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Mocktails and cool drinks

Sharbats, lassis, juices and coolers with no alcohol. (485 recipes)

Sugarcane and cogon root drink

Ask a Hong Kong family what they drink at the first hint of a sore throat in autumn, or when the city's spring humidity sets in, and many will say jook je mao gun soi. Lengths of thin green bamboo sugarcane, split open, are simmered with dried cogon grass root and carrots, sometimes with water chestnuts and a few dried corn silks, into a pale amber broth that tastes of sugarcane, sweet carrot and a faint grassiness. It is drunk warm after dinner or chilled from the fridge during the day, and herbal tea shops sell it by the bottle for children who refuse the bitter stuff. The common mistake is skipping the splitting of the cane: whole sticks barely release any sweetness, and you end up adding sugar. Bash each piece with the back of a cleaver until it cracks lengthwise. The drink is ready when the carrots are soft, the liquid is clear and light amber, and it tastes naturally sweet. Bamboo cane and cogon root are sold as soup packs in Chinese grocers; ordinary purple or green sugarcane works too. It is traditionally drunk to 'clear heat', but it is a refreshment, not a cure. Chef's tip: add a few peeled water chestnuts for extra crunch-sweetness.

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Beijing douzhiFermented mung bean drink

Douzhi is the most famous acquired taste in Beijing: a hot, grey-green, sour drink made from the liquid left when mung beans are ground for starch, then fermented. Old Beijingers sip it at breakfast with crisp jiaoquan rings and shredded salted mustard pickles, and visitors either love it or never try it twice. At home you make a small batch by blending mung beans, settling out the starch and fermenting the cloudy water for a day. The mistake is letting it boil hard: it separates into watery and thick layers, so keep it at a gentle bubble. It must smell cleanly sour like yogurt; throw it away if it smells rotten, has mould, or turns pink or slimy. Chef's tip: stir it continuously as it heats and add a splash of the thinner liquid at the end, which keeps the classic smooth, slightly thick texture.

1440 minChineseDrinksVeganGluten free
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Lingondricka (lingonberry cordial)

In Sweden the jug of red lingondricka sits on the table at weekday dinners, in school canteens and at the julbord, poured beside meatballs, pyttipanna or a Saturday pea soup. Lingonberries grow wild in the forests of Norrland and Dalarna, and in late August families pick them by the bucket with a wooden berry rake. Cooked with sugar and strained, they become a cordial that is both sweet and sharp, with a slight bitter-almond edge from the skins, bright enough to cut through rich, creamy food. The common mistake is boiling the berries hard for a long time: the cordial turns jammy and brownish, and the pectin can make it set in the bottle. Bring it just to the boil, crush, then simmer only briefly. The syrup is ready when it is clear ruby, flows like a thin syrup and tastes tart then sweet. Lingonberries are sold frozen in Nordic and Eastern European shops; cranberries work as a substitute, with a little more sugar. Bottled hot into sterilised bottles it keeps 2 months in the fridge, or 6 months frozen. Throw it out if you see mould or it fizzes. Chef's tip: mix one part cordial to five of chilled sparkling water for a party version.

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Laphet yayBurmese milk tea

Burmese teashops, from the busy corners of Yangon to small-town Shan State, run on laphet yay: very strong black tea poured over condensed and evaporated milk, and customers order it by sweetness, from "pan pyar" (less sweet) to "cho seint" (extra sweet and creamy). It comes with samusa, palata or a bowl of mohinga. The mistake is weak tea: it must be brewed long and dark so it stands up to all that milk. Chef's tip: pour the finished tea from one jug to another from a height a few times; it cools slightly and gets the frothy top teashops are proud of.

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SalabatHot ginger tea

Salabat is the Filipino early-morning cup, simmered in homes from Luzon to Mindanao when the weather turns cool or a sore throat threatens, and drunk with bibingka and puto bumbong outside churches during the Christmas dawn masses. It is just ginger, water and dark sugar, but the ginger has to be bashed to release its heat. The mistake is slicing the ginger thinly and boiling briefly; you get a pale, weak tea. Crush it and simmer it properly. Chef's tip: leave the skin on young ginger, scrub it well and smash it with the flat of a cleaver, which gives a stronger, rounder heat.

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Limau asam boi (lime with sour plum)

Order 'limau ais asam boi' at a kopitiam in Penang or a hawker centre in Kuala Lumpur at the hottest part of the afternoon and it arrives in a tall, sweating glass: freshly squeezed calamansi or small green limes, a little syrup, ice and one wrinkled, salted dried plum. The plum slowly leaches salt and fruity sourness into the drink, so every sip changes, starting bright and sweet and ending salty and tangy; you squash the plum with your straw halfway through for a stronger hit. It goes with char kway teow, nasi lemak or anything fried. The usual mistake is using bottled lime juice, which tastes flat and bitter against the plum. Squeeze fresh limes, and add the syrup gradually because asam boi is already salty-sweet. It is ready when the glass is frosted and the plum has started to plump up. Asam boi is sold in jars in Chinese and Southeast Asian groceries; Japanese umeboshi is saltier but works if you halve the amount. Chef's tip: make the lime-syrup base ahead and keep it cold, then pour over fresh ice only when you serve.

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Mauritian vanilla tea

In Mauritius the kettle goes on for dité at breakfast and again at four, when the heat of the day breaks and someone brings out gato piment, a packet of biscuits or a slice of gato patate. The tea is grown on the island's central plateau, around Curepipe and the Bois Chéri hills, and the local favourite is black tea perfumed with vanilla, the same vanilla that grows on the neighbouring islands. It is drunk strong, very sweet and milky, often with evaporated or condensed milk: a round, creamy cup with a soft caramel-vanilla scent and no bitterness. The common mistake is boiling the tea leaves with the milk until they stew; brew the tea in water first, then add hot milk. It is ready when the tea is the colour of milky caramel and the kitchen smells of vanilla. A cup has about as much caffeine as ordinary black tea. If you cannot find vanilla-scented Mauritian tea, a strong black tea and a split vanilla pod do the job well. Chef's tip: dry the used vanilla pod and bury it in your sugar jar; next time the sugar alone will scent the tea.

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MorochoCracked white corn drink

Morocho is what Quiteños drink on a chilly evening at a market stall, often with a crisp empanada de morocho alongside: cracked white corn simmered for an hour with milk, cinnamon and cloves until it turns into a thick, creamy drink you half sip, half spoon, studded with plump raisins. It tastes like a gently spiced rice pudding made with corn. The usual mistake is adding the milk too early and not stirring, so it catches and scorches on the bottom of the pan. Chef's tip: soak the corn overnight; it cooks faster and more evenly and turns properly creamy.

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MabíFermented bark drink

Around Juana Díaz on Puerto Rico's south coast, and in the Dominican countryside, mabí is sold ice-cold from barrels on hot afternoons and at patron-saint fiestas. It is made from the bark of the mabí tree (Colubrina elliptica, the mauby of the English-speaking Caribbean), boiled with spices, sweetened with brown sugar and left a day or so to ferment with a splash from the last batch, the madre. It tastes bittersweet, like a woodier root beer, with a creamy head and light fizz. Fermenting makes a trace of alcohol, well under 1% if drunk within a few days. The common mistake is skipping the beating: mabí should be poured back and forth between two jugs from a height until it is thick with foam, which also airs the yeast. It is ready when a tan foam stays on top, it tastes sweet-bitter with a slight sourness and small bubbles rise. Look for mabí or mauby bark in Caribbean shops; there is no real substitute. Traditionally drunk to cool down; drink it in moderation, and if you are pregnant or on blood-pressure medication, check with a doctor first. Chef's tip: keep a cup of finished mabí in the fridge as the madre for the next batch.

