Sharbats, lassis, juices and coolers with no alcohol. (485 recipes)
When watermelons are piled high in the markets of Jalisco and Sonora in summer, almost every taquería has a jar of bright pink agua de sandía next to the horchata. It needs only ripe watermelon, water, a squeeze of lime and a touch of sugar, and children love it. Chef's tip: a very ripe melon may need no sugar at all, so taste before you sweeten.
During the nine nights of posadas from 16 to 24 December, neighbours in central Mexico walk the streets singing for shelter, and the reward at the last door is a cup of steaming ponche ladled from a clay pot. Whole fruits, tejocotes, guavas, apple, prunes, sticks of sugarcane, simmer with hibiscus, cinnamon and piloncillo until the punch is fragrant and amber, and everyone fishes the soft fruit out with a spoon. This recipe is alcohol-free and good for all ages; some adults add a splash of rum to their own cup, but none is used here. Chef's tip: add the guavas late, as they collapse if cooked too long.
In the cold months, when guavas from Aguascalientes and Michoacán perfume the markets, street vendors in Mexico City ladle atole de guayaba from big steaming pots beside the tamal cart. Ripe guava is blended with milk, strained and thickened with cornflour into a pink, creamy, fragrant drink. It contains dairy. Chef's tip: add the blended guava only once the milk is thickened and off the boil, so the milk doesn't curdle.
Mexican market juice stalls make agua de melón with the ripest, most fragrant cantaloupes, and many cooks blend in the seeds and the soft pulp around them, which adds a creamy body and a nutty flavour. It's served in tall glasses on hot afternoons from Guanajuato to Veracruz and is a favourite with kids. Chef's tip: smell the stalk end of the melon before you buy it; if it smells sweet, the drink will too.
Vines of butterfly pea climb fences in gardens all over Thailand, and cafés from Bangkok to Krabi serve the flowers as an iced drink that changes colour at the table. The tea itself is mild and earthy, blue as ink; stirring in lime juice turns it violet and makes it tangy, which children love to watch. Chef's tip: the common mistake is mixing the lime in beforehand; serve the blue tea and lime separately so the colour change happens in the glass.
Every Thai garden seems to have a clump of pandan by the tap, and on hot days cooks across the country blitz a handful of leaves into this bright green drink sold at temple fairs and noodle shops. It tastes sweet, grassy and faintly of vanilla and basmati, and is said to cool the body. Fresh leaves give the best colour; frozen ones from Asian shops work well too. Chef's tip: the mistake is serving it unstrained or leaving it for hours; strain it twice through cloth and drink it the same day, as it fades and turns grey.
In April and May, when Ataulfo mangoes from Chiapas and Manila mangoes from Veracruz flood the markets, agua de mango becomes the drink of every comida corrida. It is thick, golden and very fruity, sharpened with lime. Chef's tip: use soft, fully ripe yellow mangoes with wrinkled skin; they need far less sugar and give a smooth, fibre-free drink.
Pink, warm and sweet, atole de fresa is a children's favourite in Mexico City and Irapuato, the strawberry capital of Guanajuato, sold in polystyrene cups alongside tamales for breakfast. Fresh strawberries are blended with milk and thickened with a little masa, which gives a gentle corn flavour under the fruit. It contains dairy. Chef's tip: blend the strawberries raw and add them at the end, so the drink keeps its bright colour.
Orzata was first made from barley (orzo), but in Liguria, Sardinia and Sicily it has long been made from almonds: a milky, sweet almond syrup, diluted with ice-cold water and drunk on hot summer afternoons in seaside bars and at home. Its gentle almond and orange-blossom flavour makes it a children's favourite. Contains nuts. Chef's tip: soak the blanched almonds in water for an hour before blending; they release more milk and the syrup is richer.
The marocchino was born in the bars of Alessandria in Piedmont, and it is now ordered all over northern Italy: a little glass dusted inside with cocoa, filled with an espresso and topped with milk foam and more cocoa, sometimes with a spoonful of chocolate sauce at the bottom. Its name comes from the brown colour of a leather called "marocchino" once used for hat bands. It is a mid-morning or afternoon treat. Contains caffeine. Chef's tip: dust the empty glass with cocoa before pouring the coffee in; it sticks to the hot glass and gives each sip a chocolate edge.
