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Vegetarian Chinese recipes

Tofu, noodles, dumplings and stir-fries without meat or fish. (213 recipes)

Wuhan mianwoRice and soybean fritter rings

Wuhan people call breakfast "guozao", and mianwo is one of its icons: a ring of rice and soybean batter fried in a special ladle with a raised centre, so it ends up thick and soft round the rim and thin and crackly in the middle, flecked with sesame and spring onion. It is eaten with hot dry noodles or a bowl of soy milk. The mistake is oil that is too cool: the batter soaks it up and turns greasy; it must hiss strongly the moment it goes in. Without a mianwo ladle, use a deep ladle and spread the batter thinner in the middle with a spoon. Chef's tip: give the batter a quick stir before every fritter, because the rice settles to the bottom fast.

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Qiaoguo (Qixi fried pastries)Sesame sugar fried dough knots

Qiaoguo, 'skill fruits', are fried for Qixi on the seventh night of the seventh lunar month in Zhejiang and Jiangsu. The festival celebrates the Weaver Girl and the Cowherd, the star-crossed lovers who meet once a year, and girls once set out these pastries and asked the Weaver Girl to make them clever with their hands; the neat twists and cut-out shapes show off that skill. They are crunchy, lightly sweet and toasty with sesame, like a delicate biscuit. Serve a plate under the evening sky with tea, melon and fruit. Chef's tip: roll the dough thin, about 2 mm; thicker pieces stay hard in the middle instead of crisp.

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Sanzi (fried dough threads)

Sanzi are lacy coils of fried dough threads, made across Jiangsu and Shandong and by Hui and Uyghur cooks in Xinjiang. They belong to Hanshi, Cold Food Day, just before Qingming, when old custom forbade lighting the stove, so families fried them in advance to eat cold; the shatteringly crisp coils keep well for days and stand for the care taken to prepare for the remembrance. The dough is lightly salted and the strands snap like thin crackers, with a nutty note from sesame. Break them over congee or soy milk, or eat them on their own with tea. Chef's tip: rest the oiled ropes properly; relaxed dough stretches to thread-thin without snapping.

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Boiled water caltrops (zhu lingjiao)Boiled water chestnuts in shell

Boiled water caltrops are a Mid-Autumn snack in Jiangnan and Guangdong, piled on the table beside mooncakes and pomelo while the family waits for the moon. The dark, two-horned nuts are harvested in autumn, and their name, ling, sounds like the word for clever, so children are told to eat them to grow bright; some families also say the shape looks like a bat, a symbol of good fortune. Inside the shell the white flesh is floury and sweet, much like a chestnut. Serve them warm in a big bowl with tea and the rest of the moon-watching snacks. Chef's tip: buy them fresh in autumn from Chinese grocers and always cook them through; never eat water caltrops raw, as they grow in ponds and can carry parasites.

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Nian dou bao (sticky bean buns)

Before the Spring Festival, families in Dongbei make nian dou bao by the hundred, steam them and freeze them outside in the snow so there is a stack ready for every visit of the holiday. The name contains 'nian', sticky, which sounds like the word for year, so they are eaten for a year that holds together and rises higher. The dough, traditionally from glutinous millet that has been lightly fermented, is soft, chewy and gently tangy, wrapped round a smooth sweet red bean filling. This version uses glutinous rice flour and fine cornmeal for the golden colour, with a little yeast for that faint sourness. Serve them warm with tea or plain congee. Chef's tip: wet your hands before shaping; the dough clings to dry hands but behaves perfectly once they are damp.

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Tang gua (malt sugar candy)

On Xiaonian, the 'little New Year' a week before the Spring Festival, families across northern China offer tang gua to the Kitchen God before he flies up to report on the household: the sticky sweets are meant to glue his mouth shut, or at least sweeten his words. The name means 'sugar melons', after their round, ribbed shape. Pulling the hot maltose over and over turns it from amber glass to a pale, airy candy that shatters and then turns chewy, with a toasty malt flavour and plenty of sesame. Serve them with tea on Xiaonian and keep the rest in a tin for New Year guests. Chef's tip: wear clean rubber or silicone gloves and work on an oiled tray; hot sugar sticks to skin and burns.

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Jiaodong hua bobo (festive flower buns)

On the Jiaodong peninsula in Shandong, the days before the Spring Festival are spent shaping hua bobo: large steamed wheat buns twisted into fish, flowers and lucky knots and dotted with red jujubes. A fish bun stands for surplus in the year ahead, the dates for sweetness and a prosperous red, and a tall bun stacked high for a family that keeps rising. The crumb is dense, springy and faintly sweet, a world away from fluffy bao, because the dough is worked stiff and kneaded long. Set them on the reunion table, give them to neighbours, then slice and re-steam the rest with soups and braises through the holiday. Chef's tip: keep the dough firm, more like modelling clay than bread dough, or the shapes slump in the steamer.

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Duanwu mugwort eggs (aiye zhu jidan)Eggs boiled in mugwort water

On the morning of the Dragon Boat Festival, families in Hubei and Hunan hang bundles of mugwort by the door and boil eggs in a pot of the same herb. Mugwort is believed to drive away illness as the hot, damp summer begins, so an egg cooked with it is a small wish for good health, often eaten before breakfast and tucked into children's pockets in little woven nets. The whites take on a pale green-tan tint and a gentle, grassy, slightly bitter aroma, while the yolks stay rich. Serve with zongzi and a cup of tea. Fresh mugwort is sold in Chinese grocers around the festival; otherwise use dried mugwort leaves (ai ye) from a Chinese herbal shop. If you are pregnant, check with your doctor before eating herbal mugwort. Chef's tip: crack the shells gently once the eggs are cooked and let them steep, so the mugwort colour seeps into a pretty marbled pattern.

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Fan sha yu tou (sugar-frosted taro)

Fan sha yu tou is a Chaoshan sweet from eastern Guangdong, made for Mid-Autumn, when taro is in season and set out with the moon offerings; the round harvest corms stand for a full year and a family gathered together. Taro sticks are fried until fluffy, then tossed in syrup that 'turns to sand', crystallising into a crisp white crust. Each piece is crunchy and sugary outside and soft and starchy inside. Serve warm or at room temperature with strong Chaozhou gongfu tea, which cuts the sweetness. Chef's tip: wear gloves when peeling raw taro; its juice makes skin itch.

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Zitui yan (Qingming swallow buns)

In Shanxi, families steam zitui yan for Cold Food Day and Qingming, the spring days of tomb-sweeping and remembering the dead. The buns are named after Jie Zitui, a loyal courtier of ancient Jin whose death in a mountain fire is said to be why no fires are lit on Cold Food Day, and they are shaped like swallows because the birds return in spring and carry wishes for new life. Children used to string them on willow twigs and hang them by the door. The dough is plain, slightly sweet and pillowy, with a chewy red date pressed into each bird. Serve them warm with tea, or cold the next day as the festival intends, alongside pickles and boiled eggs. Chef's tip: snip the tail and wing feathers with small scissors just before the second rise, so the cuts open into neat feathers as the buns puff.

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Dong li (Dongbei frozen pears)

In Dongbei, China's far north-east, winter temperatures fall so low that pears left outside freeze rock hard and turn glossy black, and a bowl of dong li thawing in cold water is part of every Spring Festival. They are eaten after the rich New Year's Eve dumplings and meats: cold, very sweet and full of juice, said to soothe a throat dry from heated rooms and to bring a clear, fresh start to the year. Freezing breaks down the flesh so it becomes soft and almost slushy, with a flavour like pear sorbet. You can recreate them in a home freezer; serve them as they are in small bowls, with spoons and napkins. Chef's tip: thaw them in cold water, never warm; the cold water pulls the frost out slowly and leaves an ice shell that cracks away cleanly.

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Ruyi cai (soybean sprout stir-fry)

A curled soybean sprout, with its fat yellow head and long tail, looks just like the ruyi sceptre whose name means 'as you wish', so in Shanghai and the Jiangnan region no Spring Festival table is complete without a dish of ruyi cai. It is the gentle, crunchy counterweight to the braised pork and fish of the reunion dinner: nutty sprouts, chewy strips of tofu skin and meaty shiitake in a light soy glaze. Many families cook a big batch on New Year's Eve and eat it cold for days. Serve it with rice, alongside red-braised dishes or as part of a vegetarian New Year spread. Chef's tip: cook the sprouts until the beany raw taste is gone; undercooked soybean sprouts taste grassy and are hard to digest.

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Shanzha gao (hawthorn fruit cake)

When the hawthorn trees of Hebei and Shandong drop their red berries in late autumn, cooks across northern China, and especially in Beijing, boil them down into shanzha gao, a firm fruit cake cut into ruby slices. It is a winter sweet, eaten after rich meals because people say it helps digestion, and it sits beside candied hawthorn skewers at the New Year fairs. The texture is like a firm fruit jelly that cuts cleanly, and the flavour is bright and sour-sweet, like a cross between crab apple and cranberry. Serve thin slices with jasmine tea, or cubes on a fruit plate. It is naturally egg-free and needs no setting agent at all: hawthorn is so rich in pectin that the cooked purée sets firm as it cools. Chef's tip: the common mistake is stopping too soon, so keep stirring until a spoon drawn across the pan leaves a clear trail that does not close up.

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Hong tang ciba (brown sugar glutinous rice cakes)

Pounded glutinous rice cakes are a Spring Festival essential in Sichuan and Chongqing, where 'ci' sounds like a wish for the family to stay close, as stuck together as the rice itself. Fried and drowned in brown sugar syrup, they turn into hong tang ciba, a dessert that closes many reunion dinners and hotpot nights. Outside they are puffed and crackly, inside soft and stretchy, and the dark syrup and nutty soybean flour make every bite taste like toffee. This home version steams a glutinous rice flour dough instead of pounding whole grains, which gives the same chew in far less time. Serve straight from the pan while still crisp. Chef's tip: let the steamed slab cool and firm up completely before cutting; warm dough smears and bursts in the oil.

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Guota doufuEgg-battered pan-fried tofu

Guota doufu comes from the Lu kitchen of Shandong, where guota means pan-fried and then simmered so the coating soaks up the sauce. It is a banquet dish in Jinan restaurants and a family favourite at home: tofu slices are dusted in flour, dipped in egg, fried golden, then simmered briefly in a savoury stock with ginger and spring onion until the eggy coating turns tender and juicy. This version uses vegetable stock and no cooking wine. A portion gives about 24 g of protein, from the tofu and eggs. The common mistake is too much stock, which turns the coating soggy and loose; add only enough to come halfway up the tofu. Chef's tip: shake off the excess flour well before the egg, or the coating peels away in sheets.

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Aiwowo (艾窝窝, Beijing stuffed sticky rice balls)

Aiwowo began as a Hui Muslim snack in Beijing and is now a fixture of old Beijing snack shops from Lunar New Year until summer, eaten cool as a mid-afternoon treat. Steamed glutinous rice is pounded until sticky, wrapped around a crunchy filling of toasted sesame, walnuts, sugar and sugared osmanthus, then rolled in cooked rice flour so the balls look like little snowballs. They are soft and chewy outside, crunchy and fragrant inside, and only lightly sweet. Serve them with jasmine or chrysanthemum tea. Aiwowo is naturally egg-free: pounding the steamed rice releases its sticky starch, which binds the dough and seals in the filling. Chef's tip: the common mistake is dusting with raw flour; steam the flour first, or the coating tastes chalky.

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冰粉 (Bingfen, Sichuan ice jelly)Ice jelly with brown sugar syrup

Bingfen is what Chengdu reaches for after a numbing hotpot or on a sticky summer night: a bowl of wobbly, glass-clear jelly, cold from the fridge, splashed with dark brown-sugar syrup and scattered with hawthorn flakes, raisins, peanuts and sesame. It is sold at night markets and hotpot restaurants all over Sichuan and Chongqing, and the jelly itself tastes of almost nothing, just cool and soothing, so the syrup and toppings bring the flavour. It is naturally egg-free and plant-based. The jelly traditionally comes from shoo-fly plant seeds rubbed in water; here it is made with ice-jelly powder, a plant-based setting powder sold in Chinese grocers, which sets clear as it cools. Chef's tip: let the jelly set undisturbed; the common mistake is stirring or moving it while it is half-set, which leaves it cloudy and weeping.