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Jugo surtidoMixed fruit juice

Step up to any juguería in Lima's Mercado de Surquillo or a barrio market at breakfast time and order a surtido: the juicer drops papaya, banana, pineapple and freshly squeezed orange into a tall blender, sometimes a slice of cooked beetroot for colour or a splash of milk, and pours you a big glass with the rest left in the jug for your 'yapa', the free refill. It is thick but still pourable, sweet from ripe fruit with a sharp orange edge, the kind of drink that stands in for breakfast before a long day. The common mistake is adding lots of ice and water, which makes it thin and frothy rather than velvety. Use cold fruit and freshly squeezed orange juice as the liquid. It is ready when it coats the glass and no lumps of banana are left. This version is fruit only; stalls also make it with milk if you prefer. Drink it straight away: papaya and banana go brown and bitter within half an hour. Chef's tip: use very ripe papaya with orange flesh; under-ripe papaya tastes of nothing and gives a faintly bitter aftertaste.

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Colada moradaPurple corn and berry drink

Every year in the days before 2 November, the Día de los Difuntos, Quito's kitchens and bakeries fill with the smell of colada morada: a warm, spoon-thick drink of purple corn flour cooked with blackberries, blueberries, pineapple and a bundle of fragrant herbs and spices. It is deep violet, sweet-tart and full of chopped fruit, and it is always served with guaguas de pan, the bread babies, often shared with family at the cemetery. The most common mistake is stirring the corn flour straight into hot liquid, which makes lumps: whisk it into cold water first. Chef's tip: lemon verbena and lemongrass give the authentic perfume; if you can find naranjilla or a few orange leaves, add them to the spice pot too.

100 minAndeanDrinksVeganGluten free
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Berezovy sok (birch sap)

For two or three weeks at the end of March and into April, while there is still snow under the trees and before the buds open, the birches around Moscow, Tver, Vologda and across the north start to run. Families tap a few trees at the dacha and drink the sap straight from the jar: clear, cold, very faintly sweet, tasting of rainwater and fresh wood. Because it spoils within two or three days, villagers bottled the rest with sugar, raisins and lemon zest, letting it ferment slightly into a sparkling drink that kept into early summer; like any ferment it makes a trace of alcohol, well under 1% if drunk young. Only tap with the owner's permission, choose trees thicker than 20 cm, drill one small hole and plug it with a wooden peg afterwards so the tree heals. The common mistake is sealing the bottles tight at warm room temperature, which can make them burst; keep them cool and open the caps daily. The bottled sap is ready when the raisins float, a ring of fine bubbles forms on top and it tastes gently sparkling. Chef's tip: drink the first glass straight from the tree; it is never quite as good again.

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Horchata lojanaHerbal flower infusion

In Loja and the valleys of Vilcabamba and Malacatos, horchata has nothing to do with rice: it is a pink herbal infusion of anything up to twenty garden plants, drunk hot at breakfast and after lunch, or cold from the fridge on warm afternoons. Markets sell the herbs in bundles: cedrón, hierbaluisa, toronjil, mint, chamomile, mallow, and the red-leaved escancel and ataco (red amaranth) that give the colour. It tastes lemony, floral and faintly silky, and turns from ruby to bright pink the moment lemon juice goes in. The common mistake is boiling all the herbs hard, which makes it bitter and grassy; only the tough flaxseed and lemongrass simmer, and the soft leaves steep off the heat. It is ready when the liquid is deep red-pink and smells of lemon and flowers. Abroad, Latin shops sell dried mixes; dried hibiscus gives the colour if you lack amaranth. It is traditionally drunk to settle the stomach; if you are pregnant or on medication, check with a doctor before drinking it daily. Chef's tip: add lemon at the table, glass by glass, to watch the colour change.

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Kadha (spiced herbal decoction)

When the fog settles over Delhi, Lucknow and the plains of Uttar Pradesh in December, or whenever the monsoon brings coughs round the house, someone puts a pan of kadha on the stove. Tulsi leaves, ginger, black pepper, cinnamon, cloves and sometimes a little ajwain are boiled hard until the water reduces by half, then sweetened with jaggery and sipped in small cups, morning or night. It is not a gentle tea: it is hot, peppery, clove-numbing and earthy, with a dark amber colour and a sweet edge. It is traditionally drunk for coughs and colds; it does not replace medical care, and anyone who is pregnant, on medication or giving it to small children should keep it mild and check with a doctor. The common mistake is simmering it gently like tea: kadha needs a steady boil so the spices give up their strength and the liquid reduces. It is ready when the volume has halved and the brew is deep amber and pungent. Chef's tip: crush the pepper and cloves just before they go in; whole spices hardly flavour the water in this short time.

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Sungnyung (scorched rice tea)

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.

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Variyali sharbat (fennel cooler)

On May afternoons in Ahmedabad and Surat, when the loo wind blows and nobody wants a hot drink, Gujarati homes keep a bottle of variyali sharbat concentrate in the fridge. Fennel seeds are soaked, ground with rock sugar, strained and mixed with lemon and a little black pepper, then diluted with iced water for guests, after lunch, or to break a fast, since nothing in it is off-limits on upvas days if you use rock salt. It is pale green and cloudy, with a sweet aniseed taste, a sharp lemon finish and a faint peppery tingle. The common mistake is grinding dry fennel straight away: it stays gritty and the flavour is harsh. Soak the seeds for at least two hours so they swell and grind into a smooth paste. It is ready when the strained concentrate is silky, smells clearly of fennel and tastes very sweet, as it will be diluted three or four times. The concentrate keeps 5 days in the fridge in a clean bottle. Chef's tip: add a few mint leaves or a pinch of cardamom when grinding for a more rounded cooler.

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Daechu-cha (jujube tea)

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.

110 minKoreanDrinksGluten free
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MursikSmoky fermented milk

When Kenyan marathon runners land back in Eldoret, relatives greet them with a gourd of mursik, the soured milk of Kalenjin homesteads across the Rift Valley highlands. Traditionally, milk sits for several days in a sotet, a long calabash whose inside has been scraped with a smouldering stick of senetwet (the tree often called the cromwell tree) so a lining of fine charcoal coats it; that charcoal gives mursik its smoky taste, grey flecks and long keeping. At home we skip raw milk and a wild ferment: pasteurised milk is soured with a live cultured buttermilk, and a jar smoked inside with untreated hardwood, or a pinch of food-grade activated charcoal, brings the flavour. Thick, sharp and smoky, it is drunk with ugali, sweet potatoes or after a long run, and the usual mistake is fermenting it somewhere too hot, where it splits into whey and tastes yeasty. Chef's tip: shake the jar hard before pouring, as herders shake the gourd, to make it smooth and drinkable.