In Italian bars you can always ask for "un orzo": a hot drink made from roasted barley that looks like coffee and has a toasty, slightly sweet taste but no caffeine. During the war, when coffee was scarce, families drank it every morning, and today it is given to children, pregnant women and anyone avoiding caffeine. It can be made in a moka pot, served in a small cup like espresso or in a large one with milk. Barley contains gluten. Chef's tip: don't press the barley into the moka basket like coffee; packed tightly, it blocks the water and the pot hisses.
The bicerin ("little glass" in Piedmontese dialect) has been served since 1763 at the tiny Caffè al Bicerin opposite the Consolata church in Turin, where it was the drink that churchgoers had after fasting before Mass. It is three layers in a small glass: thick hot chocolate at the bottom, espresso in the middle and cold, lightly whipped cream on top, not stirred, so you taste each layer in turn. Contains caffeine. Chef's tip: pour the coffee and then the cream slowly over the back of a spoon so the layers sit on top of each other instead of mixing.
In Italy the cappuccino is strictly a breakfast drink, ordered at the bar counter with a cornetto before 11 in the morning, never after a meal. It is a single espresso topped with an equal amount of hot milk and a thick cap of velvety foam, named after the brown habits of Capuchin friars. Baristas in Turin and Trieste are famous for their thick, glossy microfoam. Contains caffeine, so it's not for children. Chef's tip: heat the milk only to about 65 °C, when the jug is too hot to hold for more than a second; hotter milk tastes cooked and the foam collapses.
Italian hot chocolate is not a milky drink but almost a pudding: thick enough to coat a spoon, made with real dark chocolate and cocoa thickened with a little starch. On cold winter afternoons in Turin, Florence and Perugia, families sit in historic cafés with a cup topped with whipped cream (con panna), dipping biscuits into it. Children love it. Chef's tip: mix the cornflour and cocoa with a little cold milk to a smooth paste first; dropped straight into hot milk, they form lumps.
After a big Seollal feast in Seoul, sujeonggwa comes out ice-cold in small bowls, dark red-brown and fragrant with cinnamon and ginger, with a soft dried persimmon and a few pine nuts floating in each one. It is the punch of the New Year season, made a day or two ahead and kept on a cold balcony. The cinnamon and ginger are boiled separately and then combined, which keeps each flavour clean. The common mistake is boiling the cinnamon too long or too hard: it turns bitter and cloudy, so keep it to a gentle simmer. Contains pine nuts. Chef's tip: soak the dried persimmons in the cooled punch only a few hours before serving, so they soften without falling apart.
Every Korean jjimjilbang (bathhouse) sells sikhye in little cans, and every grandmother makes a big pot of it before Seollal and Chuseok to sip after the heavy holiday meal, because it is believed to help digestion. Barley malt water and cooked rice are kept warm for several hours until enzymes turn the rice starch into sugar and the grains float up to the top, then the drink is boiled with ginger and chilled until icy. It is mild, lightly sweet and nutty, with soft rice grains to slurp. The usual mistake is letting it get too hot while it ferments: above about 65 °C the enzymes stop working and the grains never float. Contains barley (gluten). Chef's tip: use the rice cooker's 'keep warm' setting; it holds the perfect temperature on its own.
When the last black carrots of winter reach Punjabi and UP markets in February and March, kitchens start a jar of kanji. The carrots are cut into fingers, steeped in water with crushed mustard seed, salt and chilli, and left in the sun for a few days until the liquid turns deep purple, sour and sharp enough to tickle your nose. It is drunk by the glass before meals around Holi as a digestive and a spring tonic, and the soft, tangy carrot sticks are eaten too. The flavour is like a lively pickle brine, earthy from the carrots and peppery from mustard. Use a glass or ceramic jar that you have washed and dried completely, keep the vegetables under the water, stir with a clean dry spoon, and discard if mould or an unpleasant smell appears. Chef's tip: a small beetroot deepens the colour if your carrots are more red than black, but don't overdo it or the kanji tastes earthy and sweet.