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Xin tai ruan (心太软, jujubes stuffed with sticky rice in osmanthus syrup)Sticky rice-stuffed red dates

Xin tai ruan, 'the heart is too soft', is a small sweet plate found in restaurants all over Jiangsu and Zhejiang, often served as a starter or between courses at banquets, and it is especially popular in the cold months when jujubes are said to warm the body. Dried red dates are pitted, stuffed with a little glutinous rice dough, steamed and then glossed with syrup scented with sugared osmanthus flowers. Each bite is chewy, then soft, with the deep caramel taste of the dates and a floral finish. Serve warm or at room temperature with tea. It is naturally egg-free: glutinous rice flour and water make a dough that turns sticky and elastic when steamed, filling the dates and holding them closed. Chef's tip: the common mistake is cutting through the whole date when pitting; slit only one side so it stays in one piece and wraps the dough.

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Ba bao zhouEight-treasure porridge

Across China, the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month is Laba, and households and Buddhist temples simmer a big pot of eight-treasure porridge to share: glutinous and black rice cooked slowly with red beans, mung beans, peanuts, lotus seeds, red dates and longan until thick and gently sweet. Beijing families still give bowls to neighbours, and it is a warming winter breakfast all season. A bowl gives about 9 g of protein from the beans, peanuts and lotus seeds, so it is a filling porridge rather than a high-protein one. Soak the beans, peanuts and lotus seeds for at least 4 hours or overnight. The common mistake is putting everything in at once: the rice goes to glue before the beans soften, so the beans get a head start. Chef's tip: add the rock sugar only in the last 10 minutes; sugar added early toughens the bean skins.

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Baicai dun doufuCabbage and tofu stew

In Beijing, Shenyang and Harbin, napa cabbage is stored by the hundredweight for winter, and this gentle stew of cabbage and tofu is what many families eat on a cold evening with steamed buns or rice. The cabbage softens and sweetens into the broth, while the tofu turns silky and swells with flavour; ginger and white pepper give it warmth. Salt is the only seasoning, so it stays gluten free. Each portion has about 230 kcal and roughly 21 g of protein, from 150 g of firm tofu. The common mistake is adding all the cabbage at once: the leaves overcook while the thick stems stay crunchy. Chef's tip: fry the cabbage stems in the oil until their edges brown before adding water; it gives the broth a sweet, toasty depth.

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Malan tou with pressed tofuAster greens and pressed tofu salad

When the first malan tou shoots appear in Shanghai, Suzhou and Hangzhou markets in early spring, families make this little cold dish to start a meal: the tender aster leaves are blanched, chopped very fine and mixed with diced smoked pressed tofu, salt, a pinch of sugar and sesame oil. It tastes grassy, nutty and clean. Malan tou can be hard to find outside China; young spinach or shepherd's purse works well. As a side dish for four, each portion has about 120 kcal and roughly 9 g of protein, from the pressed tofu, so it is light rather than high in protein. The common mistake is leaving the greens wet, which dilutes the dressing; squeeze them hard. Chef's tip: press the mixture into a small bowl and turn it out onto the plate for the traditional neat mound.

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Hongshao doufuRed-braised tofu

Hongshao doufu is the meat-free cousin of red-braised pork, cooked in home kitchens from Shanghai to Sichuan as a weeknight dinner with rice and a green vegetable. Slices of firm tofu are fried until golden, then braised in a glossy, mahogany sauce of light and dark soy, a little sugar, ginger and spring onion until they turn sweet-salty and slightly chewy. This version skips the usual splash of Shaoxing wine. A portion gives about 26 g of protein, from 200 g of firm tofu each. The common mistake is moving the tofu too soon in the pan; leave it until it releases on its own, or it tears. Chef's tip: let the sauce reduce until it bubbles thickly and coats the back of a spoon; that is when the tofu is properly lacquered.

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Qingtuan (青团, mugwort rice balls with red bean)

Qingtuan are the taste of spring across Jiangnan: in Shanghai, Hangzhou and the water towns like Wuzhen, steamers of them appear in March and April, and families take them on Qingming tomb-sweeping visits. The dough gets its deep green colour and grassy, slightly bitter scent from young mugwort leaves blanched and blended into glutinous rice flour. Steamed and brushed with oil, the balls are glossy, soft and stretchy, with a smooth sweet red bean centre. Eat them warm or at room temperature with green tea. Qingtuan is naturally egg-free: glutinous rice flour mixed with hot water and mugwort purée forms a pliable dough that steams firm, so no binder is needed. Buy lard-free red bean paste or make your own. Chef's tip: a pinch of soda in the blanching water keeps the mugwort bright green; the common mistake is leaving it out, which gives an olive-grey dough.

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Wandouhuang (豌豆黄, Beijing chilled yellow pea cake)

Wandouhuang is a Beijing spring and early-summer sweet, sold from carts around the Qingming festival and once polished into an imperial version for the Qing court that is still served in Beihai Park's old-style restaurants. Yellow split peas are boiled to a mush, pressed through a sieve and cooked down with sugar until thick, then left to set in a tray and cut into neat pale-gold blocks. Chilled, it is cool and smooth with a fine, melting texture and the gentle, nutty taste of peas. Serve on small plates with jasmine tea, or after a rich meal. It is naturally egg-free and needs no setting agent at all: the starch in the peas firms the paste as it cools, like a polenta. Chef's tip: the common mistake is not cooking the paste down far enough; keep stirring until a line drawn through it with a spatula stays open for a few seconds, or it will not slice.

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WowotouSteamed cornmeal cone buns

Wowotou are the little golden cones that fed northern China through hard decades, and Beijing restaurants now serve them, made small and slightly sweet, as nostalgic winter food alongside stews and pickles. A hollow is pressed into the base of each with a thumb so they cook through evenly. Soybean flour gives them a nutty taste and about 10 g of protein for three buns, from the soy and corn, so they are not high-protein on their own. They are gluten free if your cornmeal and soy flour are milled where wheat isn't; check the packet. The usual mistake is mixing with cold water: the dough stays crumbly and the cones crack, so scald it with near-boiling water. Chef's tip: wet your hands before shaping each cone; the dough won't stick and the surface steams smooth and shiny.

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Liangban bocaiCold dressed spinach

Liangban bocai is one of the cold dishes that open a family meal or a restaurant banquet all over China, from Beijing homes to Sichuan noodle shops, and it is made year round but especially in spring when spinach is sweet. The spinach is blanched briefly, squeezed, and dressed with raw garlic, black vinegar, soy and toasted sesame oil, then scattered with crunchy peanuts; it is garlicky, tangy and fresh. A portion gives about 6 g of protein from the spinach and peanuts, so it is a side, good with rice and a tofu dish. The most common mistake is not squeezing the spinach dry, which drowns the dressing; press it firmly in your hands. Chef's tip: pour a spoonful of smoking-hot oil over the garlic before mixing the dressing; it takes the raw edge off and makes the whole dish smell wonderful.

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Xiqin chao baiheCelery and lily bulb stir-fry

In Guangdong homes and dim sum restaurants this pale green and ivory stir-fry is served as a cooling dish in the dry autumn months, when lily bulb is said to soothe the lungs. Celery is cut on the slant and stir-fried hot with garlic, then the sweet, starchy petals of fresh lily bulb go in for the last minute, with a glossy thin sauce. It is vegan and light, with about 3 g of protein per portion. The common mistake is cooking the lily bulb too long: it turns floury and falls apart, so add it last. If you can't get fresh lily bulb, use soaked dried lily bulb or water chestnuts for crunch. Chef's tip: blanch the celery for 30 seconds first; it keeps its jade colour and only needs a quick toss in the wok.

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Haidai doufu tangKelp and tofu soup

Kelp and tofu soup is everyday drinking soup across China, ladled out at family dinners in Qingdao, Dalian and inland cities alike, and thought of as cooling and good for the body. Strips of kelp give a savoury sea flavour, cubes of soft tofu turn tender in the broth, and ginger, white pepper and spring onion keep it clean and warming. Each bowl has about 130 kcal and roughly 12 g of protein, from the tofu, so it is a light side soup rather than a high-protein meal. The common mistake is not rinsing dried kelp well: grit and the white salt bloom make the soup cloudy and harsh. Chef's tip: simmer the kelp first on its own for 10 minutes; it softens and seasons the water before the tofu goes in.

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Dragon and phoenix cakesLotus seed paste wedding pastries

In Guangdong and among Cantonese families in Hong Kong and overseas, a groom's family sends boxes of 'lung fung beng', dragon and phoenix cakes, to the bride's relatives ahead of the wedding, and the cakes are shared out among guests as a token of the match. The dragon stands for the groom and the phoenix for the bride, and the cakes are stamped in red with the two creatures or the double-happiness character. Inside the many-layered, flaky crust is smooth, sweet lotus seed paste, sometimes with a salted duck egg yolk, served with tea. Older bakeries often use lard; this version uses butter and vegetable shortening, so it is vegetarian. Chef's tip: roll the laminated pastry lightly and evenly; uneven rolling is the common mistake that leaves thick patches of raw dough and torn, leaking sides.

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Cucumber and egg stir-fry

Huang gua chao ji dan is a ten-minute dish from northern Chinese home kitchens, made in summer when cucumbers are cheap and nobody wants to stand over the stove. Soft, fluffy scrambled egg and thin cucumber slices are tossed with garlic and salt for just a minute, so the cucumber stays cool and crisp against the warm egg. Eat it with rice or steamed buns. The mistake is cooking the cucumber too long, which turns it watery and dull green. Chef's tip: take the eggs out while they are still a little wet; they finish cooking when they go back in.

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Tomato and egg drop soup

Tomato and egg drop soup, fan qie dan hua tang, is one of the first soups Chinese home cooks learn, made from Shanghai to Chengdu in the ten minutes before rice is ready. Tomatoes cook down into a light, sweet-sour broth and beaten egg is poured in to set into fine yellow ribbons, finished with spring onion and sesame oil. The mistake that makes it cloudy is pouring the egg into a rolling boil and stirring hard; you want a gentle simmer and a slow, thin stream. Chef's tip: fry the tomatoes in a little oil before adding water, so the broth turns rosy and full of flavour.

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Hand-torn cabbage

Shou si bao cai is a Hunan restaurant classic that every Changsha family also cooks at home: cabbage leaves torn by hand, then flash-fried in a roaring wok with garlic and dried chillies and splashed with black vinegar until smoky, sweet and still crunchy. It goes alongside rice and a meat or tofu dish at dinner. The mistake is putting wet leaves into a lukewarm pan: the cabbage stews and goes limp instead of charring at the edges. Chef's tip: tear rather than cut, because the ragged edges catch the heat and the sauce better than clean knife cuts.

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Chinese walnut cookies

Hap toh sou are a fixture of Cantonese bakeries in Guangzhou and Hong Kong, sold loose by the catty or packed in red tins for Lunar New Year visits, when walnuts stand for family happiness. They are wide, crumbly and slightly sandy, with a cracked golden top crowned by a walnut half and a gentle sweetness that suits a pot of oolong or pu'er. Traditionally they are made with lard, which gives an extra-short crumble; this version uses vegetable shortening or neutral oil, so it is vegetarian. The top is brushed with beaten egg for shine; milk mixed with a little honey or golden syrup is an egg-free alternative. A common mistake is pressing the balls flat: leave them domed and they crack open naturally in the heat. Chef's tip: toast the walnuts before chopping; it deepens their flavour and keeps them crunchy inside the soft crumb.

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BaijimoGriddle-baked flatbread

Xi'an street cooks describe a good baijimo with a three-part saying: an iron ring, a tiger's back and a chrysanthemum heart. That means a pale, firm rim, a top mottled golden like tiger stripes, and a spiral pattern in the middle. Inside it is fluffy and layered, outside thin and crisp, and it is split from the side while hot to make roujiamo, the famous Shaanxi sandwich of chopped braised pork. For a meat-free filling, use braised shiitake and tofu with chilli oil, or spicy shredded potato. The dough is only half-risen on purpose; letting it fully prove is the mistake that gives you a soft, bun-like bread with no crunch. Chef's tip: twist the coil as you stand it on end and press it flat, which is what draws the spiral into the chrysanthemum heart.

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Shou tao bao (longevity peach buns)

In Chinese tradition the peach is the fruit of long life, so birthday tables, from a grandparent's 80th to a child's party, carry a plate of shou tao bao: fluffy white steamed buns pinched into a peach shape, blushed pink at the tip and filled with sweet lotus seed paste. Children love helping to shape the creases and add the pastry leaves. This version is made without milk. It contains gluten. Chef's tip: steam over a gentle, not roaring, boil and wait 5 minutes before lifting the lid, so the buns stay smooth and don't wrinkle.

