaves are rolled around a filling of pork mince, rice, onion and paprika, then layered with chopped sauerkraut and smoked pork ribs or sausage and simmered for hours. It is served with a dollop of soured cream and bread. Chef's tip: look for whole soured cabbage heads (sold for this dish in Eastern European shops); if you cannot find them, blanch fresh savoy leaves and add extra sauerkraut.
Pom is Suriname's celebration dish, baked for birthdays and holidays in Paramaribo and by the Surinamese community in the Netherlands: a layer of grated pomtajer root (a type of taro) mixed with citrus juice, then a layer of chicken stewed with onion, tomato, nutmeg and pickled peppers, then more pomtajer, baked until the top is golden. It is usually eaten on a roll as a "broodje pom". The mistake is skipping the citrus: pomtajer must be mixed with orange or lime juice, which gives the dish its fragrance. Chef's tip: frozen grated pomtajer from Surinamese or Caribbean shops saves the hard grating; if you can't find it, use grated taro or a mix of taro and potato.
Polos is the tiny unripe jackfruit picked in the Western and Sabaragamuwa provinces long before it sweetens, and cooked low and slow it becomes one of the island's most loved festival curries, especially at Sinhala and Tamil New Year in April and at wedding lunches. The firm, pale flesh soaks up a very dark roasted curry powder, garlic, ginger, goraka (a smoky souring fruit) and coconut milk until it turns almost black-brown and tastes rich, sour and meaty. Fresh polos is hard to find abroad; tinned young green jackfruit in brine works well. A frequent mistake is not cooking it long enough, which leaves it squeaky; the pieces must be soft enough to break with a spoon. Chef's tip: oil your hands and knife before cutting fresh jackfruit; the sticky white sap washes off oiled skin but not dry skin.
Steaming bowls of this prawn soup land on almost every table in central Thailand, from riverside shophouses in Ayutthaya to family dinners in Bangkok, where it sits in the middle to be shared with rice and two or three other dishes. The broth is thin but loud: sour from lime, salty from fish sauce, hot from crushed bird's eye chillies, and perfumed by bruised lemongrass, galangal and torn makrut lime leaf, which flavour the soup but are left in the bowl. This is the clear style (nam sai) with a spoonful of roasted chilli paste for colour and a gentle sweetness; the creamy nam khon style adds evaporated milk, which we leave out to keep it dairy free. Serve it piping hot with plain jasmine rice. Chef's tip: simmer the prawn heads and shells for five minutes before anything else goes in, and the soup tastes of the sea rather than of water.
Along the Belgian coast, from Ostend to De Panne, tomaat-garnaal is the starter that tells you you are at the seaside: a hollowed raw tomato heaped with tiny, sweet North Sea grey shrimp in homemade mayonnaise, served with lettuce, lemon and often a few chips. The shrimp are caught and boiled on the boats, so they come ready-cooked and peeled. Because the dish has so few parts, everything depends on good ripe tomatoes and very fresh shrimp. The thing people often get wrong is drowning the shrimp in mayonnaise; use just enough to bind them so their sweetness comes through. Chef's tip: salt the hollowed tomatoes and turn them upside down for 10 minutes so they do not leak water onto the plate.
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.
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.
Pappu (dal) is the backbone of an Andhra meal, and tomato pappu is the one most Telugu households cook on an ordinary weekday. Toor dal is cooked with plenty of ripe tomatoes, onion, green chillies and a little tamarind, then mashed to a thick, rustic consistency and finished with a fierce garlic and red chilli popu (tempering). It's tangier and hotter than a North Indian dal, and it's mixed into hot rice with a spoon of ghee and eaten with avakaya pickle and a crisp fried vegetable. Chef's tip: mash the dal and tomatoes together with a whisk or a wooden mathu while hot; it gives the creamy, slightly rough texture that blending never does.
Rasam is the thin, sour, peppery broth that runs through every Tamil Nadu meal, poured over rice after sambar or sipped from a tumbler when you have a cold. This tomato version is the everyday kind: ripe tomatoes and tamarind simmered with crushed garlic, black pepper and cumin, then lifted with a tempering of mustard seeds, dried chilli and curry leaves. It's light, warming and ready in 25 minutes. Serve it with plain rice and a dry vegetable, or on its own in a cup. Chef's tip: once you add the spice mix, take the rasam off the heat as soon as it froths up; boiling it hard turns the flavour flat and the pepper harsh.
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.
Showing 36 of 10,569 recipes
Show more recipesPage 974 of 1,175
Indian
Italian
French
Chinese
Japanese
Mexican
Korean
Spanish
Persian
Georgian
Nigerian
Cameroonian
Canadian
South African
Romanian
Filipino
Burmese
Cambodian
Colombian
Greek
Chilean
Hungarian
Guyanese
Sri Lankan
Thai
Belgian
Peruvian