Goheung, on the southern coast of South Jeolla, is Korea's yuja country: in November the groves turn gold and families slice the knobbly citrons for yuja-cheong, the honeyed preserve that becomes tea all winter. From December to March a spoonful in hot water is offered to guests, to students cramming late and to anyone with a scratchy throat, as it is traditionally drunk for colds. The tea is sweet, floral and sharp, with soft, chewy strands of peel that you eat at the end with a spoon. The common mistake is leaving the fruit damp or the pith too thick: wet fruit lets mould in, and thick white pith makes the preserve bitter. Scrub, dry completely and pare away any pith thicker than a few millimetres. The cheong is ready after a day or two, when the sugar has dissolved into a clear, glossy syrup around the peel. Keep it in the fridge for up to three months, always with a dry spoon; throw it away if you see fuzzy mould, smell alcohol or it bubbles. No yuja? Japanese yuzu is the same fruit; otherwise use 2 lemons and 2 mandarins. Chef's tip: soak the seeds in a little of the honey and add that liquid back for a silkier syrup.
Before electric rice cookers, every Korean pot of rice left a golden crust, nurungji, stuck to the bottom. Rather than waste it, cooks poured in water and simmered it while the family ate, and the warm, cloudy sungnyung was drunk at the end of the meal in place of tea. Older Koreans still describe it as the taste of home, and many Seoul restaurants that cook rice in stone pots finish by pouring water over the crust at the table. It tastes of toasted grain and has a faint natural sweetness, with soft pieces of crust to spoon up at the bottom. Without a stone pot you can make the crust from leftover rice in a frying pan. The common mistake is rushing the crust over high heat: it blackens on the outside and turns the drink bitter while the middle stays soft. Keep the heat low and patient, and aim for even golden-brown. The crust is ready when it lifts away from the pan in one sheet and smells like popcorn; the sungnyung is ready when the water is milky and pale gold. Chef's tip: make extra crust, dry it completely and keep it in a jar, so you can make sungnyung in ten minutes any evening.
Hojicha was born in Kyoto in the 1920s, when tea merchants started roasting the coarse late-season bancha leaves and stems over charcoal to sell what would not keep. Today the smell of tea roasting in a shop doorway is part of walking down Teramachi or past the Nishiki market. Roasting drives off much of the caffeine and all the grassy bitterness, so hojicha is the pot that comes out after an evening meal, with rice crackers, or for children and older relatives who avoid stronger tea. The cup is reddish brown, smells of caramel and roasted nuts, and tastes soft and slightly sweet with almost no astringency. Unlike sencha, it likes really hot water and a very short steep. The common mistake is treating it like black tea and leaving the leaves in for several minutes, which makes it flat and woody; 30 seconds is enough for the first pour, and the leaves give a good second pot. It is ready when the liquor is clear russet and the steam smells of toasted sugar. Chef's tip: if your packet has lost its perfume, warm the leaves in a dry pan for 30 seconds until they smoke very faintly before brewing.
From the rainy season in June until the cicadas fall quiet in September, almost every Japanese household keeps a tall jug of mugicha in the fridge. It is poured for children coming in from summer club practice, for grandparents after an afternoon nap, and alongside cold sōmen at lunch, because it carries no caffeine and can be drunk all day. Whole barley grains roasted until deep brown give a cup that tastes of toast, a little of coffee and a little of popcorn, with a clean, dry finish and no sweetness at all. Supermarkets sell it in tea bags, but loose roasted grains simmered in a pan make a rounder, darker brew. The usual mistake is leaving the grains in the jug or letting the hot tea sit out on the counter for hours: it turns bitter and, being a grain infusion, it sours quickly in summer heat. Strain it, cool it fast in a sink of cold water, and drink it within two days. It is ready when the liquid is a clear amber-brown and smells like freshly toasted bread. Chef's tip: dry-toast the grains for two minutes before brewing to wake up a bag that has been open a while.
Bunches of red shiso fill Japanese greengrocers for a few weeks in June and July, mostly bought to colour umeboshi. Gardeners from Kyoto's Ohara valley to Kantō boil the surplus into this cordial and keep it in the fridge for hot afternoons. Simmering pulls a murky purple-brown liquid from the leaves; the magic is the moment the vinegar goes in and the whole pan flushes a brilliant clear magenta. Diluted with ice water or soda water it tastes sweet-sour and herbal, like a cross between blackcurrant, mint and cinnamon. The most common mistake is simmering the leaves too long or with the stems: it turns grassy and bitter. Strip the leaves, boil them for five minutes only, until they have turned green and limp, then lift them out. The cordial is ready when it is jewel-bright and clear. Bottle it in a clean, sterilised bottle and keep it in the fridge for up to three weeks; discard if it fizzes, clouds or grows mould. No fresh red shiso nearby? Japanese and Korean shops sometimes sell it in summer, and it grows easily from seed. Chef's tip: freeze some as ice cubes to drop into sparkling water.