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Hong dan (Chinese red eggs)

When a Chinese baby turns one month old, the family holds a full-month party and sends red eggs to relatives and friends: the round egg stands for new life and the red for luck and joy, and an even number is given for a boy in some families and an odd number for a girl in others. The eggs are shared by the guests and older children, peeled and eaten plain or with a little salt. This version dyes them with beetroot rather than food colouring. It contains egg. Chef's tip: dye the eggs while they are still warm and the shells take the colour much more evenly.

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Rice cereal paste (mǐ hú)

Long before boxed cereals, Chinese mothers made mǐ hú, rice paste, by dry-toasting rice in a wok, grinding it fine and cooking it with water. It is still a favourite first food all over China, often served as the baby's breakfast while the family eats congee. Toasting gives it a gentle, biscuity flavour and makes it cook in minutes. There is no salt or sugar, and none of the common allergens (milk, egg, gluten, peanut, tree nuts, soya, sesame, fish). Chef's tip: toast and grind a larger batch, sieve it, and keep the powder in a clean, dry jar for up to two weeks.

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Dong gua tangWinter melon soup

In the sticky summers of Guangzhou and Hong Kong, a big pot of winter melon soup is on the stove in many homes: slabs of the pale green gourd simmered until translucent and almost melting, in a clear broth. Cantonese families believe it cools the body and drains the "dampness" of the season. Usually it is made with pork ribs or dried shrimp; this version uses dried shiitake and ginger for a deep, savoury vegetarian broth, seasoned only with salt and white pepper. A bowl is about 40 kcal. The common mistake is cutting the melon too thin, so it disintegrates; cut it into 2 cm slabs and simmer gently. Chef's tip: keep the soaking water from the mushrooms and add it to the pot; it is full of flavour.

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Garlic bok choy

Order a plate of greens in any home kitchen or small restaurant in Guangzhou or Shanghai and it will most likely be this: baby bok choy or xiao bai cai tossed in a smoking wok with a heap of chopped garlic, a pinch of salt and a splash of water, on the table in four minutes. The stems stay juicy and crisp, the leaves silky, and the garlic sweet. It goes with every meal. A portion is about 50 kcal. The most common mistake is a wet, crowded wok, which stews the greens to khaki; dry them well and cook in batches if your pan is small. Chef's tip: add half the garlic at the start and half at the end; you get both mellow, toasty garlic and a fresh punch.

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Liangban fuzhuTofu skin and cucumber salad

Fuzhu, the dried sticks made from the skin that forms on simmering soy milk, are a pantry staple in Guangxi and Sichuan and in Buddhist vegetarian kitchens across China. Soaked until soft and chewy, they are tossed in this cold dish with cucumber, carrot and wood ear in a dressing of garlic, vinegar and sesame oil, served in summer with rice or noodles. It is high in protein and very satisfying. A portion is about 170 kcal. Soak the fuzhu in cold water for 2–3 hours or overnight, not counted in the times. The common mistake is soaking in hot water, which leaves the outside mushy and the centre hard. Chef's tip: blanch the soaked sticks briefly; it cleans off the beany taste and makes them softer and juicier.

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Liangban haidai siShredded kelp salad

Kelp is farmed in huge quantities along the coast of Shandong and Liaoning, and liangban haidai si is the cheap, crunchy cold dish served in every northern canteen, street stall and home: long, thin strands of kelp blanched and dressed in garlic, vinegar, soy, sugar and chilli oil. It is salty-sour, a little spicy and tastes of the sea, and it goes with dumplings, noodles or a bowl of congee. A portion is about 55 kcal. The common mistake is not rinsing the kelp well; it is coated in a salty, slippery film that must be washed off before blanching. Chef's tip: add a few drops of vinegar to the blanching water; it keeps the kelp bright green and crisp.

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Liangban mu'erWood ear mushroom salad

Every noodle shop and dumpling house in Beijing and Harbin has a fridge of liangcai, the cold dishes ordered alongside the main meal, and liangban mu'er is one of the most popular: black wood ear fungus, which grows wild in the northeastern forests, blanched and tossed with black vinegar, garlic, chilli and coriander. It has almost no taste of its own but a lovely crunchy, bouncy bite, and it soaks up the tangy dressing. A portion is about 60 kcal. The common mistake is soaking the dried fungus in hot water to save time; it comes out limp. Use warm water for 15 minutes, or cold water for an hour, for the best crunch. Chef's tip: plunge the blanched fungus straight into iced water; it firms up and stays snappy.

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Garlic steamed eggplant

Fried eggplant soaks up oil like a sponge; Chinese home cooks in Sichuan and across the north get round it by steaming long purple eggplants until creamy, then pouring over a sharp dressing of pounded raw garlic, soy, black vinegar and a little chilli oil. It is served warm or cool as a summer side with rice or noodles, and it takes almost no oil at all. A portion is about 70 kcal. The common mistake is steaming them whole, which leaves the centres hard; cut them into fingers first so they cook evenly. Chef's tip: steam the strips skin side up; the purple colour stays brighter and the flesh doesn't go grey.

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Egg yolk congee for babies (dàn huáng zhōu)

Across China, egg yolk congee is one of the first protein foods a baby is given, often as a light supper once plain rice paste is going down well. A fully hard-boiled yolk is crumbled and mashed into soft, unsalted congee, turning it pale gold and creamy. It contains egg; there is no milk, gluten, peanut, tree nuts, soya, sesame or fish. Many families start with a quarter of a yolk and build up over a few days. Chef's tip: plunge the boiled egg straight into cold water; it stops a grey ring forming and the yolk crumbles more easily.

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Zicai dan hua tangSeaweed egg drop soup

Zicai dan hua tang is the soup that a busy Chinese home cook can make while the rice is cooking: dried laver seaweed, which dissolves into silky dark green ribbons, and egg swirled into simmering water seasoned with a little soy, white pepper and sesame oil. It is on canteen trays in every Chinese university and on family tables across the country. Many cooks add a few dried shrimp; this vegetarian version leaves them out and uses a pinch of mushroom powder or vegetable stock instead. Eggs are an allergen. A bowl is about 50 kcal. The common mistake is stirring as soon as the egg goes in, which makes it cloudy; wait 10 seconds so it sets into flowers. Chef's tip: tear the seaweed into the bowls, not the pot, and pour the hot soup over; it stays tender and doesn't overcook.

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Ji dan gengSteamed egg custard

Ji dan geng is the first "real food" many Chinese children remember: a bowl of steamed egg so smooth it shivers, made by grandmothers from Shanghai to Chengdu for a toddler's lunch, a sick day or a quick side at dinner, and eaten with a spoon over rice. Eggs are beaten with warm water, steamed gently, then finished with a few drops of soy and sesame oil and some spring onion. Eggs are an allergen, and for toddlers under one, leave out the soy. A bowl is about 110 kcal. The most common mistake is using cold water and a fierce heat, which gives a pitted, spongy custard; use warm water and a gentle steam. Chef's tip: cover the bowl with a plate or cling film while it steams, so no condensation drips onto the surface and the top stays like glass.

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Kugua chao danBitter melon with egg

In the humid summers of Guangdong and Fujian, bitter melon is eaten for its "cooling" quality, and kugua chao dan is the gentlest way to learn to love it: thin slices of the ridged green gourd stir-fried until just tender, then folded into soft scrambled egg, which softens the bitterness. It is a classic dish of Cantonese home dinners, eaten with rice. Eggs are an allergen. A portion is about 140 kcal. The most common mistake is not salting the melon; a 10-minute salt and squeeze draws out much of the bitterness. Chef's tip: scrape out every bit of the white pith inside the melon with a spoon; that is where most of the bitterness lives.

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Laba garlic (jade green vinegar garlic)Green vinegar-pickled garlic

On Laba day, the eighth of the twelfth lunar month, Beijing families peel a jar of garlic, cover it with vinegar and leave it in a cold spot until New Year's Eve, when the cloves have turned a startling jade green. They are eaten with the jiaozi on New Year's Eve, a spoonful of the sharp, garlicky vinegar going into every dipping dish. The cloves lose their raw bite and become crunchy, mellow and sweet-sour. The green colour comes from natural compounds in the garlic reacting with the acid in the cold and is perfectly safe. The usual mistake is keeping the jar somewhere warm, where the garlic stays white; it needs to be below about 10 °C. Chef's tip: use firm, purple-skinned garlic, and leave the jar in the fridge door, which is cold but not too cold.

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Osmanthus jelly (gui hua gao)

In Hangzhou and Guilin the sweet osmanthus trees flower around Mid-Autumn, and their tiny golden blossoms are dried to scent teas, wine and this crystal-clear jelly, a light dessert after a mooncake-heavy festival meal. Set with agar instead of gelatine, it is vegan, firm enough to cut into neat squares, and studded with flowers and red goji berries. The mistake is adding all the flowers to hot liquid at once: they float to the top in a crowd, so stir them in once the mix starts to thicken. Chef's tip: a mould with layers of flowers suspended all through looks far prettier than one with all the petals at the top.

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Salted duck eggs

Gaoyou in Jiangsu is famous for salted duck eggs with oily, deep orange yolks, and at the Dragon Boat Festival they are hung in little woven nets around children's necks before being eaten with congee or rice. At home they are simple: clean duck eggs left in a strong salt brine for about four weeks, then boiled. Cracked eggs are the risk; use only uncracked, very fresh eggs, keep the jar cool and always cook them before eating. The common mistake is too weak a brine, which lets the eggs spoil; it must taste as salty as the sea and then some. Chef's tip: from week three, boil one test egg each week until the yolk is as firm and rich as you like.

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Kao leng mian (grilled cold noodle sheets)Griddled noodle sheet wrap

On winter nights outside schools and night markets in Harbin, Heilongjiang, vendors slap thin sheets of pressed cold noodle onto a flat griddle, crack an egg over them, flip, paint them with a sweet-and-hot sauce and fold them around raw onion and coriander. It is a snack from the 1990s that spread across the north-east and now turns up at night markets all over China. The sheet should be chewy with crisp, lacy edges, and the egg should cling to it rather than slide off. The usual mistake is putting the egg on a sheet that is still dry and stiff: sprinkle it with water first so it softens and the egg can grip it. Packets of ready-made kao leng mian sheets are sold in Chinese supermarkets, in the chilled or dried noodle aisle. Chef's tip: keep the heat medium, not high; the sauce has sugar in it and burns long before the egg is set.

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Vegetarian malatangSpicy numbing hot pot

Malatang began on the streets of Leshan and Chengdu as a cheap pot where everything was boiled together, and today it is a lunchtime habit for students and office workers across China: you fill a basket from fridges of skewers and vegetables, and the cook boils it in a numbing, chilli-red broth and hands it back in a big bowl. This home version makes a fully vegan broth from chilli bean paste, dried chillies and Sichuan pepper, with no beef tallow. Choose about six things: tofu puffs, frozen tofu, enoki, wood ear, potato slices, lotus root, greens and sweet potato noodles are classic. The common mistake is to cook everything for the same time; put dense things in first and leafy things last so nothing turns to mush. Chef's tip: a spoonful of sesame paste stirred into each bowl at the end softens the heat and is how many Chengdu shops serve it.

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Almond tofu (xingren doufu)

Almond tofu has nothing to do with soybeans: it is a soft, white jelly of sweetened almond milk, cut into cubes like tofu and floated in cold syrup with fruit. It was once a palace dessert in Beijing and is now on dim sum menus in Guangzhou and Hong Kong in summer. The traditional flavour comes from southern apricot kernels (nan xing ren); this home version uses blanched almonds with a few drops of almond extract, and agar, so it is fully vegetarian. The common mistake is using too much agar, which makes it firm and rubbery; it should only just hold its shape and wobble on the spoon. Chef's tip: bring the agar to a full boil for 2 minutes before adding the milk, or it won't set at all.

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Hong you (Sichuan red chilli oil)

In Chengdu kitchens, a jar of hong you sits next to the stove and goes into almost everything cold: wontons in red oil, cucumber salads, cold noodles and the dressing for liang mian. Good chilli oil is a deep ruby colour, fragrant rather than burnt, with a warm, rounded heat and the tingle of Sichuan pepper. It is poured in two stages, hot then warm, so you get both toasted and bright chilli flavours. The mistake most people make is pouring smoking oil onto the flakes, which turns them black and bitter in a second; check the temperature. Chef's tip: mix coarse and fine chilli flakes, the fine for colour and the coarse for crunch and flavour, and let the oil sit overnight before using.