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Ragi maltFinger millet malt drink

Across Karnataka, from Bengaluru flats to farmhouses round Mandya and Mysuru, a mug of ragi malt is how many mornings start, especially for schoolchildren, older relatives and anyone heading out to work in the fields. Finger millet powder is whisked into water and cooked until it thickens, then loosened with hot milk and sweetened with jaggery and cardamom; the savoury version, beaten into buttermilk with salt, is drunk cold at lunch in summer. The sweet version is smooth, malty and nutty, mauve-brown, thicker than milk but still drinkable. The commonest mistake is tipping ragi powder straight into hot liquid: it seizes into stubborn lumps. Always whisk it into cold water first. It is ready when the raw, grassy smell has gone, the mixture turns glossy and darker, and it coats the back of a spoon. Add jaggery only off the heat, or the milk can split. For babies, skip the jaggery and ask your health visitor about introducing ragi. Chef's tip: sprouted ragi powder (the true 'malt') tastes sweeter and cooks faster; look for it in Indian shops.

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Oblepikha tea (sea buckthorn tea)

Sea buckthorn grows wild along the rivers of Altai and the Baikal shore, and by October its thorny branches are crowded with tiny orange berries. Siberians freeze them by the bucketful, and all winter a glass teapot of oblepikha tea glows on café tables from Irkutsk to Moscow, ordered after skiing or against the dark afternoons. The taste is sharp and tropical, somewhere between passion fruit, pineapple and lemon, with a faint oily richness from the berries, softened by honey and warmed by ginger. The common mistake is pouring boiling water straight onto the honey and berries: it dulls the fruit, makes the honey taste flat and can turn the tea bitter. Let the kettle settle for a couple of minutes first. It is ready when the tea is a cloudy sunset orange, smells of citrus and ginger and the berries have released their juice. Outside Russia, look for frozen sea buckthorn in Eastern European or Nordic shops, or use unsweetened sea buckthorn purée. Chef's tip: crush a big batch of berries with honey, keep it in a jar in the fridge for a week, and spoon it into mugs whenever you want a cup.

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Refresco de linazaFlaxseed and pineapple drink

In La Paz, Cochabamba and Sucre the refresqueras at the market stalls ladle linaza from big glass jars alongside mocochinchi and somó, and at home it is a standard jug in the fridge for the midday almuerzo. Flaxseed is simmered with pineapple peel, cinnamon and cloves until the water turns faintly silky, then strained, sweetened and chilled. It is pale gold, smooth and almost slippery on the tongue, tasting of pineapple and spice, with lime to wake it up. It is traditionally drunk to cool down and to settle the stomach. The common mistake is simmering too long or leaving the seeds in as it cools: the liquid turns into a thick, slimy gel. Strain it while still hot, as soon as a spoon dipped in comes out lightly coated, like thin syrup. It is ready when it pours freely but feels smooth, and tastes sweet, spiced and fresh. Using the peel and core of a pineapple is the thrifty Bolivian way and gives more flavour than the flesh. Chef's tip: if it thickens too much in the fridge, whisk in cold water a little at a time until it pours easily again.

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Blåbärssoppa (warm bilberry drink)

Every first Sunday of March, the 90-kilometre Vasaloppet ski race from Sälen to Mora is fuelled by blåbärssoppa: volunteers at the feeding stations hand thousands of skiers paper cups of the warm purple drink, and Swedes drink it from thermoses on winter hikes, after skating and on the ski slopes. It is made from wild bilberries, the small dark forest berries with purple flesh, cooked with sugar and thickened with potato starch so it is just thick enough to coat the cup. It is sweet, softly tart and tastes intensely of berries, with a silky, almost glossy body. The common mistake is stirring the starch straight into the hot pot: it forms jelly lumps at once. Always mix potato starch with cold water first, take the pot off the boil, then stir it in and bring back just to a bubble; long boiling thins it again. It is ready when it turns glossy and coats a spoon in a thin film. Bilberries are sold frozen in Nordic shops; cultivated blueberries work too, with a squeeze of lemon for sharpness. Chef's tip: it is just as good cold the next day, or served as a soup with whipped cream and almond biscuits.

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ResbaladeraBarley and rice milk drink

Resbaladera comes from Guanacaste, the dry, sunny cattle province of northwest Costa Rica, and is sold by the cup at the Fiestas de Santa Cruz in January, at the July celebrations of the Anexión in Liberia, and from carts at rodeos and turnos all through the hot months. Pearl barley and a little rice are cooked with cinnamon and cloves until bursting, then blended with milk and sweetened, giving a cold, slightly thick, creamy drink, smooth and milky like rice pudding in a glass, with warm spice and vanilla. The name hints at how easily it slips down. The common mistake is undercooking the barley: if the grains still have bite, the drink is gritty and thin however long you blend. Cook until they are swollen, split and very soft. It is ready when it is pale cream, completely smooth after straining and tastes of vanilla, cinnamon and nutmeg. Barley means it is not gluten free. Chef's tip: chill it properly before serving and stir in a splash of cold milk if it thickens in the fridge overnight; it should pour easily.

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Ragi ambaliFinger millet porridge drink

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.

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BusheraSoured sorghum drink

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.

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Kefir

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.

1445 minRussianDrinksGluten free
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Kuzuyu (hot kudzu 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.

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Carato de maízChilled corn drink

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.

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Mugicha (roasted barley tea)

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.

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Wiener MelangeCoffee with milk and foam

In Vienna you never simply order 'a coffee'; you order by name, and the Melange is the one most Viennese ask for. It arrives in a large cup on a small silver tray with a glass of water and often a tiny chocolate, and you may sit over it for an hour with the newspapers at Café Prückel or Hawelka, mid-morning or after lunch. Traditionally it is a mild, longer espresso (a Verlängerter) with roughly equal hot milk and a soft cap of milk foam; it is gentler than a cappuccino and the foam is looser and creamier. Expect a round, nutty, slightly sweet cup with little bitterness. The common mistake is overheating the milk: once it passes about 70 °C it smells cooked and loses its sweetness and the foam turns big-bubbled and dry. Stop when the jug is too hot to hold for more than a second or two. It is ready when the foam sits in a smooth, glossy dome about a finger thick and the coffee shows as a brown ring at the edge. One cup has about the caffeine of a single espresso. Chef's tip: always serve the glass of water alongside, as Vienna does; it is drunk first to clear the palate.

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Wedang rondeRice balls in ginger syrup

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.

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Hummus el shamHot chickpeas with tahini

When the cold winds of January blow through Cairo and Alexandria, carts with steaming copper pots appear on street corners, outside universities and along the Corniche. The vendor ladles hummus el sham — Levantine chickpeas — into glasses: soft chickpeas in their own cooking broth, seasoned with lemon, cumin, salt and a fiery spoon of shatta, sometimes with tomato and chopped onion. It is drunk and eaten with a spoon, a warming, peppery, sour-salty cup that is very different from the dip. The common mistake is using undercooked chickpeas or draining away the cooking water: the broth is the drink, and it should be cloudy and slightly thick from chickpeas that are soft enough to crush between your fingers. A pinch of bicarbonate of soda in the pot helps them soften, as Cairo vendors do. It is ready when the broth tastes deeply of chickpeas and lemon, the cumin is fragrant and the chilli leaves a warm burn. Adjust the heat for children. Canned chickpeas with their liquid work in a pinch: simmer them for 10 minutes with fresh water. Chef's tip: squeeze the lemon into each cup at the end; boiled lemon turns bitter.