Boeun county in North Chungcheong is famous for its large, sweet jujubes, harvested each October and sold at a lively autumn festival. Once dried, they become daechu-cha, the deep amber tea Korean traditional teahouses in Insadong and Jeonju serve from late autumn to early spring, topped with pine nuts. Long, slow simmering with ginger and a stick of cinnamon draws out a flavour like dates, caramel and baked apple; pressing the softened flesh through a sieve gives the tea its velvety, almost soup-thick body. It is traditionally drunk to warm up on cold nights. The common mistake is simply boiling whole jujubes and straining: the skins stay sealed, the tea comes out thin and pale, and most of the sweetness is thrown away. Slit each jujube, simmer until the flesh slides off the stone, then mash the pulp through the sieve. It is ready when the liquid has reduced by about half, is dark amber and lightly coats a spoon. Keep it covered in the fridge for up to 5 days and reheat gently. Chef's tip: a few slices of fresh ginger added in the last 20 minutes give a brighter heat than ginger boiled for the whole time.
On the hot Lower Shire valley floor around Nsanje and Chikwawa, the hard, velvety baobab pods are cracked open in the dry season and their chalky white pulp is soaked to make malambe, a cooling drink sold by the cup at markets. It is pale and creamy-looking, tart like lemon sherbet with a hint of pear, and thicker than juice. Baobab pulp is sold abroad as dried chunks or fine powder; either works here, and the powder makes it a 15-minute drink. Not soaking the chunks long enough is the usual mistake, leaving the drink thin and gritty. Chef's tip: whisk the drink just before serving, because the pulp settles quickly to the bottom.
Javanese Surinamers brought dawet from Java, and today it is sold cold from big jars at warungs in Lelydorp and the Paramaribo district of Blauwgrond, especially on hot Sunday afternoons. In Suriname it has become its own drink, quite different from the Malaysian cendol with its green noodles: chilled coconut milk sweetened with a lemongrass and pandan syrup, often tinted pale pink and studded with soaked basil seeds or soft jelly strips. The common mistake is boiling the coconut milk, which makes it split and taste flat; it should only be warmed. Chef's tip: bruise the lemongrass hard with a rolling pin before simmering it, so the syrup tastes bright and lemony.
Across rural Andhra Pradesh and Telangana, farm workers drink a big glass of ragi ambali in the early morning before the summer heat, and clay pots of it are sold at roadside stalls in April and May. Finger-millet flour is cooked into a thick paste, left overnight to ferment lightly, then thinned with buttermilk and stirred with raw onion, green chilli and curry leaves into a cool, tangy, savoury drink. It is suitable as part of a balanced diet. About 140 kcal and 22 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is pouring the ragi flour straight into boiling water, which makes lumps; mix it with cold water first. Chef's tip: cook the paste until it turns glossy and darker, about 8 minutes; undercooked ragi tastes raw and floury.
Genmaicha started as a thrifty Japanese blend: toasted rice stretched expensive tea leaves and made the pot go further. It is now loved for itself and turns up everywhere, from office kettles in Tokyo to the free tea at sushi counters and ramen shops, poured all through the meal because its gentle, roasted flavour does not fight with soy or fish. The rice gives a nutty, savoury, almost buttery taste; the green tea adds a light grassy edge. It has about half the caffeine of plain sencha, so many people drink it in the afternoon. The usual mistake is pouring boiling water straight onto it: the green leaves scald and the cup turns bitter while the rice flavour gets lost. Let the kettle sit for a minute or two so the water is around 80–85 °C, and steep for no more than a minute. It is ready when the liquor is pale yellow-green and clear, and the steam smells of popcorn and cut grass. Chef's tip: matcha-iri genmaicha, with powdered matcha dusted over the blend, gives a greener, fuller cup; use it the same way but stir the pot once before pouring.