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Hua juan (scallion flower rolls)

Hua juan, 'flower rolls', are what a northern Chinese household makes when plain mantou feel too plain: the same dough is rolled out, spread with spring onion, salt and a little oil, then cut and twisted so the layers open into petals as it steams. Families in Hebei, Beijing and Shandong eat them for breakfast with millet porridge or with a stew for supper. The common mistake is spreading the filling to the very edge and pressing too hard while twisting, which squashes the layers together so you lose the flower. Chef's tip: dust the oiled surface with a little flour before rolling it up; it keeps the layers separate so they peel apart after steaming.

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Bingtang xueli (rock sugar stewed pears)

When the dry winds of a northern winter bring on sore throats, grandmothers in Beijing and Shandong set a bowl of pear and rock sugar in the steamer, and it is now served as a soothing dessert all over China. Whole Asian pears, hollowed and filled with rock sugar, are slowly stewed until translucent and swimming in their own light syrup. The common mistake is choosing a Western pear that collapses; crisp Asian (nashi or Ya) pears hold their shape and give plenty of juice. Chef's tip: slice off the top as a lid and stew it with the pear; serving the pear with its lid back on is how it is presented at the table.

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Guihua nuomi ou (sticky rice lotus root with osmanthus)

Around West Lake in Hangzhou, lotus roots are pulled from the mud in autumn just as the osmanthus trees bloom, and the two meet in this Jiangnan dessert: the hollow channels of the root are packed with soaked glutinous rice, then the whole root is simmered for hours in brown sugar until it turns rosy brown and soft. It is served cold or warm in slices, the rice showing as white dots, with a drizzle of osmanthus syrup. The common mistake is packing the rice in tight; it swells as it cooks and needs room, or the slices crack and the middle stays hard. Chef's tip: let the root cool in its syrup overnight before slicing; it firms up, cuts cleanly and soaks up more colour.

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Five-spice powder

Across China, from Cantonese roast meat shops to Sichuan home kitchens, five-spice is the blend that seasons red-braised dishes, tea eggs, roast duck and spiced tofu. Shop-bought powder loses its scent quickly; grinding your own takes ten minutes and gives a sweet, warm aroma with a gentle tingle from the Sichuan pepper. It is used by the pinch, not the spoonful. The classic mistake is grinding the spices raw or toasting them until they smoke; warm them just until fragrant. Chef's tip: pick the black seeds out of the Sichuan peppercorns before toasting, since they are gritty and bitter, and sieve the ground blend so it is silky fine.

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Gau choi gau (chive dumplings)

In Guangzhou teahouses these fat, translucent parcels arrive pressed flat and seared on one side, so you see the bright green chives through a skin that is chewy and crisp at once. The dough is wheat starch and tapioca scalded with boiling water, and the filling here is all chives, shiitake and a little firm tofu, which is how many families make it for vegetarian days at New Year. Lukewarm water is the common mistake: the starch only turns into a workable dough if the water is properly boiling. Chef's tip: dry the chives completely after washing, or they weep and make the skins burst.

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Nian gao (brown sugar sticky rice cake)

Across Guangdong a tall nian gao, glossy and almost black from slab brown sugar, is steamed before New Year and offered to the Kitchen God; its name sounds like 'higher every year'. Days later, once it has firmed up, the cake is cut into slices, dipped in beaten egg and fried until the outside is lacy and the inside soft and stretchy. The batter is just glutinous rice flour, brown sugar and water, so a plain steamed slice is vegan; the egg is for frying. Cutting it too soon is the mistake: freshly steamed nian gao is a sticky puddle, so wait at least a day. Chef's tip: oil your knife between slices and it glides through cleanly.

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Sachima (honeyed egg-noodle bars)

Sachima came to Beijing with the Manchus, and old-fashioned bakeries in the north still sell it in big trays: thin strands of egg dough are fried pale gold, tossed in a sticky syrup, pressed into a block and cut into fluffy, sweet squares. Children in China and in Chinese communities abroad grow up with the wrapped supermarket kind, but homemade is lighter and softer. The common mistake is overcooking the syrup; take it too far and the bars set rock hard instead of chewy. It should only reach the thread stage, about 112 °C. Chef's tip: fry the strands only until pale straw-coloured, not brown; they keep cooking for a moment once lifted from the oil.

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Nangua bing (pumpkin sticky rice cakes)

Every family restaurant from Zhejiang to Sichuan has a plate of these little golden pumpkin cakes on the menu, and grandmothers make them at home in autumn when pumpkins pile up at the market: steamed pumpkin is kneaded with glutinous rice flour into a soft orange dough, wrapped round a spoonful of red bean paste, pressed flat and fried until crisp outside and chewy inside. Children love them for dessert or as an afternoon snack. The common mistake is adding all the flour at once; pumpkins vary in moisture, so add it gradually until the dough is soft like earlobes and no longer sticky. Chef's tip: fry them on a medium-low heat with the lid on for the first side, so the centre steams through before the outside darkens.

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Peanut cookies (hua sheng bing)

Lift the lid on a Chinese New Year snack tray in Guangdong, Penang or Singapore and there will be these pale golden domes, so short they crumble the moment they touch your tongue. They are nothing but roasted peanuts ground fine, flour, icing sugar and oil, and this version skips the usual egg wash, so they are vegan. The mistake is over-grinding the peanuts into a paste, which makes the dough greasy and the cookies flat; stop while it is still a fine powder. Chef's tip: let them cool fully on the tray before moving them, because they are fragile until set.

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Mantou (plain steamed buns)

From Shandong to Shaanxi, mantou are what bread is elsewhere: plain, slightly sweet steamed wheat buns bought by the bagful each morning and eaten with porridge, pickles, braised dishes or a fried egg. A good one is snowy white, smooth-skinned and springy, with a fine, close crumb that tears in soft layers. The common mistake is lifting the lid the moment the heat goes off: the sudden cold air makes the skins wrinkle and collapse, so let them stand covered for 5 minutes first. Leftovers are sliced and pan-fried, or split and filled with anything from braised tofu to chilli sauce. Chef's tip: knead much longer than you think, then knead again after the rise; the second knead pushes out the big air bubbles and gives that silky skin.

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Xiaomi zhou (golden millet porridge)

In Shanxi, Hebei and the rest of the north, where rice was once a luxury, a pot of golden foxtail millet porridge is breakfast with steamed buns and pickles, a light supper, and the first food given to new mothers and anyone who is unwell. It needs just millet and water, cooked until a thin, silky layer called mi you, 'rice oil', forms on top. The common mistake is to stir it constantly or add the millet to cold water; start with boiling water and let it simmer gently and it turns creamy without catching. Serve it plain, or with a few red dates or cubes of pumpkin simmered in. Chef's tip: toast the rinsed millet in a dry pan for a minute before boiling for a deeper, nutty flavour.

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Lü dou tang (chilled mung bean soup)

When the heat settles on Guangzhou, Wuhan or Shanghai in July, families keep a jug of mung bean soup in the fridge, and school canteens and workplaces hand it out by the bowl; traditional medicine calls mung beans 'cooling', a reason to drink it on the hottest days. It is just mung beans simmered with rock sugar until some burst and the liquid turns pale green or soft red, eaten chilled. The common mistake is cooking it in an iron or aluminium pan or leaving it uncovered too long, which turns the soup dark brown-red; a stainless steel pot with the lid on keeps it greener. Chef's tip: for a clear green soup, take a few ladles of the liquid after 10 minutes of boiling, before the beans split, and drink that as a lighter tea.

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Yin er tang (snow fungus sweet soup)

Gutian county in Fujian grows most of the world's snow fungus, a frilly white dried fungus that softens into a soft, jelly-like tangle when simmered. Mothers across southern China cook it into a lightly sweet soup with red dates, lotus seeds and goji, served warm in winter and chilled in summer, and it is thought good for the skin and for dry autumn coughs. Done well, the liquid turns thick and glossy on its own. The common mistake is not simmering long enough: under an hour the fungus stays crunchy and the soup thin. Chef's tip: tear the soaked fungus into small pieces and cut away the hard yellow base; the smaller the pieces, the more body the soup gets.

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Vegetarian gooseTofu-skin roll

Shanghai's Buddhist temple kitchens, and the vegetarian restaurant at Jade Buddha Temple in particular, have long served su e as a cold starter: sheets of tofu skin brushed with sweet soy, rolled tight, steamed to set and then fried until the outside turns bronze and blistered like the skin of a roast bird. Sliced on the diagonal, it shows dozens of thin, savoury layers that are tender inside and faintly chewy at the edge. It is eaten at room temperature with other cold plates before a banquet, or tucked into lunch boxes. The usual mistake is soaking the dried tofu skin until it falls apart; you only need to brush it with the warm seasoning so it softens as you roll. Chef's tip: roll each log as tightly as you can and tie it in a cloth before steaming, because loose rolls separate into strips when you slice them.

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Stir-fried two wintersBamboo shoot and shiitake stir-fry

In Hangzhou and Suzhou the cold months bring winter bamboo shoots, dug before they break the soil, and cooks pair them with dried 'winter' mushrooms, the thick-capped shiitake picked in the cold. Temple kitchens in the Jiangnan region make this the centrepiece of a meatless meal: crunchy, sweet bamboo and deeply savoury mushroom in a light, shiny sauce made with the mushroom soaking water. Serve it hot with plain rice. Its one trap is bamboo that tastes bitter or metallic, because it went into the wok straight from the packet; blanch it first. Chef's tip: soak the shiitake overnight in cold water in the fridge rather than in hot water for an hour, and the caps stay plump and the liquid tastes far richer.

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Cu liu baicai (vinegar cabbage)Vinegar-fried cabbage

Through the long winters of Shandong, Hebei and Beijing, napa cabbage was the vegetable stored in every courtyard, and cu liu baicai is how northern homes turn it into a bright, quick dish in ten minutes. The thick white stalks are sliced thin and seared hard in a smoking wok, then splashed with black vinegar so they stay crunchy, juicy and sharp, with a little sweetness and the warmth of dried chilli. It goes with rice, steamed buns or dumplings. The classic mistake is crowding a cool wok, which stews the cabbage in its own water; cook in two batches if your pan is small. Chef's tip: add half the vinegar around the hot edge of the wok so it sizzles and turns fragrant, and the rest at the end for fresh tang.

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Dry-pot cauliflower

Hunan's dry-pot restaurants bring this to the table in a small wok over a burner, still crackling, and it is one of the most ordered dishes in Changsha. Loose-headed cauliflower is used there because its long, thin stems char quickly; ordinary cauliflower works if you cut it into small, flat florets. Restaurants usually fry it with slices of pork belly, but this version is fully vegetarian, with smoky charred edges, plenty of garlic and a deep chilli heat from dried and fresh peppers. Eat it with rice and a cooling soup. The common mistake is boiling the cauliflower first, which makes it soft and stops it charring; dry-fry it instead. Chef's tip: let the florets sit still in the hot wok for a minute at a time so they blacken in spots, because those scorched patches are the whole point.

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Fa gao (prosperity cakes)Steamed rice flour cakes

Fa gao is the little cake on every Cantonese New Year altar in Guangzhou and in Chinatowns from Kuala Lumpur to London: the word 'fa' means both 'rise' and 'prosper', and the deeper the cross-shaped crack on top, the luckier the year. This quick version uses rice flour, a little wheat flour and baking powder, steamed hard so the tops burst open, and it is egg- and dairy-free. The mistake that stops them smiling is a gentle steamer; the water must be at a fierce rolling boil before the cups go in. Chef's tip: fill the cups right to the brim, so the batter has to split as it rises.

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Jau gok (crispy peanut dumplings)

In Hong Kong and Guangdong households, the days before New Year mean a production line at the kitchen table: one person rolls, another fills, a grandparent crimps the rope-like edge, and the finished jau gok go into big tins for visitors. Their purse shape stands for silver ingots, and the filling of roasted peanuts, toasted sesame, coconut and sugar crunches under a flaky, blistered shell. Leaving air pockets inside is the mistake that makes them burst in the oil, so press the filling down before sealing. Chef's tip: fry them at a moderate heat, not high, so the shell cooks through and stays crisp for weeks in an airtight tin.

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Eight treasures rice

On New Year's Eve in Shanghai and the towns of Jiangnan, the reunion dinner ends with a dome of sticky rice turned out onto a plate, its top patterned with red dates, raisins, goji berries, walnuts and lotus seeds, and a heart of sweet red bean paste. A glossy syrup goes over just before it reaches the table. Older recipes use lard; this one uses neutral oil, so it is vegan. The usual mistake is undercooking the rice at the first steaming: if it is still chalky before shaping, it never turns tender. Chef's tip: pack the fruit pattern into the bowl first and press the rice firmly over it, so the design comes out sharp.