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Helba (fenugreek tea)

Helba is the other hot drink chalked on the board of every Egyptian coffee house, ordered in winter by students and old men playing dominoes alike. At home it is brewed when someone has a cold, after childbirth, or simply on chilly nights in the Delta, and is traditionally drunk to soothe the chest and the stomach. Fenugreek seeds are boiled until the water turns amber-yellow; the cup tastes nutty and toasty, like maple and celery, with a pleasant bitterness that sugar softens. Some people add a splash of milk at the end. Fenugreek is not advised during pregnancy, can lower blood sugar and may interact with blood thinners, so check with your doctor if you take medication; it can also make your sweat smell faintly of maple, which is harmless. The common mistake is boiling unrinsed seeds hard for a long time, which gives a slimy, very bitter tea. Rinse them, toast them briefly and boil only 8–10 minutes. It is ready when the liquid is clear golden-amber and smells of warm maple. Chef's tip: soak the seeds overnight first for a milder, rounder brew, and eat the softened seeds with a spoon as Egyptians do.

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Batido de lechosaPapaya and orange shake

Lechosa is what Venezuelans call papaya, and on breakfast tables from Valencia to Puerto La Cruz it turns up as a batido beside arepas or empanadas, often blended with the oranges that are piled cheap in every market. It is thick, smooth and sunset-orange, tasting of honeyed papaya and bright citrus, and it fills you up until lunch. Some families blend it with milk instead of juice, which turns it into a creamy merengada. The common mistake with milk is letting it stand: papaya's natural enzyme starts to turn milk bitter within half an hour, so drink it straight away. Another mistake is scraping the seed cavity too hard; the black seeds and their slippery coating make the batido bitter and peppery. It is ready when there are no fibres left, it pours in a thick stream and the colour is an even orange. Choose papaya that is mostly yellow-orange and gives slightly under your thumb; a green-streaked one tastes flat and a little musky. Chef's tip: a few drops of lime juice cut through papaya's musky note and make it taste fresher.

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HojichaRoasted green tea

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.

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Yansoon (anise tea)

Every Cairo ahwa has yansoon on its menu, chalked up next to tea and helba, and in Egyptian homes it is the drink of evenings, colds and upset stomachs. It is made with green aniseed, often from Upper Egypt, simmered briefly and sweetened. People reach for it after a feast at Eid, during winter coughs, or simply at night because it is caffeine-free and traditionally drunk to calm and help sleep. It is pale gold and sweet, with a soft liquorice scent and a slightly peppery warmth at the end. Many Egyptian mothers give a weak version to infants, but herbal teas are not suitable for babies under six months; ask your doctor first. The common mistake is boiling the seeds for too long, which makes the tea cloudy and bitter: crush them lightly, boil for only a few minutes, then let them steep off the heat. Also do not swap in star anise, a different plant with a harsher taste. It is ready when the liquid is light golden and smells strongly of anise when you lift the lid. Chef's tip: a thin slice of lemon or a few drops of lemon juice brightens the cup without hiding the anise.

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EiskaffeeIced coffee with ice cream

On a hot July afternoon in any German or Austrian Eiscafé, from a Hamburg promenade to a Viennese Gastgarten, the tall glass with the long spoon is Eiskaffee. It is not iced coffee in the American sense: strong coffee, chilled, is poured over two scoops of vanilla ice cream and crowned with sweetened whipped cream, sometimes a wafer and a dusting of cocoa or grated chocolate. You drink the cold coffee through a straw while the ice cream slowly melts into it, then spoon up the creamy, half-frozen rest, so it is part drink, part dessert, eaten at the café in the afternoon rather than with a meal. The usual mistake is pouring hot or even warm coffee straight onto the ice cream: it melts at once into a thin, lukewarm, milky soup. Brew it earlier and chill it properly. It is ready when the coffee is fridge-cold, the scoops sit just proud of the surface and the cream holds soft peaks on top. It is moderately caffeinated, so keep it for adults and older teens. Chef's tip: freeze leftover coffee in ice-cube trays and add a couple to the glass so nothing gets diluted with water.

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EinspännerBlack coffee with whipped cream

The Einspänner is named after the one-horse carriages of old Vienna: coachmen waiting outside in winter supposedly liked their coffee under a lid of cream that kept it hot and stopped it slopping. Today it is served in a handled glass at classic coffee houses, a strong black mocha (a double espresso or Großer Brauner without milk) topped with a thick layer of cold, lightly sweetened whipped cream and a pinch of icing sugar. You do not stir it: you sip the hot, bitter coffee through the cold, sweet cream, so each mouthful is two temperatures and two textures. It is an afternoon or late-morning coffee, often with a slice of Sachertorte. The common mistake is runny cream that sinks and turns the drink into a milky latte; whip it until it just holds a peak and spoon it on gently so it floats. It is ready when the cream stands at least 2 cm above the coffee and slowly sinks at the edges. It is strong: a double shot of caffeine in one glass. Chef's tip: pour the coffee in first and wait ten seconds before adding the cream, so the crema settles and helps support the cap.

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Cerasee teaBitter melon vine tea

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.

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Nước sấu (sấu fruit drink)

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.

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Bir pletokSpiced ginger drink

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.

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Sorbete de curubaBanana passionfruit milk drink

In Colombia a sorbete is not an ice but a fruit milkshake, and around Bogotá and the cold highlands of Boyacá and Cundinamarca the classic is made with curuba, the long, soft-skinned banana passionfruit that grows on vines at 2,500 metres. Bakeries and corrientazo lunch spots serve it with almuerzo or with a slice of cake at onces, the late-afternoon snack. It is pale salmon-pink, creamy and sweet-tart, more delicate than passionfruit, with a fragrance like guava and lemon. The common mistake is blending the pulp with its black seeds on high speed: the seeds break up and the sorbete turns bitter and grey-flecked. Pulse just enough to loosen the pulp from the seeds, strain, and only then blend with milk. Serve it at once, because the acid in curuba thickens the milk the longer it stands. It is ready when it is smooth, frothy and pink with no gritty specks. Outside Colombia look for frozen curuba pulp in Latin shops; passionfruit pulp works too, but use about two thirds of the amount as it is stronger. Chef's tip: dissolve the sugar in the strained juice before the milk goes in, so you can blend for less time.

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Cà phê cốt dừa (coconut coffee)

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.

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Kopi tubrukBoiled coffee with sugar

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.

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TizanaFruit in orange juice

On Sunday afternoons in Caracas, juice stands along the boulevards of Sabana Grande and the Plaza Altamira, and street carts outside beaches and parks, sell tizana in tall plastic cups with a straw and a long spoon. It is half drink, half fruit salad: papaya, pineapple, melon, watermelon, apple, mango and banana cut into tiny dice and soaked in orange juice tinted ruby with grenadine. At home it is made by the jug for birthday parties and hot holidays. It tastes juicy, sweet and bright, and every sip brings a different fruit up the straw. The common mistake is adding the banana and apple with everything else an hour early: they turn brown and mushy and cloud the juice. Cut them last and stir them in just before serving. The tizana is ready when the fruit has soaked for about 30 minutes in the fridge, the juice has turned a clear coral-pink and the pieces are cold right through. Make the dice no bigger than 1 cm so they pass up a wide straw. Grenadine here means pomegranate syrup; a red fruit syrup works too. Chef's tip: squeeze a little lime over the cut apple and banana to keep them pale and add a tang that lifts the whole jug.