Out on the hot plains of the Llanos, a jug of carato is kept cold for the afternoon: white corn cooked until soft, blended with its water, strained and sweetened with panela, cinnamon and clove. It is thick, creamy and filling enough to be a snack in a glass. Keep it in the fridge, because left out it starts to ferment. The common mistake is skipping the straining, which leaves it gritty. Chef's tip: strain through a fine sieve and then once more through a clean cloth for the silkiest drink.
Kuzuyu is what Japanese mothers make when someone has a chill or an upset stomach, and what many people sip on a frosty winter evening, especially in Nara, whose Yoshino mountains have produced the finest hon-kuzu starch for centuries. Kudzu root starch is stirred into water with a little sugar and cooked until the milky liquid suddenly turns clear, glossy and gently thick, somewhere between a hot drink and a soft pudding you drink from the cup. Grated ginger warms it; some families add a spoon of matcha or a squeeze of yuzu. It tastes clean, mildly sweet and comforting, and it is traditionally given to people recovering from colds. The mistake almost everyone makes once is sprinkling kudzu into hot water, where it forms rubbery lumps at once. Always crush it and dissolve it completely in cold water first, then heat it while stirring without stopping. It is ready when there are no white streaks left, the drink is translucent and it coats the back of a spoon. Chef's tip: real hon-kuzu comes in chalky lumps; crush them with the back of a spoon in the cold water and they dissolve in seconds.
Kefir is the sour, lightly fizzy fermented milk that families across Russia, Georgia and the North Caucasus drink plain from a glass at breakfast, as an evening snack or alongside a meal, and also use in pancakes and cold soups. It is made by leaving milk with kefir grains, a living culture of yeasts and bacteria, at room temperature for a day until it thickens. Nothing is added: no salt and no sugar. About 0.25 g salt per 250 ml glass, all from the milk itself. Always use pasteurised milk. The usual mistake is leaving it too long, until it separates into curds and whey; check after 18 hours and stop when it is just thick and pourable. Chef's tip: a second ferment of 6 hours in the fridge in a closed bottle makes it smoother and a little fizzier.
In early June the hillsides of Gwangyang are picked clean of hard green maesil, and Korean kitchens across the country fill with jars of plums buried in sugar. Over about a hundred days the sugar draws out the fruit's juice and becomes maesil-cheong, a golden syrup that is both a cooking ingredient and a drink. Iced, it is the summer cooler; hot, it is traditionally drunk after a heavy meal for digestion. It tastes bright and tart, like green apple and apricot, rounded by the sugar. The common mistake is putting damp plums or plums with stalks into the jar: water and stalk ends invite mould and unwanted fermentation. Pick out each stalk with a toothpick and dry the fruit completely. The syrup is ready when the plums have shrivelled and float in clear amber liquid. A little foaming early on is normal, but if it smells strongly of alcohol, grows fuzzy mould or turns slimy, discard it. Remove the plums at 100 days, because their stones contain natural compounds best kept out of a long-stored syrup. Chef's tip: use half white and half light brown sugar for a rounder, toffee-edged syrup.
Cerasee grows wild on fences and roadsides all over Jamaica, a thin vine with lacy leaves, yellow flowers and small warty orange fruit. It is the best known of the island's bush teas: generations of Jamaican children were given a cup at the end of the summer holidays, before going back to school, as a wash-out, and adults still drink it now and then as a cleansing and cooling tonic, or for the skin. The tea is pale green-gold and seriously bitter, with a grassy, slightly vegetal taste; some add sugar or lime. The common mistake is boiling the vine hard for a long time, which makes the tea far harsher than it needs to be. Pour boiling water over it and let it steep instead, and leave out any ripe fruit and seeds. It is ready when the water is light green-gold and smells green and herbal. Do not drink it if you are pregnant, breastfeeding or trying to conceive, do not give it to young children, and check with a doctor if you have diabetes or take medication, as it may lower blood sugar. Chef's tip: dried cerasee from Caribbean shops works well; use a little less.
Order an ensalada at a pupusería in El Salvador and a tall glass arrives: apple juice crowded with tiny cubes of apple, mango and marañón (cashew fruit), drunk through a straw and finished with a spoon. It is the country's favourite cooler for hot afternoons and Sunday lunches. Outside Central America cashew fruit is rare, so pineapple stands in well. Cutting the fruit too big is the mistake people make; pieces should be small enough to come up a wide straw. Chef's tip: chop the apple last and drop it straight into the juice so it stays white.