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Jiachang doufu (home-style tofu)Home-style braised tofu

Jiachang means 'home-style', and in Chengdu this is the tofu dish every family cook and every small neighbourhood canteen knows by heart: golden fried slices of firm tofu simmered briefly in a red, garlicky sauce of Pixian chilli bean paste with crunchy wood ear and green pepper. Restaurants often add a few slices of pork; this version keeps it fully vegetarian, which is how many Sichuan homes cook it midweek. It is salty, gently hot and made to be eaten with plenty of steamed rice. The usual mistake is moving the tofu around the pan before it has browned, which tears it; leave it alone until it releases. Chef's tip: fry the chilli bean paste slowly in the oil until the oil turns red before adding anything else, as that is where the colour and depth come from.

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Sichuan pao cai (brine pickles)Brine-pickled vegetables

Almost every family in Sichuan keeps a glazed pao cai jar with a water-sealed lid, and some brines have been topped up for decades. Vegetables steep in salted water with Sichuan pepper and fresh chillies until they turn crisp, sour and lightly fizzy; they are eaten as a little dish with rice porridge at breakfast in Chengdu, and chopped into fish, beans and stir-fries for that clean sourness. Many cooks add a splash of baijiu to the jar; this version leaves it out, and the pickle ferments perfectly well without it. The mistake that ruins a jar is a wet or oily spoon: any oil or raw water lets white mould grow, so always use a clean, dry spoon. Chef's tip: dry the cut vegetables in the sun or on a rack for a few hours before packing, as slightly wilted vegetables stay crunchier for longer.

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Tanghulu (candied hawthorn and fruit skewers)

Tanghulu sellers carrying poles bristling with red skewers are a winter sight in Beijing's hutongs and at the Spring Festival temple fairs at Ditan and Changdian. The classic is hawthorn, tart and mealy under a shell of hard sugar; strawberries, mandarin segments and grapes are the modern favourites. Everything depends on the syrup reaching the hard-crack stage, about 150 °C; the common mistake is stopping too early, which gives a sticky coating that never sets. The syrup is far hotter than boiling water and sticks to skin, so keep children well back while you cook and dip, and let them help only with threading the fruit. Chef's tip: the fruit must be bone dry; any water on the skin makes the sugar slide off and bubble.

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Re gan mian (Wuhan hot dry noodles)

In Wuhan, Hubei, the day starts with re gan mian, 'hot dry noodles', eaten standing up or walking to work: springy alkaline noodles, pre-boiled and oiled the night before, are dunked in boiling water for a few seconds and tossed with a thick sesame paste, soy, pickled radish, spring onion and chilli oil. There is no broth; it is rich, nutty, salty and very satisfying. The common mistake is not loosening the sesame paste enough, so it clumps on the noodles instead of coating them; thin it slowly with sesame oil until it falls from the spoon like a ribbon. This version is vegan, made with pickled mustard tuber instead of the dried shrimp some stalls add. Chef's tip: boiling and oiling the noodles ahead and letting them cool spread out is what gives the chewy, slightly dry texture Wuhan people love.

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Kao fu (braised wheat gluten)

Every Shanghainese family puts a bowl of kao fu on the table for Chinese New Year, and the city's temple canteens serve it all year as a cold dish. The spongy wheat-gluten cubes drink up a dark, glossy braise of soy and rock sugar, with crunchy wood ear, meaty shiitake and soft peanuts in every mouthful. It tastes better the next day, eaten cold or just above room temperature with rice or congee. Most people get it wrong by cutting the gluten with a knife; tear it by hand so the rough edges soak up more sauce. Chef's tip: squeeze the boiled gluten hard, like a sponge, before frying, or it spits in the oil and stays bland inside.

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Su shan (crispy shiitake 'eel')Crispy shiitake strips

Shanghai's old vegetarian houses, such as the restaurants beside Jade Buddha Temple, invented su shan to give monks and lay diners the look and taste of the city's famous stir-fried river eel without the eel. Dried shiitake are cut into long strips, coated in starch, fried until crackling and tossed in a dark, sticky sauce sharpened with black vinegar and white pepper. Serve it hot as part of a shared meal with rice and greens; it softens as it sits, so it is not one to make ahead. The common mistake is tossing the strips in sauce that is still thin, which turns the coating soggy at once. Chef's tip: cut the soaked caps in a spiral, round and round towards the centre, to get the long, eel-like ribbons.

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Luo han guo teaMonk fruit tea

The hills around Guilin in Guangxi grow luo han guo, a small round gourd that is dried until its shell turns brown and brittle. Cantonese and Guangxi households simmer one in water when someone has a scratchy throat or a dry cough, or simply in the heat of summer, and the result is a dark amber tea that tastes of caramel and dried fig with no sugar added at all. Drink it hot in winter or chilled in summer. The mistake most people make is using a whole fruit for a single cup, which is cloyingly sweet; one fruit is enough for a large pot. Chef's tip: crack the shell and tear the pulp into pieces, so the flavour comes out in 15 minutes instead of an hour.

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Chive and egg stir-fry

From Shandong farmhouses to student kitchens in Guangzhou, garlic chives fried with egg is one of the first dishes a Chinese child learns to cook and one of the last things a busy parent forgets how to make. The flat chives turn sweet and garlicky in the hot oil and the egg stays in soft, golden curds. It is on the table at ordinary weeknight dinners with rice and a soup, and is also the filling of many chive pockets and dumplings. The most common mistake is cooking the chives and egg together from the start, so the eggs go rubbery while the chives are still raw; cook them separately and bring them together at the end. Chef's tip: dry the chives well after washing, because water in the wok makes them limp and grey.

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Hot and sour lotus root

Hubei is lotus country, its lakes around Wuhan full of the plant, and Hubei and Sichuan cooks dice the crisp root and flash-fry it with chilli and vinegar for a side dish that crunches like water chestnut. It is sour first, then hot, then garlicky, and it wakes up a table of rich braises in a Wuhan home or a Chengdu fly restaurant. Serve it hot or at room temperature with rice. The common mistake is cooking the lotus too long so it turns starchy and dull; it needs only a few minutes. Chef's tip: drop the cut pieces straight into water with a splash of vinegar, which stops them turning grey and rinses off surface starch so they stay crisp.

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Pidan tofu (century egg tofu)Silken tofu with century egg

This cold plate is a summer standby in homes from Shanghai to Taipei and turns up in nearly every Sichuan and Hunan restaurant as a starter: a block of chilled silken tofu, chopped century egg with its amber white and creamy dark-green yolk, and a sharp dressing of soy, black vinegar and sesame oil. It is cool, silky and deeply savoury, and takes ten minutes. Eat it before a meal or with rice and porridge. Buy century eggs from a shop that sells them labelled lead-free; they are fully preserved and need no cooking. The mistake to avoid is skipping the drain, because water seeping out of the tofu dilutes the dressing into a puddle. Chef's tip: chill the eggs before peeling and cut them with a knife dipped in water, or with thread, so the soft yolk doesn't smear.

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Laba congeeMixed grain and bean porridge

On Laba, the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month, Buddhist temples across China from Beijing's Yonghe Temple to Hangzhou's Lingyin hand out bowls of this porridge to everyone who queues, marking the day the Buddha is said to have reached enlightenment. Families cook it at home the same morning, and it signals that the New Year is on its way. It is thick, gently sweet and full of different textures: chewy black rice, soft red beans, creamy lotus seeds and sticky dates. A common mistake is putting everything in at once; the beans need a head start or they stay hard while the rice turns to glue. Chef's tip: soak the beans and black rice overnight, and cook the porridge low and slow with the lid ajar so it does not boil over.

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Vegetarian turnip cake (lo bak go)

Every Cantonese dim sum trolley in Guangzhou and Hong Kong carries lo bak go, and families steam a big tray of it in the week before Chinese New Year, because 'turnip' (really daikon) sounds like good fortune. This version keeps the soft, savoury radish cake and its crisp golden crust but leaves out the usual Chinese sausage and dried shrimp, getting its depth from soaked shiitake and their soaking liquid instead. Serve the slices hot with chilli sauce or hoisin. The most common mistake is slicing the cake while it is warm: it smears and falls apart, so chill it overnight first. Chef's tip: squeeze nothing out of the grated daikon; its juice is the liquid that sets the cake.

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Coconut milk jelly

Hong Kong yum cha halls finish a long Sunday lunch with plates of these cool white-and-clear diamonds, and Guangdong homes set a tray in the fridge for hot summer evenings. The bottom layer is rich coconut milk, the top a clear, gently sweet jelly, both set with agar so it is fully vegan and holds firm even on a warm table. Set the layers too far apart in time and they peel away from each other, which is the usual mistake: pour the second layer while the first is set on top but still warm. Chef's tip: shake the can of coconut milk hard before opening, or the rich cream stays in a lump at the top.

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Mahua (crisp fried dough twists)

Tianjin in northern China is famous for mahua, and the shops on Guifaxiang street sell giant ones stuffed with candied fruit; but the everyday kind is a small, hard, golden twist sold in bags in every corner shop and eaten with tea or as a snack on the train. This home version is crisp right through with a little sweetness and toasted sesame. The common mistake is frying too hot: the outside browns while the thick twist stays doughy and raw in the middle. Keep the oil at about 160 °C and give them time. Chef's tip: let the shaped twists rest 10 minutes before frying so the dough relaxes; tight twists spring open in the oil.

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Celery with smoked tofu

Market stalls in Changsha and Nanjing sell slabs of xiang gan, pressed tofu smoked or braised until brown and dense, and the most common way to cook it at home is with thin Chinese celery. The celery stays juicy and crunchy with a strong, almost herbal flavour, the tofu is chewy and smoky, and a little fresh chilli gives it a Hunan edge. It is an everyday side for rice in Hunan and Jiangsu canteens. The usual mistake is cutting the tofu too thick so it never picks up the seasoning; slice it as thin as the celery. Chef's tip: if you can only find thick Western celery, peel the strings off the back with a vegetable peeler and slice it on the diagonal.

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Homemade hoisin sauce

Cantonese cooks in Guangzhou and Hong Kong brush hoisin over char siu, stir it into noodles and put a dish of it on the table with roast duck and spring rolls. Despite the name, which means 'seafood sauce', it contains no seafood at all. Making it yourself takes fifteen minutes and gives a fresher, less sticky sauce that is sweet, salty, garlicky and gently spiced, without thickeners or colourings. Use it for dipping, glazing tofu or vegetables, and in marinades. The usual mistake is boiling it hard, which scorches the sugar and turns it bitter; keep it at a lazy bubble. Chef's tip: fermented yellow soybean paste (huang dou jiang) gives the closest flavour, but white miso works too if that is what you have.

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Spring pancakes (chun bing)

On Lichun, the first day of spring in the lunar calendar, Beijing families 'bite the spring' by rolling paper-thin pancakes around platters of quick stir-fries: shredded potato, bean sprouts with chives, egg, and a smear of sweet bean sauce. The pancakes are made in pairs, two discs oiled and rolled together, then peeled apart after cooking, so each one is soft and almost translucent. The mistake is rolling them too thick; they should be thin enough to see the light through. Chef's tip: stack the cooked pancakes under a clean tea towel so the steam keeps them supple.

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Shi xiang cai (ten-treasure vegetables)

Shanghai families make a big tub of shi xiang cai on the last days of the old year, and it sits on the table, cold, through the first fortnight of New Year as a fresh, crunchy counterweight to all the braised meat. Ten ingredients, each shredded as fine as matchsticks and stir-fried separately, are tossed together with soy, sugar and sesame oil: soybean sprouts, carrot, celery, wood ear, shiitake, lily buds, bamboo, pressed tofu, preserved mustard tuber and red pepper. Throwing everything into the wok at once is the mistake; each vegetable cooks at its own speed, and only separate frying keeps them crisp. Chef's tip: the finer and more even the shreds, the more it tastes like the real thing.

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Guokui (crisp-crusted spiced flatbread)

Guokui is the flatbread of Chengdu's street corners and of Shaanxi, where Qian County makes huge round ones. In Sichuan the bakers roll a layered dough with spiced oil, flatten it, brown it on a griddle and then finish it against the wall of a barrel oven so it puffs, then split it and stuff it with whatever the stall sells. This vegetarian version is a home-oven bread filled with spring onion and five-spice and baked crisp; split one and fill it with cold spicy potato shreds or smashed cucumber. The common mistake is rolling it too thick; at more than about 1 cm the middle stays bready and the crust never turns glass-crisp. Chef's tip: brown the bread hard on the griddle first, then bake it; the oven dries and puffs the layers so they shatter.