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MerengadaStrawberry milk shake

Ask for a batido in Venezuela and you get fruit blended with water; ask for a merengada and it comes with milk, frothy and pale. The name is said to come from the old habit of beating in a little egg white like a meringue, which few cooks do now. Every panadería and fuente de soda from Maracaibo to Barcelona has a row of fruits on the counter, and strawberry from the Andes of Mérida, banana and guava are the favourites, ordered with a cachito or a pastelito at breakfast or as an after-school treat. A good merengada is cold, light and foamy, tasting clearly of fruit, not just of sweet milk. The common mistake is too little ice and too much milk, which gives a thin, warm drink with no froth. Blend the fruit with part of the milk first until perfectly smooth, then add the ice and the rest of the milk and blend hard. It is ready when a thick layer of pink foam sits on top and no fruit pieces are left. Banana or guava (strain the guava for seeds) work the same way. Chef's tip: frozen strawberries make it frostier; cut the ice by half if you use them.

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TereréIced yerba mate

In Asunción the hottest part of the day stops for tereré: a horn or cup packed with yerba mate, topped up again and again with ice water infused with crushed herbs, and passed round the group through a metal straw. It was recognised by UNESCO as part of Paraguay's cultural heritage, and the herbs (yuyos) change with the season and the drinker's mood. Yerba mate contains caffeine, so it isn't one for small children. The common mistake is pouring water straight into loose yerba, which then clogs the straw; tilt the yerba to one side first. Chef's tip: for tereré ruso, swap the water for cold orange or grapefruit juice.

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Prú orientalSpiced root drink

In Santiago de Cuba, Guantánamo and Baracoa, prú is sold from plastic bottles at the kitchen door and poured at every birthday, often next to a slab of cake. The recipe came from Haitian and French-Caribbean coffee planters who settled in the east, and families still keep a "madre", a starter jar from the last batch. Roots of raíz de China and bejuco ubí are boiled with pine, cinnamon and allspice, sweetened and left to ferment for a few days. It tastes like a wild, earthy root beer: woody, spiced, a little bitter, with a soft prickle. Fermentation makes a trace of alcohol, well under 1% if drunk young. Outside Cuba use dried sarsaparilla root, a close relative of China root. The common mistake is sealing bottles too early and leaving them warm, which builds dangerous pressure; use a plastic test bottle and chill once it is firm. It is ready when tiny bubbles rise and it smells sweet-sour, not yeasty. Throw it out if it grows fuzzy mould, turns slimy or smells rotten. Pregnant people should skip the pine needles, and anyone on medication should check with a doctor about herbal roots. Chef's tip: keep 250 ml back as the madre for your next batch.

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Ssanghwa-cha (herbal tonic tea)

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.

135 minKoreanDrinksVeganGluten free
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GuayusaHolly leaf infusion

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.

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Batido de mameyMamey milkshake

In Havana and all over the island, the cafeteria counter has a blender that never stops, turning out batidos of mango, guanábana, papaya and the favourite of all, mamey. The fruit has a rough brown skin and a soft, salmon-red flesh that tastes like sweet potato, pumpkin pie, almond and apricot at once, and blended with cold milk it makes a shake so thick it is almost a dessert. It is drunk mid-afternoon on hot days, at breakfast with toast, or at a kid's birthday party; Miami's Cuban cafés keep the tradition alive with frozen pulp. The common mistake is using a hard mamey, which tastes starchy and slightly bitter; the fruit must give like a ripe avocado when pressed and show deep red flesh when you scratch the skin with a fingernail. The batido is ready when it is smooth, pumpkin-orange and pours slowly in a thick ribbon. Frozen mamey pulp from Latin American shops is a good substitute; reduce the ice because the pulp is already cold. Chef's tip: a pinch of salt and a drop of vanilla bring out mamey's almond notes.

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Ensalada salvadoreñaChopped fruit apple drink

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.

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Neer mor (spiced buttermilk)

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.

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Trà sen (lotus tea)

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.

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GenmaichaGreen tea with toasted rice

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.

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Makhaniya lassiSaffron lassi with butter

Around the clock tower and old city of Jodhpur, lassi shops churn this rich drink all day in summer: chilled set curd whisked with sugar, saffron and cardamom, poured into tall glasses and crowned with a spoon of fresh white butter (makhan) and a layer of malai. You drink the cool lassi and eat the butter and cream with a spoon. It is a meal in itself. The common mistake is thinning it with too much water or ice, which loses the thick, almost spoonable texture that makes it Jodhpuri. Chef's tip: use curd set from full-fat milk the night before and whisk it by hand or with a few pulses only.

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Tsestalulu (sea-buckthorn juice)

Sea buckthorn grows wild along the river beds of Ladakh, and in Leh the bright orange berries are pressed into tsestalulu, a sharp, tropical-tasting juice sold in summer cafés and made at home after the autumn harvest. It is drunk chilled, sweetened with sugar or honey and thinned with cold water. The berries are very sour and slightly oily, so the juice is always diluted. The common mistake is boiling the pulp, which dulls both the colour and the fresh taste; just blend and strain. Chef's tip: frozen sea-buckthorn berries or plain unsweetened purée from health shops work very well; strain twice through a fine sieve for a silky drink.

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SekotengGinger drink with peanuts

After dark in Semarang, Solo and the towns of Central Java, the sekoteng seller pushes his cart round the kampung, a copper pot of ginger water steaming on a charcoal stove and little jars of toppings lined up beside it. You get a bowl of roasted peanuts, soft mung beans, chewy pink pacar cina pearls and cubes of white bread, drowned in sweet, fiery ginger broth; on rainy nights, people say, it warms you down to the feet. The bread soaks up syrup and turns soft at the edges, the peanuts stay crunchy and the ginger bites. The common mistake is cooking the sago pearls in the ginger water: they release starch and make the broth gluey and cloudy. Boil them separately, rinse, and add to each bowl. The broth is ready when it is pale gold, clear and hot enough to make you cough a little. Pacar cina are small red sago pearls; plain small tapioca pearls coloured with a drop of red food colouring or beet juice work. Some sellers add condensed milk; this version stays dairy-free. Chef's tip: roast the ginger before simmering for a deeper, rounder heat.

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ChichemeCold cracked corn drink

Chicheme comes from La Chorrera, just west of Panama City, where it is sold by the glass at the town's fairs alongside bollos and chorizo, and it is now drunk all over the country on hot afternoons. Cracked white corn is cooked until soft and swollen, then mixed with sweetened milk, cinnamon and vanilla and served very cold, so every sip has chewy grains in it. Undercooked corn is the classic mistake; the kernels must be soft right through or the drink feels gritty. Chef's tip: soak the corn overnight, and it cooks in under an hour instead of two.

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Teh talua (egg tea)

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.

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Surinamese dawetCoconut milk and lemongrass drink

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.

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Atol shucoSour black corn drink

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.

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Akajiso juice (red shiso cordial)

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.

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CortaditoEspresso with steamed milk

Havana runs on small cups of coffee: a cafecito standing at a ventanita, a colada shared in tiny plastic cups at work, and in the afternoon or with breakfast, a cortadito, which is Cuban coffee cut (cortado) with roughly as much hot milk. The coffee is brewed in a stovetop cafetera, and the first dark drops are whipped hard with sugar into a pale, thick espumita that floats on top of the cup. The result is rich, very sweet and caramel-like, with a velvety milk body and a strong, bitter edge underneath. It is high in caffeine, so it is not one for children. The common mistake is adding sugar to the pot or stirring it in at the end; without the espumita you get a thin, flat drink. Beat the first concentrated coffee with the sugar until it turns light tan and holds soft folds, then pour in the rest. It is ready when a pale foam floats on the cup and the milk has been heated until steaming, with small bubbles around the edge but not boiling. Chef's tip: catch only the first 2–3 teaspoons of coffee for the foam; later coffee is too thin to whip.