When Hanoi's tamarind-like sấu trees drop their small green fruit in May and June, street vendors start selling glasses of nước sấu: a few candied fruits, a ladle of ginger syrup, cold water and crushed ice. Families make big jars to last until the season ends in August. It is sipped with a spoon so you can bite into the crunchy-soft fruit at the bottom. It tastes sour and sweet at once, with a clean ginger warmth and a flavour a little like green mango and plum. Traditional cooks soak the peeled fruit in limewater to keep it crisp; a salt soak works well at home. The common mistake is skipping the blanch and slow syrup: raw fruit stays acrid and the syrup clouds. Blanch the fruit briefly, then cook it gently in sugar until it turns translucent yellow-green and the syrup is clear and glossy. Store it in a sterilised jar in the fridge for up to 2 months with a clean spoon; discard if it fizzes, smells fermented or shows mould. Fresh sấu is rare abroad; look for frozen sấu in Vietnamese shops, or use firm green ambarella. Chef's tip: slash each fruit a few times so the syrup soaks all the way in.
Bir pletok was the Betawi answer, in old Batavia, to the beer and wine drunk by the Dutch: a red, warming spice drink with no alcohol at all, served at weddings, at Lebaran open houses and in the evenings at Jakarta's Setu Babakan cultural village. 'Pletok' is said to be the popping sound it made when shaken in a bamboo tube to raise a foam. Ginger, lemongrass, pandan, cloves, cinnamon and cardamom are simmered with chips of secang (sappanwood), which turns the liquid deep ruby. It tastes hot and peppery from the ginger, perfumed from the pandan, sweet and lightly woody, and is drunk warm or with ice. The common mistake is skimping on ginger or slicing it thin and boiling briefly; you need plenty, bruised, and a slow simmer to draw out the heat. It is ready when the liquid is a clear ruby red and the ginger burn catches at the back of your throat. Secang chips are in Indonesian shops; dried hibiscus flowers give a similar red, slightly sourer. Keeps 5 days in the fridge. Chef's tip: shake each serving hard in a closed jar before pouring to get the foamy head.
From April to June, when Chennai and Madurai bake at forty degrees, temples, shops and political parties set up 'thaneer pandhal' sheds by the roadside, offering free neer mor to every passer-by from great clay pots. At home it comes after a rice meal of sambar and rasam, or in the middle of the afternoon. The curd is churned and thinned with water until barely white, then seasoned with green chilli, ginger, curry leaves, coriander and a pinch of asafoetida, sometimes finished with a tempering of mustard seeds. It should be very thin, salty, tangy and herby, with a little chilli heat and a lingering savoury scent. The common mistake is using too little water: it then drinks like a heavy lassi rather than a thirst-quencher. Aim for about one part curd to four parts water. It is ready when the buttermilk is smooth, cold and pale green-flecked, and smells of curry leaf. It keeps a day in the fridge. Chef's tip: crush the ginger, chilli and curry leaves rather than chopping them; bruising releases far more flavour into the thin liquid.
In San Salvador's Plaza Libertad and outside churches on cool mornings, atol shuco is ladled from steaming clay pots into gourd bowls. Shuco means 'dirty', for its dusky purple-grey colour: it is made from fermented black corn, so it tastes slightly sour and earthy, topped with ground toasted pumpkin seeds, a few whole black beans and a pinch of chilli salt. It is savoury and filling rather than sweet. The usual mistake is leaving the masa to ferment too long in a hot kitchen; check it after a day and use it as soon as it smells pleasantly tangy. Throw it away if you see mould or it smells unpleasant. Chef's tip: if you can't wait for fermentation, a squeeze of lime at the end gives a similar tang.
Every June and July, before sunrise, boats slip between the pink lotus on Hanoi's West Lake to gather flowers for trà sen. The finest lotus tea is made by stripping the tiny white rice-like anthers from hundreds of blooms and layering them with green tea, a labour that makes it one of Vietnam's most expensive gifts, kept for Tết. Families do a simpler version at home: a spoon of Thái Nguyên green tea is tucked into the heart of a fresh flower in the evening, the petals closed and tied, and by morning the leaves have taken on a sweet, creamy, slightly vanilla-like perfume. It is brewed in a small clay pot and drunk in tiny cups in the early morning. The common mistake is brewing with boiling water, which flattens the lotus scent and makes the green tea bitter. Rinse the leaves quickly and brew at 80–85 °C. It is ready when the cup is pale gold and the steam smells of flowers before tea. No fresh lotus? Buy ready-made lotus-scented tea from Vietnamese shops and start at the brewing step. Chef's tip: pick a bud that is just about to open; a fully open bloom has already lost its scent.