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Chaye dan (marbled tea eggs)

Tea eggs bubble in pots of dark broth beside the tills of convenience stores, at railway stations and on breakfast carts all over China; in Zhejiang and Jiangsu families make a big batch for spring outings and for New Year. The eggs are hard-boiled, their shells tapped all over, then simmered and soaked in black tea, soy sauce, star anise and cinnamon, so the whites come out mottled brown like old porcelain and taste gently of spice. The common mistake is to skip the long soak: an hour in the pot only colours the shell, while a night in the fridge gives the pattern and flavour. Chef's tip: crack the shells gently with the back of a spoon so they craze all over but stay on; if pieces fall off you'll get dark patches instead of fine lines.

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Longevity noodles (chang shou mian)Stir-fried long noodles

Whether it is a grandmother's 80th in Fujian, a child's birthday in Guangzhou or the New Year table in Beijing, there is always a plate of noodles that nobody may cut, because each long strand stands for a long life. In the south they are often yi mein, springy egg-free wheat noodles here, stir-fried with shiitake, chives and bean sprouts in a dark, savoury sauce. The mistake is stirring with a spoon and breaking them; lift and toss with chopsticks or tongs instead. Chef's tip: slurp the first strand all the way without biting it through, for luck.

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Jianshui zong (alkaline rice dumplings)

When the Dragon Boat Festival comes round in early summer, kitchens in Guangdong and the Jiangnan region boil batches of these plain, amber zongzi in bamboo leaves; they are chilled and eaten with syrup or sugar as a cooling sweet. Alkaline water turns the glutinous rice golden, springy and almost translucent, with a faint mineral taste. Food-grade lye water is strong, so keep it away from children, wear gloves and never taste the raw soaked rice. The mistake is wrapping too tightly: the rice swells a lot, so leave a little room. Chef's tip: boil them fully submerged under a heavy plate the whole time, or the tops stay hard.

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Douzhi (fermented mung bean drink)

Douzhi is the breakfast that divides Beijing. It is the sour liquid left over when mung beans are ground and their starch settles out to make noodles and jelly; left to ferment for a day or two, the grey-green whey turns tangy, a little cheesy and sulphurous. Old Beijingers drink it piping hot at dawn in hutong shops around Qianmen and Huguosi, with a dish of finely shredded salty pickle dressed in chilli oil and crisp fried dough rings (jiaoquan) from the bakery. First-timers often say it smells like stale socks; regulars say it tastes like home. The texture is thin and slightly creamy, the flavour sour, a little bitter and savoury. The common mistake is boiling the soured starch hard: it separates into grey water and sludge. Bring it up slowly, stirring, and take it off as soon as it froths. The ferment makes only a trace of alcohol, well under 1%. Ferment at 20–25 °C; normal signs are fine bubbles, a sour, yogurt-like smell and a grey colour. Discard it if you see fuzzy mould, pink or black patches, a slimy texture or a putrid smell. Chef's tip: save 100 ml of a good batch to start the next one, as Beijing workshops do.

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Zha caiPickled mustard stem

Every winter along the Yangtze at Fuling, below Chongqing, the knobbly stem tubers of a mustard plant are strung on bamboo racks to dry in the river wind, then salted, pressed and cured in great pottery jars. That is zha cai, literally pressed vegetable, and a little dish of its shreds sits beside a bowl of rice congee at breakfast across China, or gets tossed into pork noodle soup. The taste is salty, sour-savoury and gently numbing from Sichuan pepper, with a dense, squeaky crunch. Fresh zha cai tubers are rare abroad; kohlrabi has the same texture and works very well. Common mistake: not pressing out enough water between the two saltings, which leaves it limp and diluted. It is ready after about 2 weeks in the fridge, when the pieces have turned translucent at the edges and taste rounded rather than raw. Salt here is high, about 12% of the dried weight in total, so it keeps 3 months in the fridge with a clean dry spoon; discard if fuzzy mould, slime or a rotten smell appears. Chef's tip: soak slices for 10 minutes before cooking if you find them too salty; that is how Chongqing cooks do it.

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Dongbei suan caiFermented napa cabbage

In Harbin, Changchun and Shenyang, late October is when families buy napa cabbage by the cartload, scald it, and pack it head to tail into big glazed crocks on the balcony, weighed down with a smooth river stone. A month later, as winter sets in, it has become suan cai: pale, almost translucent leaves with a clean, lactic sourness and a soft crunch at the rib. It is shredded into suan cai bai rou (sour cabbage with pork belly), stuffed into dumplings for Spring Festival and simmered in hot pots through the long winter. Common mistake: fermenting somewhere warm; above about 20 °C the cabbage softens and can go slimy, so use the coolest spot you have. Normal signs are fine bubbles, a cloudy brine and a sharp sour smell; a flat white film (kahm yeast) can be skimmed off. Fuzzy coloured mould, pink or black patches, or a putrid smell mean discard the lot. Do not eat it before 3 weeks: it is ready when the leaves are uniformly pale yellow-green and taste fully sour. Then keep it in the brine in the fridge for 2 months. Chef's tip: rinse and squeeze the shreds before cooking to soften the sourness.

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Yibin ya caiCured mustard stem

Yibin, where the Min river meets the Yangtze in southern Sichuan, has cured ya cai since the Qing dynasty, and its dark, sweet-salty shreds are what give dan dan mian, gan bian si ji dou (dry-fried green beans) and the steamed pork dish shao bai their deep savoury note. The stems of a leafy mustard are shredded, wind-dried, salted twice, then mixed with a syrup of brown sugar and spices and cured in sealed jars until almost black. The texture is chewy-tender, the taste malty, sweet, salty and warmly spiced with star anise and Sichuan pepper. Common mistake: adding the syrup while it is hot or while the shreds are still wet, which dilutes the cure and invites spoilage; both must be cold and the shreds well dried. It is ready when the shreds are uniformly dark brown and smell of molasses and anise, after 4–6 weeks in the fridge. This cure is high in salt and sugar, so it keeps 6 months refrigerated with a dry spoon; discard if mould, slime or a sour, rotten smell appears. Chef's tip: mustard greens with thick stalks (gai choy) are the best stand-in abroad; save the leaves for soup.

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Fermented bean curd

Fu ru is made all over China, from Guilin's chilli-red cubes to Shaoxing's pale ones, and is usually prepared in the cool months between late autumn and early spring, when the moulds grow slowly and cleanly. Firm tofu cubes sit on rice straw or a rack until a soft white fuzz covers them; they are then rolled in salt and chilli and aged in brine until the centre turns custard-soft and the flavour becomes deep, cheesy and savoury. A quarter of a cube is mashed over plain rice congee for breakfast, or stirred into a sauce for stir-fried water spinach. Common mistake: making it in a warm kitchen; above about 20 °C the wrong moulds and bacteria take over. The bloom must be white or greyish-white and fluffy, smelling mildly of mushrooms; throw away any cube with green, black, pink, orange or yellow spots, sliminess or an ammonia or rotten smell, and if many are affected discard the whole batch. Do not reduce the salt: it is what keeps this low-acid soy ferment safe, and the whole ageing happens in the fridge. It is ready after 6–8 weeks, when a cube is soft right through. Chef's tip: press the tofu overnight first, drier cubes grow a cleaner bloom.

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DouchiFermented black beans

Yangjiang in western Guangdong and Liuyang in Hunan are the two great douchi towns, and both traditionally make their fermented black beans in the dry season, when beans can be moulded indoors and dried in the sun without spoiling. Cooked black soybeans are covered until a yellow-green koji mould grows over them, then washed, salted, packed and fermented for weeks before drying. The result is wrinkled, soft-chewy beans with an intense salty, savoury, almost chocolate-dark flavour. A spoonful steamed with spare ribs or a whole fish, stir-fried with bitter melon or pounded into Hunan's chilli dishes seasons the whole plate. At home, buying koji spores (Aspergillus oryzae) is far more reliable than waiting for wild moulds. Common mistake: letting the beans sit wet or warm in a sealed container during the moulding stage; they must breathe at 28–32 °C. Good koji smells sweet and chestnut-like; discard any batch with black, pink or bright coloured mould, slime or a rotten smell. Keep the salt as given. It is ready when the beans are dark, wrinkled and dry outside but supple within. Store dried douchi in the fridge for 1 year. Chef's tip: rinse and lightly crush the beans before cooking.

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Duo jiaoFermented chopped chillies

In late summer, Hunan kitchens ring with the thud of two cleavers chopping heaps of red chillies, the sound of duo jiao (chopped chilli) being made for the year. Chillies, garlic and ginger are chopped coarse, salted heavily and packed into jars to ferment for about a week, until the heat turns rounder, slightly sour and fruity. Spread thickly over steamed fish fillets, stirred into stir-fried pork or eggs, or spooned over steamed taro, it brings colour as much as fire. Common mistake: chopping it to a smooth paste in a blender; the texture should be rough, pieces the size of rice grains, so pulse briefly or use a knife. Normal ferment signs are a few bubbles, a sour smell and a little liquid rising; a fuzzy coloured mould or a rotten smell means discard. It is ready after 5–7 days at cool room temperature, when it tastes tangy rather than raw. Because it contains garlic and ginger and is a low-sugar paste, it then lives in the fridge for up to 3 months, or in the freezer for a year. Chef's tip: wear gloves and open a window; a kilo of chopped chillies is fierce.

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Tianjin dongcaiPreserved napa cabbage

Tianjin's 'winter vegetable' is made exactly when the name says: in November and December, when napa cabbage is cheap and the northern air is dry and near freezing. The cabbage is diced, salted, dried until it shrinks to a fraction of its weight, then pounded with garlic and salt and packed into earthenware jars to cure through the cold months. It turns golden-brown, chewy and intensely savoury, with a mellow garlic sweetness rather than raw bite. Southern Chinese and Teochew cooks prize it as much as northerners: a teaspoon goes into wonton broth, beef ball soup, steamed pork patties and fish porridge. Common mistake: not drying the cabbage enough; it should lose about 80% of its weight and feel like soft leather, or the cure stays wet and spoils. Since this mix holds fresh garlic and is not acidic, cure it in the fridge, which mimics Tianjin's frozen balconies. It is ready after 3–4 weeks, when the colour has turned amber and the garlic smells sweet and toasty. Keep in the fridge up to 6 months with a dry spoon; discard if mould, slime or a rotten smell appears. Chef's tip: rinse briefly before using; it is very salty and a little goes a long way.

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Suan sunFermented bamboo shoots

In Liuzhou in Guangxi, spring and early summer bring fresh bamboo shoots, and every household fills big jars with sliced shoots in water to sour. The smell of suan sun is legendary, sour, funky and a little like strong cheese, but cooked into a bowl of luosifen (river-snail rice noodle soup), stir-fried with pork and chilli, or simmered with duck, it turns into a deep, savoury tang that locals crave. The slices stay crisp. Fresh shoots contain natural compounds that release cyanide, so suan sun is always cooked before eating: boil it for at least 10 minutes in your dish, and never eat it raw from the jar. Canned or vacuum-packed cooked shoots will not sour on their own; use fresh shoots, or add a little brine from an earlier ferment. Common mistake: letting slices float above the brine, where they go soft and mouldy; keep everything submerged under a weight. Normal: cloudy brine, bubbles, a sharp sour, funky smell, and a flat white film you can skim. Bad: fuzzy coloured mould, pink or black slime, or a rotten-egg, putrid smell; discard. It is ready after 2–3 weeks, when it tastes clearly sour. Chef's tip: ferment it in a shed; the smell travels.

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Xue caiPickled mustard greens

In Ningbo and the river towns of Zhejiang, xue li hong, a feathery potherb mustard, is harvested in early spring and again in late autumn, and much of it is rubbed with salt and pressed into jars. A couple of weeks later it is xue cai, olive green, crisp, salty and gently sour, with a clean mustard bitterness. Shanghainese and Ningbo cooks chop it into noodle soup with yellow croaker or shredded pork, stir-fry it with sliced rice cakes for Lunar New Year, or simmer it with edamame and tofu skin in summer. Abroad, use any young leafy mustard green or the leaves of gai choy. Common mistake: packing the leaves loosely; air pockets let mould grow, so press hard until brine rises over the top. Normal signs are a little cloudiness, small bubbles and a pleasant pickle smell; a flat white film can be skimmed off. Discard if you see fuzzy coloured mould, pink or black patches, or it smells rotten. It is ready after 2–3 weeks, when the leaves have turned from bright to olive green and taste sour. Then keep it in the fridge for 2 months. Chef's tip: squeeze and chop finely before cooking; a quick rinse tames the salt.