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Café guayoyoLong black coffee

In the coffee villages of the Venezuelan Andes, in Trujillo, Mérida and Táchira, the day starts in the dark with a pot of guayoyo, and it never really stops: a cup at breakfast with arepas, one mid-morning, one after lunch, one at the bodega counter in the afternoon. Guayoyo is the opposite of a short, dark negrito: plenty of water through a modest amount of coffee, poured through a colador de tela, a cotton cloth sock on a wire ring. It is light-bodied, mild and clean, closer to tea in strength, with gentle chocolate notes and almost no bitterness, so it is easy to drink cup after cup. It still has caffeine, so count the cups. The common mistake is pouring boiling water onto the grounds, which pulls out bitter flavours; let the kettle rest off the boil for a minute first. Never wash the cloth with soap either, or every cup tastes soapy. The coffee is ready when it runs through amber-brown, clear enough to see the bottom of a white cup. Sweeten with papelón (raw cane sugar) if you like. Chef's tip: keep the rinsed cloth in a jar of water in the fridge between uses so it never smells stale.

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Malai cha (cream tea)

In Bogura, the town famous for its sweet doi, and in the lanes of Old Dhaka around Nazira Bazar, tea stalls keep a wide karai of milk barely simmering all evening. Layers of skin build up on top; the tea-maker lifts them off as malai and lays a thick spoonful on every cup of strong, sweet milk tea, poured into small unglazed clay bhar that give the tea a faint earthy smell. People stand around after maghrib prayers or late at night, sipping through the cream and finally eating it with a finger. The tea is malty and syrupy-sweet; the malai is soft, rich and slightly caramelised. The usual mistake is boiling the milk hard: a rolling boil breaks the skin into flakes and you never get a thick sheet. Keep it at a lazy shiver and lift the skin every 5 minutes. The tea is ready when it is the colour of milky caramel and coats the back of a spoon; the malai is ready when it lifts off as a wrinkled, leathery sheet. Strong CTC tea makes this fairly caffeinated. Chef's tip: soak clay cups in water for ten minutes first, so they don't drink up the tea or smell dusty.

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PinoleToasted corn drink

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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TahoWarm tofu with syrup and sago

Before eight in the morning in any Philippine barangay you hear the call "Tahooo!" as the magtataho walks past with two aluminium buckets balanced on a shoulder pole: one holds warm, wobbly silken tofu, the other dark arnibal syrup and sago. He scoops paper-thin layers of tofu into a plastic cup with a flat ladle, pours syrup over and adds the pearls, and children eat it standing at the gate with a spoon or slurp it through a wide straw. The taste is caramel and soy milk; the texture is custard-soft tofu against chewy pearls. Baguio has its own pink strawberry version. The common mistake is cooking the sago in too little water or not stirring at the start, so the pearls glue into a lump; use plenty of boiling water and stir for the first two minutes. The sago is ready when the pearls are translucent with only a tiny white dot left in the centre, and the arnibal is right when it coats a spoon like thin maple syrup. Chef's tip: steam the tofu in its box or bowl rather than boiling it, so it stays in one silky piece. Small sago pearls are a choking risk for babies and toddlers, so serve them only to older children.

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MalambeBaobab fruit drink

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.

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Jugo de macaWarm maca drink

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.

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Chai nabat (saffron rock candy tea)

Pilgrims leaving Mashhad carry home boxes of saffron nabat, crystals of rock candy grown on a string and tinted gold with Khorasani saffron. Across Iran a glass of chai nabat is what you are handed when you feel unwell, after a shock, after an exam, or late at night when the evening meal sits heavy; it is traditionally drunk to settle the stomach and warm you up. The tea is brewed strong in a teapot that sits on top of the kettle, then poured clear and amber into small glasses, and the nabat stick is stirred until it softens the tea with a gentle, honeyed sweetness and a faint saffron aroma. Black tea has a moderate amount of caffeine, so give children a weaker glass. A common mistake is boiling the leaves or letting them steep on direct heat, which turns the tea bitter and murky; Persian tea is "dam" — brewed gently on steam. It is ready when the leaves have sunk, the tea is clear and reddish-amber and it smells of bergamot or cardamom. Chef's tip: hold the glass up to the light; if you can't see through it, top it up with hot water, as Iranians do.

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SomóCold spiced corn drink

Somó is how Santa Cruz cools down: big tubs of chilled, sweet, cinnamon-scented corn water sold in markets and at the door of lowland homes, with soft kernels of white corn floating in every glass to be eaten with a spoon. It is a simple drink, but it needs time, because the dried corn must soak and then simmer until each kernel bursts open. People often serve it before the kernels have fully opened, and then they are hard and chalky. Chef's tip: add a strip of orange peel with the spices for a fresher note, as some cruceño grandmothers do.

100 minAndeanDrinksVeganGluten free
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Café de higoFig and grain coffee

In the farmhouses of central Chile, in the Maule and O'Higgins valleys, people have long drunk café de higo: a dark, caffeine-free "coffee" made from dried figs roasted with grains such as barley and wheat, then ground. It's mellow, fruity and slightly caramel-like, and many Chileans still prefer it with milk at breakfast. The fig granules are sold in Chilean and Latin grocers. The common mistake is brewing it like instant coffee, with a quick stir; it's a ground blend, so simmer it briefly and strain. It contains grains, so it is not gluten free. Chef's tip: a strip of orange peel in the pan brings out the fig flavour.

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Magic coffee

The magic is a Melbourne café insider's order, born in the city's Fitzroy and Collingwood coffee bars: a double ristretto (the short, intense first part of the espresso shot) topped with silky steamed milk in a 160 ml cup. It is stronger and sweeter-tasting than a flat white because there's less milk and only the richest part of the shot. A common mistake is scalding the milk; above about 65 °C it loses its natural sweetness. Chef's tip: stop the shot early, at about 30 ml for a double, to get that syrupy ristretto.

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Bajre ki raabdiFermented pearl millet buttermilk porridge

In the villages of Haryana and the Rajasthan border, raabdi is drunk at midday in May and June to keep cool in the fields. Pearl-millet flour is stirred into buttermilk and left to ferment for a few hours, then cooked slowly until thick, cooled in a clay pot and thinned with more buttermilk and salt. It tastes tangy and earthy, a little like a savoury porridge you can drink. Ferment at warm room temperature (25–32 °C) for 4–6 hours: it should smell pleasantly sour with a few bubbles. Throw it away if you see pink, black or furry mould or it smells rotten or of nail varnish. The common mistake is cooking on high heat, which scorches the millet and leaves raw lumps. Chef's tip: keep the cooked raabdi in the fridge and drink it within 2 days, thinning each glass to taste.

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Mongolian salty milk tea

Süütei tsai is the first thing offered to anyone who steps into a ger on the Mongolian steppe, from Arkhangai to the Gobi, and families drink it all day long from wide bowls. Green brick tea is boiled in water, then milk and a pinch of salt go in, and the tea is ladled high and poured back again and again to aerate it. Some households add a knob of butter or a spoon of toasted millet for a richer, more filling bowl. It is savoury, not sweet, which surprises first-time visitors. A common mistake is using black tea leaves, which go bitter; use green brick tea or a mild green tea. Chef's tip: the ladling is not just ritual, it gives the tea a smooth, rounded taste.