Ssanghwa-cha is the strongest thing on the menu of an old Korean dabang. From the 1960s these smoky tea rooms served it in thick ceramic cups, dark as coffee, with pine nuts, slivered jujube and walnut floating on top; in winter some still slide a raw egg yolk in, which this recipe leaves out. The brew comes from Korean herbal tradition, where ssanghwa-tang is drunk to warm up and recover from tiredness after hard work or a cold. It tastes earthy and bitter at first, then sweet from licorice and jujube, with warmth from cinnamon and ginger and a celery-like perfume from angelica. Herbal shops sell the roots in pre-measured packs. The common mistake is boiling it hard: the liquid reduces too fast and turns harsh. Keep a gentle simmer with the lid ajar for two hours. It is ready when it is very dark brown, reduced to about a third and smells of cinnamon and roots. Because it contains licorice and angelica, skip it if you are pregnant or breastfeeding, have high blood pressure, or take blood thinners or other medicines unless your doctor agrees. Chef's tip: a second, lighter brew from the same roots is good with honey.
In Kichwa villages along the Napo river around Tena, families rise before dawn, gather around the fire and share a pot of guayusa: an infusion of the large leaves of an Amazon holly tree, passed round while people talk over dreams and plan the day. It tastes smooth, grassy and faintly sweet, with none of the bitterness of black tea, and it carries a steady lift of caffeine, so it is not one for young children or late evenings. Dried guayusa is sold loose in health-food and tea shops. A common mistake is treating it like delicate green tea and steeping it for just a minute; it needs a gentle simmer to draw out its flavour. Chef's tip: add a strip of lemongrass or a slice of ginger for a fragrant twist, and sweeten, if at all, with a little panela.
Wedang ronde came to Java with Chinese tangyuan, eaten at the winter solstice, and in Yogyakarta it has become an all-year evening treat: sellers set up on the Alun-Alun Kidul and along Malioboro, and families sit on mats eating it as the night cools down. Soft, chewy balls of glutinous rice, some white and some pandan green, are filled with crushed peanuts and palm sugar, and floated in hot ginger syrup scented with pandan and lemongrass, sometimes with roasted peanuts and kolang-kaling on top. Bite one and the filling oozes warm and sticky against the clean burn of the broth. The common mistake is making the dough too dry: it cracks as you shape it and the filling leaks out during boiling. Add water until the dough feels like soft earlobe and smooth any cracks with a wet finger. The balls are done when they float, then stay at the top for two more minutes. Make the broth first so it is ready as soon as the balls are cooked. Chef's tip: chill the filling into little balls before wrapping; firm filling is much easier to seal.
In the lapau coffee shops of Bukittinggi, Payakumbuh and Padang, the sound of a spoon or a small whisk clattering against a glass means someone has ordered teh talua. A raw egg yolk, traditionally from a free-range kampung hen or a duck, is whisked with sugar until thick and almost white, strong hot tea is poured on from a height, and a wedge of lime goes on the side. Minangkabau men drink it in the late afternoon or evening as a pick-me-up after work in the fields. It comes out with a creamy, caramel-coloured body under a deep layer of foam, rich like a light custard, with the lime cutting any eggy edge. The common mistake is whisking too little: the yolk stays yellow, the tea curdles it in strings and it smells of egg. Beat until the yolk has doubled in volume and falls in a thick ribbon. Use pasteurised eggs for anyone pregnant, babies and small children, older people or anyone unwell, as the yolk is only lightly warmed. Some lapau add condensed milk; this one is dairy-free. It contains caffeine. Chef's tip: pour the tea in a thin stream from high up while still stirring, to build the tallest foam.