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Chai pohPreserved radish

Chaozhou and Shantou on the Guangdong coast dry chai poh in the clear, breezy weeks after the winter radish harvest, laying white strips across bamboo mats on every flat roof. Repeated rounds of salting and drying turn juicy daikon into golden, chewy strips that are salty, sweet and faintly funky, and the Teochew diaspora carried it to Singapore, Malaysia and Thailand. Diced and fried until crisp, it goes into chai poh neng (preserved radish omelette), chwee kueh topping, congee and stir-fried kway teow. This home version uses a little sugar for the sweet style. Common mistake: drying the strips too fast in a hot oven; the outside hardens while the inside stays wet and spoils. Low and slow keeps the texture chewy-supple. It is ready when the strips are amber, flexible and leathery, have lost about 80% of their weight and feel dry, not tacky. Store in a clean airtight jar in the fridge for up to 6 months; discard if mould, slime or a sour, rotten smell appears. Chef's tip: soak the chopped radish for 5 minutes and squeeze before frying, then fry with a pinch of sugar until it smells toasty.

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Pixian doubanjiangFermented broad bean chilli paste

Pixian, now part of greater Chengdu, has made doubanjiang since the 1600s: broad beans are moulded into a koji, chillies are chopped and salted in high summer, and the two are combined in huge open clay vats left in the courtyards to sun by day and breathe by night, stirred every morning for a year or more. The paste darkens from bright red to a glossy red-brown and becomes salty, savoury, deeply fruity and only moderately hot. Fried in oil until the oil turns red, it is the foundation of mapo tofu, twice-cooked pork and boiled fish in chilli oil. This home version takes about three months. Use koji spores for a clean bean ferment, and do not cut the salt: homemade bean pastes are low-acid, and the high salt (about 15%) is what makes them safe. Common mistake: sealing the jar airtight in the warm months; it needs air and daily stirring, so cover it with a cloth or loose lid. Normal: darkening colour, a winey-savoury smell, a little liquid. Discard if fuzzy mould spreads or grows coloured (green, black, pink) patches, or it smells putrid. It is ready when the paste is red-brown and tastes rounded, not raw. Chef's tip: fry it slowly in oil until it smells toasty.

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Hong suan tangFermented tomato sour soup base

In the Miao and Dong villages of Qiandongnan, south-east Guizhou, small wild 'hairy' tomatoes and red chillies ripen together in late summer, and every household fills tall jars with them to ferment into hong suan tang, the red sour base of the region's famous sour-soup fish and sour-soup beef hot pots. The fermented paste is bright scarlet, sharply sour, fruity and fiery, with a funk from the ferment that ordinary tomato never has. People say three days without sour and you walk unsteadily, and it goes into soups year round. Outside Guizhou, use cherry tomatoes, which have a similar high acidity. Common mistake: fermenting with too little salt or with wet produce, which goes mushy and off; dry everything first and weigh the salt. Normal signs: bubbles, a sour, wine-like fruity smell and liquid rising. Bad signs: fuzzy coloured mould, pink or black patches, or a rotten smell; discard. It is ready after 2–3 weeks, when it tastes clearly sour and the raw tomato taste has gone. Then keep it in the fridge for 3 months or freeze it. Chef's tip: fry a few spoonfuls in oil with ginger before adding stock; it turns a deeper red and smells richer.

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Chinese plum sauce

In Hong Kong and Guangzhou roast-meat shops, a small saucer of plum sauce comes with crisp roast goose and siu mei, and at home it is the dip for spring rolls at New Year and the glaze for vegetarian fried tofu or cha siu-style mushrooms. Cantonese suan mei jiang is fruitier and more sour than the gloopy bottled kind: ripe plums are simmered with sugar, rice vinegar, ginger and a little chilli until thick and glossy. Make it in late summer when dark plums are cheap. Common mistake: boiling it too thick; it sets further as it cools, so stop when it coats the back of a spoon and a drip on a cold plate wrinkles only slightly. Readiness cues: the plum skins have melted into the sauce, the colour is deep ruby and the taste balances sweet and sharp. This is a high-acid preserve: in the fridge it keeps 2 months, or water-bath process sealed jars for 20 minutes to keep them in a cupboard for a year (refrigerate once opened). Discard if you see mould, it fizzes, the lid bulges or leaks, or it smells fermented. Chef's tip: add 2 Chinese salted preserved plums, mashed, for the authentic salty-sour depth.

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Guihua jiangOsmanthus syrup

When the osmanthus trees around West Lake in Hangzhou and along the Li River in Guilin bloom in late September and October, the whole town smells of apricots, and families shake the tiny gold flowers onto sheets to preserve them. Guihua jiang, sweet osmanthus sauce, is the result: a loose, amber syrup thick with petals that is drizzled over glutinous rice cakes, sweet lotus-root stuffed with sticky rice, tangyuan in fermented-rice soup and plain congee through the Mid-Autumn Festival and all winter. It tastes floral, honeyed and faintly fruity, with a clean sugar sweetness and a soft, slippery petal texture. The flowers are salted briefly first, which takes away their green bitterness and helps them keep their colour. Common mistake: boiling the petals hard in the syrup, which turns them brown and flattens the perfume; add them only once the syrup is ready and let them barely bubble. It is ready when the syrup coats a spoon and the petals are evenly suspended rather than floating. Chef's tip: dried food-grade osmanthus from a Chinese grocer works well out of season; soak it for 10 minutes and use a third of the weight of fresh.

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Jiu cai hua jiangGarlic chive flower sauce

In late August the garlic chives of Hebei, Beijing and Inner Mongolia send up stiff stalks topped with white flower heads, and northern households grind them with salt into jiu cai hua jiang. A few days of fermentation turn the raw, oniony paste mellow and tangy, and by the first cold evenings it is stirred into the sesame-paste dip for shuan yangrou, Beijing's copper-pot lamb hot pot, alongside fermented tofu and chilli oil. It also lifts plain noodles, steamed buns and boiled dumplings. The taste is salty, garlicky and green, with a gentle sweetness from Asian pear and warmth from ginger; the texture is a loose, coarse purée. Pick the flowers when the buds are just opening, before seed pods form, or the paste turns bitter and gritty. Common mistake: using too little salt; under 8% the paste goes slimy instead of sour, so weigh it. It is ready when small bubbles rise, the colour dulls from bright to olive green and it smells pleasantly sour rather than raw. Chef's tip: a crisp apple works if you cannot find Asian pear; use slightly less, as it is sharper.

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Jing gao (Xi'an steamed sticky rice and date cake)

Before the shops of Xi'an's Muslim Quarter open, vendors on Beiyuanmen and Sajinqiao lift the lids of huge iron zeng pots and carve out jing gao, a dense breakfast of glutinous rice, red dates and kidney beans steamed so long that the dates melt into a jammy layer. It is scooped onto paper plates with a flat spade and eaten hot, often with a sprinkle of sugar, by workers on their way in. The home version steams in a heatproof bowl and needs time rather than skill. The rice turns glossy and chewy, the dates taste of toffee and the beans give a soft, earthy bite. Chef's tip: lay the dates as the bottom and top layers, because their sugar is what colours and flavours the rice as it steams.

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Zeng gao (Xi'an steamed rice cakes with jujube)

Walk the lanes of Huimin Jie in Xi'an in the late afternoon and you will see small round cakes steaming in stacked cups, then flipped out and speared onto bamboo sticks for children heading home from school. They are made from glutinous rice flour rubbed to a damp crumb, layered with sweet jujube paste and steamed until the crumb fuses into a soft, springy cake with a dark red stripe through the middle. They are lightly sweet, chewy and best eaten warm. Chef's tip: rub the flour with water until it just clumps when squeezed, then sieve it, because a light, airy crumb is what makes the cake tender.

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Huanggui shizi bing (Xi'an persimmon cakes)

Every autumn, when Lintong's soft persimmons ripen outside Xi'an, griddles across the Muslim Quarter fill with these orange cakes. The dough is little more than ripe persimmon pulp and flour, so it fries crisp and caramelised outside while staying chewy and sticky inside, and the filling of brown sugar, walnuts, sesame and dried osmanthus melts into a fragrant syrup. They are bought hot in a paper sleeve as an afternoon snack. They contain wheat and walnuts. Chef's tip: use persimmons so ripe they feel like a water balloon; firm ones make the dough taste furry and astringent.

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Tian shui mianSweet spiced soy noodles

Tian shui mian, "sweet water noodles", are a fixture of Chengdu's old snack houses around Wenshu Monastery, ordered at lunch in a small bowl alongside dumplings and wontons. The noodles are cut as thick as chopsticks, cooked chewy and served at room temperature, coated in thick spiced soy syrup, red chilli oil, pounded raw garlic and sesame: sweet first, then hot and garlicky. Chef's tip: simmer the sweet soy until syrupy; if it is thin it runs to the bottom of the bowl instead of clinging to the noodles.

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Tianjin guobacaiCrepe strips in spiced gravy

Guobacai is pure Tianjin: at breakfast stalls in the city, thin crêpes of mung bean and millet are cut into strips and drowned in a thick, glossy gravy scented with star anise, then dressed with sesame paste, fermented bean curd sauce, chilli oil and coriander. It is eaten with a spoon alongside a jianbing or a fried dough stick. The common mistake is a watery gravy; it should be thick enough to cling to the strips like a sauce. Chef's tip: dry the crêpes for an hour, or overnight, before cutting; slightly firm strips keep their bite in the hot gravy.

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Dan hong gaoGriddle egg cakes

On Chengdu's back streets, dan hong gao vendors work a row of tiny copper pans, pouring in a sweet egg batter, adding a spoon of filling and folding each cake in half like a soft taco. Breakfast-goers order a few with brown sugar and sesame, and a few with savoury fillings like pickled mustard greens. The mistake is a lid-less pan: the cakes must be covered so the top steams through while the base turns golden. A small 10–12 cm frying pan works at home. Chef's tip: let the batter rest 10 minutes after adding the raising agent so tiny bubbles form; the cakes come out spongy rather than flat.

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JiaoquanCrisp fried dough rings

Jiaoquan are the thin, shatteringly crisp fried rings that old Beijingers dunk into a bowl of sour douzhi, or tuck inside a sesame shaobing for breakfast. Street cooks use alum to make them puff; this home version uses baking powder and soda, with a long rest so the dough becomes stretchy. The mistake is cutting the rest short: tight dough will not stretch thin and the rings come out chewy. The dough needs about 3 hours in total, most of it hands-off. Chef's tip: keep the oil steady at about 170 °C and turn the rings constantly with chopsticks; they should stay pale gold, not brown, and sound hollow when tapped.

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Lüdou zhouRice and mung bean congee

In Beijing and across the north, a pot of lüdou zhou is what families cook on hot summer mornings: plain rice and mung beans simmered until the beans split and the rice turns creamy, believed to cool the body. It is eaten with salty pickled vegetables, a fried dough stick or a spoon of sugar for children. The mistake is putting the rice and beans in together; mung beans need a head start or you get mushy rice with hard beans. Chef's tip: once it is cooked, leave it to stand off the heat with the lid on for 10 minutes; it thickens into a silky congee without extra stirring.

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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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Jidan guanbingFlatbread filled with egg

Jidan guanbing, "egg-poured pancake", started in Henan and is now on breakfast carts across China: a layered flatbread puffs up like a balloon on the griddle, the cook tears a slit, pours beaten egg inside, then wraps it around lettuce with sweet bean sauce and chilli. The mistake is rolling the dough too thick so it never puffs; roll it thin and seal the oil paste well inside so steam separates the layers. Chef's tip: press the centre gently with a spatula as soon as it starts to rise, which pushes the air into one big pocket ready for the egg.

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San da paoGlutinous rice balls in soybean flour

On Jinli Ancient Street and in the Kuanzhai Xiangzi alleys, san da pao vendors draw a crowd by hurling balls of hot glutinous rice dough at a wooden board hung with brass plates: bang, bang, bang, the "three cannons" of the name, before the balls drop into a tray of roasted soybean flour. Served with dark brown sugar syrup and sesame, they are a soft, chewy, nutty afternoon snack. They contain soya and sesame. Glutinous rice is very sticky, so cut the balls small for children. Chef's tip: work the steamed dough while it is still hot; once it cools it stiffens and will not stretch.