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Yuja-cha (citron tea)

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.

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Masala doodhSaffron nut milk

Late evening at Ahmedabad's Manek Chowk, milk sellers pour masala doodh from a height between two brass pots to cool and froth it, and on Sharad Purnima families set a pot of it under the full moon before drinking it chilled. It is richer and more fragrant than plain badam milk: a home-ground masala of almonds, pistachios, cardamom, nutmeg and a little black pepper is stirred into milk reduced with saffron and sugar. The common mistake is boiling it hard after the nut masala goes in, which makes it catch and taste scorched. Chef's tip: grind a jar of the masala in one go and keep it in the fridge; two teaspoons turn any glass of milk into a treat.

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Batido de trigoPuffed wheat shake

Havana cafeterías and Miami ventanitas blend this for breakfast on the run: puffed wheat, cold milk, sugar and ice whizzed into a thick, frothy shake that tastes like a malted milk with toasted cereal. It is one of the most loved Cuban batidos, and quick to make at home. The common mistake is using sweetened, honey-coated cereal, which makes it cloying; plain puffed wheat lets the toasty grain flavour come through. Chef's tip: blend the puffed wheat with half the milk first until completely smooth, then add the ice, so you don't get soggy flecks of cereal.

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Sharbat-e bidmeshk (willow blossom sherbet)

Kashan and the villages of Qamsar and Niasar are famous for distilling flowers in spring: rose water in May, and before that araq-e bidmeshk, the distillate of the fuzzy catkins of the musk willow. In summer, when the desert heat settles over the old houses, the same bottles go into sharbat-e bidmeshk, a pale syrup diluted with icy water and served to guests in tall glasses, sometimes with swollen basil seeds. It is traditionally drunk to calm the nerves and cool the body. The taste is delicate, sweet and haunting, somewhere between honeysuckle, musk and fresh hay. The common mistake is adding the distillate to hot syrup; the heat drives the scent away within minutes, so cool the syrup completely first. The syrup is ready when it is clear and pours like thin honey, and the finished sherbet should smell floral the moment you lift the glass. Look for the distillate in Iranian shops; there is no true substitute, though rose water with a few drops of orange-blossom water makes a pleasant but different drink. Chef's tip: a squeeze of lemon in the syrup stops it crystallising in the fridge, where it keeps for a month.

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Misutgaru (multigrain powder drink)

Misutgaru began as travellers' food, a powder of roasted grains that kept for weeks and could be stirred into water on the road. Today it is the drink of Korean summer: mothers shake it with cold milk for breakfast before school, office workers buy it as misutgaru latte from cafés, and farmers drink it at midday in the fields of July. The powder is a mix of roasted barley, glutinous and brown rice, black and yellow soybeans, and sesame, and it tastes of toasted cereal and peanut, lightly sweet, with a thick, creamy body that fills you up like a light meal. The common mistake is tipping the powder into a full glass of milk and stirring: it floats, clumps into dry balls and never fully mixes. Shake it in a jar with a little liquid first, or blend it, then add the rest. It is ready when the drink is smooth, beige and frothy with no dry flecks, and slightly thickened after a minute's rest. Use water or soy milk for a dairy-free version, and note that the barley means it is not gluten free. Chef's tip: a pinch of salt makes the grain flavour taste rounder and less flat.

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Bissy tea (kola nut tea)

Kola trees came to Jamaica with enslaved West Africans, and the nut, called bissy on the island, has stayed in country medicine ever since. Older people in St Mary, St Elizabeth and the hills of Clarendon still keep a dried bissy in the kitchen and grate some into boiling water when the stomach is upset or after eating something that disagreed with them,. Parched in a dry pan first, the grated nut gives a reddish-brown tea that smells faintly of cocoa and tastes bitter and astringent, softened by plenty of sugar. The common mistake is boiling raw, ungrated nut and expecting much flavour: whole pieces give little. Grate it finely, parch it until it darkens and smells like toasted cocoa, then boil. It is ready when the tea is a deep reddish-brown and coats the tongue with bitterness. Kola nut is very high in caffeine, as strong as a big mug of coffee or more, so drink one cup, not late in the day, and keep it away from children, pregnant people and anyone sensitive to caffeine or with heart trouble. Chef's tip: strain it through a fine cloth; the grated nut leaves a gritty sediment that a sieve lets through.

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MaślankaChilled buttermilk

Maślanka, the tangy liquid left after churning butter, is sold in cartons all over Poland and drunk ice-cold with breakfast, with boiled new potatoes in summer, or blended with fruit for children. On its own it is thin, sour and refreshing; with strawberries and a spoon of sugar it becomes a light pink breakfast smoothie. The mistake is buying "buttermilk" that is really thickened yoghurt drink with added flavourings; look for plain cultured buttermilk with nothing else on the label. Chef's tip: chill the glasses as well as the buttermilk, and blend for no more than 20 seconds so it stays light and doesn't separate.

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Maesil-cha (green plum tea)

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.

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Mursalski chaiIronwort tea

High in the Rhodope mountains, shepherds and villagers start the day with a pot of mursalski chai, brewed from the dried flowering stems of Sideritis scardica, the Balkan ironwort that grows on the limestone slopes around Mursalitsa peak. It tastes gently floral, lemony and a little like chamomile and mint, and is traditionally sweetened with honey or drunk plain. The common mistake is steeping it for just a couple of minutes like black tea; the woody stems need a short simmer to give their full flavour and golden colour. Chef's tip: break the stems into 5 cm pieces so they fit the pot and release more flavour, and use a slice of lemon to brighten the colour. Vegans can sweeten it with sugar instead of honey.

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Calamansi juice

Every Filipino household seems to have a calamansi bush or a bag of the little green fruit in the fridge, from Manila condos to farmhouses in Mindoro, the island that grows most of them. At lunch in the dry season the juice comes out iced in a big pitcher; in the rainy months, when everyone has a cough, a lola stirs the same juice into hot water with a little sugar or honey and hands it over at bedtime. It tastes like a lime crossed with a mandarin: sharp, floral and slightly bitter at the edges, with a pale green-gold colour. The usual mistake is squeezing the fruit hard and letting the seeds and pith fall in, which turns the juice bitter within minutes; halve each fruit across, squeeze gently over a small strainer and stop before the peel folds. It is ready when the sugar has fully dissolved, the juice tastes bright rather than harsh and a cold glass fogs on the outside. Chef's tip: dissolve the sugar in a little warm water first, as it never melts properly in iced juice.

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Café con lecheCoffee with hot milk

Every morning from Havana to Miami's Little Havana, breakfast is a big cup of café con leche with a length of buttered, pressed Cuban bread (tostada) to dunk in it. A moka pot of dark espresso-style coffee is whipped with sugar into a pale foam, the espumita, and poured into a mug of hot, lightly salted milk. The usual mistake is boiling the milk, which gives it a skin and a cooked taste; heat it only until it steams. Coffee contains caffeine, so this is a grown-up drink; children traditionally get a cup that is mostly milk. Chef's tip: whisk the first few drops of coffee hard with the sugar to a thick paste before adding the rest; that is what makes the creamy espumita on top.