Hanoi takes its coffee seriously, and in the last fifteen years coconut coffee has become one of the city's signatures, sold from Old Quarter cafés, lakeside balconies around Hoàn Kiếm and tiny stools on the pavement. It is a hot-weather drink, at its best on a sticky afternoon between May and September, eaten half with a spoon. Strong Vietnamese robusta drips slowly through an aluminium phin, then is poured over a pale slush of thick coconut cream, sweetened condensed milk and crushed ice, so you get bitter, dark coffee against something rich and cold that tastes like coconut ice cream. The common mistake is blending the slush too long or with too much ice, which leaves it thin and watery, and pouring the coffee in boiling hot so the slush collapses. Blend just until it looks like soft snow, and let the coffee cool for a minute or two. It is ready when the slush holds a spoon upright and the coffee sits in a dark layer on top. Robusta is high in caffeine and this is a strong drink, so it is not for children and one glass is plenty. Chef's tip: chill the coconut cream overnight; cold, thick cream gives a fluffier slush.
From the warung kopi of Yogyakarta and Solo to the night-shift stalls of Surabaya, kopi tubruk is the everyday coffee of Java: powder-fine robusta and sugar spooned into a glass, hit with boiling water, stirred once and left alone while the grounds sink. It comes out black, thick and strong, with a toasty, slightly chocolatey bitterness and often plenty of sugar, drunk early with fried snacks and again late at night over long talk. The grounds sit as a muddy layer at the bottom and stay there. The common mistake is drinking or stirring too soon: the cup is gritty and harsh. Wait four or five minutes, until the crust on top sinks and the surface turns clear and dark, then sip gently and stop before the sludge. It is ready when the foam has collapsed and a thin oily sheen shows on top. This is a strong, high-caffeine coffee; one glass is plenty, and it is not for children. Some sellers add a slice of ginger or a pinch of cardamom. Chef's tip: grind the beans as fine as for espresso or finer; coarse grounds float and never settle.
In the hills of Kigezi around Kabale, a calabash of obushera is offered to visitors and carried to the fields in the afternoon; the same drink, left for days, becomes beer, but the everyday family version is drunk young and contains no meaningful alcohol. Sorghum flour is cooked into a thin porridge, cooled, then left overnight with a spoonful of sprouted sorghum flour to sour gently, so it tastes tangy, malty and refreshing, a little like a drinking yoghurt made from grain. Drink it chilled on its own or with roasted groundnuts. The mistake people make is leaving it out too long: after a day it starts to fizz and turn alcoholic, so taste it, then chill it. Chef's tip: sweeten only just before serving, as sugar added early speeds up the ferment.
Long after dinner, the lanes around Surat's Chowk Bazaar and Athwa Lines fill with families queueing for cold cocoa, a thick, almost milkshake-like chocolate milk poured from big steel cans into tall glasses. The secret is cooking cocoa and a spoon of cornflour into rich milk first, then chilling it for hours so it thickens and the cocoa flavour deepens, before whisking it frothy to order. The common mistake is stirring cocoa powder straight into cold milk, which leaves bitter, dusty lumps floating on top. Chef's tip: make it the night before and whisk with a hand blender for 30 seconds just before pouring for the classic foamy head.
Before dawn at markets in Huancayo, Cusco and Lima, juice ladies ladle hot jugo de maca from big pots for workers on their way in: maca root, a turnip relative grown above 4,000 metres in the Junín highlands, simmered with milk, cinnamon and cloves and sweetened with honey or sugar. It tastes malty and toasty, a bit like butterscotch. The common mistake is stirring the powder straight into hot milk, which leaves gritty lumps; whisk it into a little cold milk first. Maca is not usually advised in pregnancy, so ask your doctor first if you are pregnant. Chef's tip: use gelatinised (cooked) maca powder if you can find it; it dissolves smoothly and is gentler on the stomach.
In the canyons of the Sierra Tarahumara in Chihuahua, Rarámuri runners set off at dawn carrying a pouch of pinole, corn kernels toasted on a clay comal and ground fine, to stir into cold water along the trail. Across northern Mexico it is still a breakfast drink, sweetened with piloncillo and cinnamon and stirred into water or warm milk. This version toasts coarse cornmeal at home for the same nutty, popcorn-like flavour. The common mistake is toasting over a high heat: the outside burns and turns bitter before the inside goes golden. Chef's tip: toast a big batch and keep it in a jar, so a morning cup is just two spoonfuls stirred into water.
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