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Ranawara teaTanner's cassia flower tea

Ranawara, tanner's cassia, is a scrubby shrub with bright golden flowers that grows wild along dry-zone roadsides and in gardens from Kurunegala to Jaffna. The flowers are picked, dried in the shade and sold in packets at every Sri Lankan supermarket and ayurvedic shop, and many households drink a cup each morning instead of plantain tea, traditionally believing it helps balance blood sugar and cool the body during the hot season. It brews into a pale golden-yellow tea with a mild, grassy, slightly beany taste and a gentle bitterness, which is why it is drunk with a piece of jaggery or a spoon of kithul treacle. The common mistake is brewing the flowers with too little water or for too long: the bitterness takes over. A good pinch per cup, a short simmer and a few minutes' steep is enough. It is ready when it is clear and bright yellow and smells like dried hay. Ranawara is a senna-family plant: do not drink it if you are pregnant or breastfeeding, do not give it to young children, and check with a doctor if you take diabetes or other regular medication. Chef's tip: add a few dried flowers to the cup when serving; they float and turn the colour even more golden.

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Kapeng barakoStrong Liberica coffee

In Lipa and the hill towns of Batangas, mornings start with kapeng barako boiled in a dented aluminium kaldero and poured into enamel mugs, often next to pandesal, a slab of tapang Taal or a plate of suman. Barako is Liberica, a large-beaned coffee that grows on tall trees around Mount Malarayat, and the word itself means a strong, rough-mannered man. The cup is heavy and earthy with notes of jackfruit, dark chocolate and smoke, and it is sweetened with sticky muscovado from Negros or Antique, never with white sugar. It carries plenty of caffeine, so go easy if you are sensitive and keep it away from children. The usual mistake is keeping the pot at a rolling boil once the coffee is in: the grounds stew and the drink turns sour and harsh. Bring the water to the boil, then take it off the heat before adding the coffee. The brew is ready when the crust of grounds sinks after the splash of cold water and the liquid underneath is a clear, deep mahogany. Chef's tip: grind it coarse, like raw sugar, so it settles cleanly in the pot.

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Agua de chilacayoteFig-leaf squash drink

When the big, mottled chilacayote squashes ripen at the end of the rains, cooks in Oaxaca's valleys and the Mixteca of Puebla turn them into a drink you eat with a spoon. The flesh is cooked with dark piloncillo and cinnamon until it falls into translucent threads, then cooled and loosened with water; in Oaxaca it is ladled out of clay jars at fairs, weddings and the Day of the Dead, often with a little pineapple. It tastes like cinnamon-scented panela, with soft, slightly crunchy strands that slide up the straw. The usual mistake is boiling it to mush; overcooked flesh goes cloudy and the strands disappear. Simmer gently and stop when the threads separate easily with a fork but still have a little bite. It is ready when the syrup is amber and the strands look glassy. Chilacayote is hard to find outside Mexico; spaghetti squash is the best substitute and gives the same threads. Keeps 3 days in the fridge. Chef's tip: grate a little orange zest into the pot in the last minute to brighten the piloncillo.

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Surti cold cocoaThick chilled cocoa milk

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.

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TepacheFermented pineapple drink

In Guadalajara and markets across central Mexico, tepacheros sell this drink from big clay jars, ladled over ice into bags with a straw on hot afternoons. It is the thrifty drink of the house: the peel and core left after eating a pineapple are fermented for two or three days with piloncillo, cinnamon and cloves until the liquid turns golden, faintly fizzy and pleasantly sour, like a spiced pineapple cider. Wild yeasts from the peel do the work, so it makes a trace of alcohol, well under 1% when drunk young; the longer it sits, the sourer and more alcoholic it gets. The common mistake is leaving it too long in a warm kitchen, when it turns vinegary and cloudy; in hot weather check after 36 hours. It is ready when it has a layer of fine bubbles, smells sweet-sour and fruity, and tastes tart rather than syrupy. White, flat foam can be skimmed; fuzzy, coloured mould, a slimy texture or a rotten smell mean throw it away. Keep it in the fridge 3–5 days, and if you bottle it for fizz, burp the bottles daily so pressure cannot build. Chef's tip: use an organic pineapple and do not scrub the peel, as the yeasts live on its skin.

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Herbata z sokiem malinowymTea with raspberry syrup

In Polish homes a bottle of sok malinowy, the raspberry syrup made each July from garden or forest raspberries, waits in the pantry for winter. When someone comes in from the frost, or lies in bed with a cold, it goes into a glass of hot black tea, sometimes with a slice of lemon; grandmothers insist it makes you sweat the chill out, and the drink is traditionally given at the first sign of a sniffle. It also appears simply after a winter walk or with a slice of cake. The tea turns ruby, tastes of summer berries with a light tannic edge, and is sweet enough without sugar. The usual mistake is pouring syrup into boiling tea straight from the kettle: the fresh raspberry aroma cooks off and only sweetness is left. Let the tea cool for a minute or two first. It is ready when the tea is deep amber, the syrup has fully swirled through and it smells clearly of raspberries. No homemade syrup? Use a good shop-bought raspberry syrup, or make the quick one in the optional steps. Chef's tip: brew the tea weaker than usual, about two minutes, so the fruit stays in front.

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Winter melon tea

All over Taiwan, from Tainan's old markets to Taipei's night-market stalls, winter melon tea is sold in plastic cups packed with ice through the steaming summer. Despite the name there is no tea in it: chunks of winter melon are cooked down for hours with brown and white sugar until the melon disappears into a thick, dark, toffee-scented paste, which is set into blocks and later dissolved in hot water and chilled. The drink tastes of caramel and light molasses with a gentle, grassy melon note, and it is often mixed half and half with lemon juice or fresh milk. The common mistake is stopping too early, when the mixture is still runny: it will not set and it tastes boiled rather than caramelised. Keep stirring until a drop on a cold plate sets firm and the paste pulls away from the pan. Ready blocks keep 2 months in the fridge, or 6 months frozen; make the drink whenever you want it. If you cannot find winter melon (ash gourd, available frozen in Asian shops), there is no good substitute. Chef's tip: a final 10 minutes on low heat with constant stirring gives the deep, smoky colour that market versions have.

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MunkoyoFermented maize drink

Munkoyo is the drink of Zambian village afternoons and long bus rides, sold in reused bottles at roadside stands from Kabwe to Mansa: a thin maize porridge sweetened and loosened by the pounded roots of the munkoyo shrub, then left to ferment lightly for about a day. It tastes gently sweet and sour, a little like a thin, cool maize yoghurt drink, and is drunk by everyone, children included, because it is not meant to be alcoholic. Munkoyo root is hard to find outside Zambia, so this recipe uses ground sorghum malt (sold as sorghum malt flour), which carries the same kind of starch-thinning enzymes; barley diastatic malt powder also works but makes it no longer gluten free. The big mistake is adding the root or malt to boiling-hot porridge, which kills the enzymes so it never thins. Chef's tip: drink it within two days and keep it chilled after fermenting, because if it ferments for longer it keeps souring and can start to develop traces of alcohol.

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Kawa zbożowaRoasted grain coffee

In Polish kindergartens, school canteens and grandmothers' kitchens, kawa zbożowa is the breakfast "coffee" everyone can drink: a blend of roasted rye, barley, chicory and sometimes sugar beet that tastes toasty and malty with no caffeine at all. It is usually drunk milky and a little sweet alongside bread and butter. The common mistake is brewing ground grain coffee like espresso: it needs a few minutes of simmering to give up its flavour, or it tastes like weak tea. Chef's tip: let the pot stand off the heat for 2 minutes after simmering so the grounds sink, then pour gently and you won't need a filter at all.

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