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Ye er baSesame sticky rice dumplings

Ye er ba, "leaf cakes", come from Xinjin on Chengdu's southern edge and are sold all over the city in snack restaurants and teahouses, including the busy tea gardens of People's Park, at breakfast and through the afternoon. Each dumpling is wrapped in a leaf, which keeps it moist and adds a faint green fragrance as it steams; the skin is soft and stretchy, the filling a sweet, nutty black sesame paste. Traditional fillings use lard; this version uses coconut oil and is vegan. It contains sesame. Chef's tip: keep the dough as soft as an earlobe; dry dough cracks and the filling leaks out.

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Jīdàn gēng for babies (steamed egg custard)

Jīdàn gēng, egg steamed with water into a quivering custard, is the dish Chinese grandparents everywhere from Shanghai to Guangzhou make for small children, and it is often the way a baby first meets whole egg at around nine months. The family version is finished with soy sauce, sesame oil and spring onion; this one is plain, so it tastes clean and gently eggy. Steamed slowly, it is smooth as silk and fully set. It contains egg and is free of milk, gluten, nuts, soya, sesame and fish. Chef's tip: cover the bowl with a plate while it steams; dripping condensation is what pockmarks the surface.

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Gē da tāng (flour-knot soup with tomato and egg)

Gē da tāng is the soup of northern Chinese homes, from Beijing hutongs to the kitchens of Hebei and Shandong, made on cold evenings or when someone is under the weather. Water is dripped onto flour until it forms little knots, which are rained into a broth of soft tomatoes and finished with egg, so the bowl is part soup, part tiny dumpling. For toddlers from 12 months it is cooked without salt or soy sauce, and the egg is simmered until fully set. It contains wheat (gluten) and egg, and sesame if you add the oil; there is no milk, nuts or soya. Chef's tip: drip the water in a thin trickle while stirring with chopsticks, so you get rice-sized knots, not a paste.

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Shānyào ní (Chinese yam purée)

Chinese yam (shānyào, the long, hairy-skinned root sold in bundles in markets from Beijing to Guangzhou) is valued in Chinese homes as easy on the tummy, and steamed shānyào ní is one of the classic first purées offered at six months. Once steamed, the crisp, slippery flesh turns floury and pale, and pressed through a sieve it gives a smooth, slightly sweet, potato-like purée. Nothing else is added: no salt, sugar or honey for babies. It is free of the major allergens. Chef's tip: wear gloves or oil your hands before peeling; the raw sap makes skin itch, but cooking destroys it completely.

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Tudou si bing (shredded potato pancakes)

In Shandong, Hebei and the northeast, these thin, lacy potato pancakes are a cheap street breakfast and a favourite filler for children's lunch boxes, crisp at the edges and soft in the middle. The potato is cut into very fine matchsticks, seasoned with spring onion, salt and a little white pepper, and bound with just enough flour to hold. The mistake is rinsing away all the starch and squeezing too hard: the shreds then won't stick together. Rinse once, drain, and squeeze lightly. Chef's tip: press the pancake thin with the back of a spatula as soon as it hits the pan; thin pancakes crisp right through and stay crisp longer in a box.

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Lajiao chao jidan (green chilli and egg)

Hunan home cooks in Changsha make this in ten minutes when there is nothing but eggs and long green chillies in the kitchen, and it is a standard dish at lunchbox shops: the chillies are dry-fried until blistered and smoky, then tossed with big soft curds of egg and a splash of soy. It is hot, so choose mild long chillies or green peppers if you prefer. The mistake is cooking the eggs with the chillies from the start, which makes them tough and grey; scramble them separately and combine at the end. Chef's tip: press the chillies against the hot dry wok with a spatula until they wrinkle and char in spots before any oil goes in. Contains egg and soya.

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Su shi jin (mixed vegetable stir-fry)

Su shi jin means "vegetarian assortment", and it comes from the Buddhist kitchens of eastern China; today it is a staple of office lunchbox shops in Shanghai and Hangzhou. Crunchy wood ear mushrooms, strips of tofu skin, chewy wheat gluten (kao fu or mian jin), carrot, snow peas and bamboo shoot are stir-fried quickly and glossed with a light soy and ginger sauce. The mistake is adding everything at once, so the firm vegetables are raw and the snow peas overcooked; cook in order of hardness. Chef's tip: soak dried wood ear in cold water rather than hot; it plumps up crunchier.

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Dousha bao (red bean buns)

All over China, from Beijing breakfast stalls to Shanghai school bags, dousha bao are the sweet buns people grab in the morning and tuck into a lunch box for later: fluffy white yeasted dough wrapped around smooth red bean paste and steamed until springy. They freeze beautifully, so families make a big batch on Sunday. The mistake is opening the steamer lid as soon as the timer goes; the sudden cold makes the buns wrinkle and collapse. Turn off the heat and wait five minutes before lifting the lid. Chef's tip: chill the bean paste and roll it into balls before wrapping; a firm filling is much easier to seal neatly.

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Liangban sansiCold three-shred salad

Liangban sansi, 'cold-tossed three shreds', is one of the most common cold dishes on Chinese family tables, made in summer and at Lunar New Year as a fresh plate among the richer dishes. Fine strips of carrot, cucumber and kelp (or tofu skin) are blanched where needed and dressed with garlic, rice vinegar, soy and sesame oil, giving a crunchy, bright, gently sour salad. Serve it beside steamed fish or tofu. It is suitable as part of a balanced diet. About 70 kcal and 7 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is cutting the shreds thick and uneven, which makes the salad clumsy and the dressing slides off. A pinch of sugar in the dressing is optional; a sweetener works too. Chef's tip: soak dried kelp strips until soft and blanch them for one minute with a splash of vinegar so they lose their sliminess.

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Qingchao jiaobaiStir-fried water bamboo

Jiaobai (water bamboo, Manchurian wild rice stem) is a summer and early-autumn vegetable of the lakes around Suzhou, Wuxi and Hangzhou, and 'clear-fried' jiaobai is how Jiangnan home cooks show off its sweet, juicy crunch. The pale stems are cut into thin slices or strips and stir-fried briefly with garlic, a splash of soy and a pinch of salt, so they stay crisp and taste faintly like bamboo shoot and corn. Serve with tofu, fish or eggs and a little rice. It is suitable as part of a balanced diet. About 60 kcal and 6 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is overcooking, which makes it soft and loses the crunch; two or three minutes is enough. Asian grocers sell it fresh or vacuum-packed. Chef's tip: choose plump, white stems with no black specks inside, which show an older stem.

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Hong shao dongguaBraised winter melon

Across China, red-braised winter melon is a cheap summer supper dish, cooked when melons the size of a child are sold by the slice at every market from Shanghai to Chengdu. Thick pieces of pale melon are seared, then braised in soy sauce, a touch of sugar and ginger until they turn amber, glossy and almost jelly-soft, soaking up the sauce like a sponge. Eat it with steamed rice and a green vegetable. The usual mistake is cutting the melon too thin, so it dissolves before it colours; keep the pieces about 2 cm thick. Chef's tip: score the flesh in a criss-cross pattern so the sauce soaks in and the pieces look like braised pork belly.

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Dongbei luan dunMixed vegetable stew

Luan dun, the 'chaotic stew', is everyday harvest cooking from Heilongjiang, Jilin and Liaoning, made in autumn when the garden gives everything at once and a big pot feeds the whole household through the cold evenings. Potato, aubergine, green beans, corn on the cob, peppers and tomato are cooked together in a soy-scented broth until soft and saucy, with the potato thickening it naturally. Serve it with steamed rice or mantou buns. The usual mistake is putting everything in together, so the beans stay squeaky while the aubergine turns to mush; add the vegetables in order of how long they take. A pressure cooker works too: 4 minutes on high after the beans and potato go in. Chef's tip: crush the potato pieces lightly against the pot near the end to give the stew body.

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Xiaocong ban doufuCold tofu with spring onion

Xiaocong ban doufu is a northern Chinese home dish, especially popular in Beijing and Shandong on hot summer evenings, so simple that it has given Chinese a proverb about being clear as 'green onion and white tofu'. Soft tofu is blanched, cooled, cut into cubes and tossed with a heap of chopped spring onion, sesame oil and a little salt, so it is cool, silky and fresh. Serve it beside stir-fried vegetables and a little rice or a wholewheat bun. It is suitable as part of a balanced diet. About 120 kcal and 3 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is stirring hard so the tofu breaks into crumbs; fold it gently with a spoon. Chef's tip: blanch the tofu in salted water for a minute, which firms it up and takes away the raw beany taste.

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Suan rong xilanhuaGarlic broccoli

Garlic broccoli is on the menu of almost every Chinese home kitchen and family restaurant, from Guangzhou to Shanghai, as the quick green dish at a weekday dinner. The florets are blanched just until bright, then tossed in a hot wok with a big spoon of minced garlic and a splash of water, so they stay crisp, glossy and full of garlic flavour. Serve with tofu, fish or eggs and a modest portion of rice. It is suitable as part of a balanced diet. About 90 kcal and 8 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is adding the garlic to very hot oil before the broccoli, where it burns and turns bitter. Chef's tip: add a few drops of oil to the blanching water; it keeps the broccoli shiny and green.

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Laohu caiTiger salad

Laohu cai, 'tiger salad', is the fierce raw salad of China's north-east, served in Shenyang and Harbin homes and restaurants alongside dumplings, grilled skewers and heavy stews. Long green chillies, cucumber, coriander and spring onion are cut into thin strips and dressed with rice vinegar, a little soy and sesame oil, so it is hot, crunchy and very fresh. Serve it next to protein dishes as a crisp, low-starch side. It is suitable as part of a balanced diet. About 50 kcal and 5 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is dressing it too early, so the cucumber weeps and the coriander goes limp; dress it just before eating. Chef's tip: choose a mix of mild and hot chillies so you control the heat and still get plenty of crunch.

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Suan la baicaiHot and sour cabbage

Hot-and-sour napa cabbage is a cheap, fast winter dish cooked in Sichuan home kitchens and right across northern China when cabbages are stacked outside every door. The thick white stems are stir-fried first over a fierce flame with dried chillies and Sichuan pepper, then the leaves go in, and a splash of black vinegar is sizzled round the edge of the wok for a sharp, smoky tang. Serve it with tofu or eggs and a small bowl of rice. It is suitable as part of a balanced diet. About 80 kcal and 8 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is cooking over a low heat, which stews the cabbage in its own water; the wok must be very hot. A pinch of sugar is traditional; it is optional, and a sweetener can be used instead. Chef's tip: slice the stems on a sharp angle so they cook as fast as the leaves.

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Jicai doufu gengShepherd's purse and tofu soup

In Shanghai and Jiangsu, shepherd's purse (jicai) is picked from field edges in early spring, and this gentle, lightly thickened soup is one of the first dishes of the season at home and in Shanghainese restaurants. Finely chopped greens and small cubes of soft tofu are simmered in vegetable stock with a few shiitake, then thickened just enough to coat a spoon, giving a soothing, savoury soup with a fresh, grassy taste. Serve it as a starter or with a small bowl of rice. It is suitable as part of a balanced diet. About 110 kcal and 7 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is adding too much starch, which makes it gluey; it should flow off the spoon. Spinach works if you can't find jicai. Chef's tip: blanch and squeeze the greens before chopping, which keeps the soup bright green instead of murky.

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Xiangchun chao jidanChinese toon scrambled eggs

For a few weeks each April in Shandong, Henan and Beijing, the red-tipped young shoots of the Chinese toon tree are sold in bundles at every market, and the first thing families make is this quick scramble for lunch or supper. The toon has a strong, garlicky, almost oniony perfume that turns sweet and nutty once cooked with egg. It is eaten with rice, congee or steamed buns. Suitable as part of a balanced diet, it is high in protein and very low in starch: about 190 kcal and 3 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is skipping the blanch: raw toon tastes harsh and is always scalded first. Chef's tip: chop the toon very finely and beat it into the egg before cooking, so every mouthful carries the scent.

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Ju hua chaChrysanthemum tea

Ju hua cha is chrysanthemum tea, a summer staple in Hangzhou, where the famous small white Hang bai ju flowers grow, and across Guangdong and Hong Kong, where it is poured at dim sum and sold chilled in street-side stalls. Dried flowers open in hot water into a pale golden, honey-scented infusion with a gentle bitterness. It is drunk plain here: no salt and no sugar, so about 0.0 g salt per cup. The usual mistake is using boiling water, which turns it harsh; let the kettle rest for a minute first. A few goji berries add colour and a little natural sweetness. Chef's tip: rinse the dried flowers quickly in warm water first to wash off dust and wake up their fragrance.

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Suanmeitang (sour plum drink)

Old Beijing sold suanmeitang from brass bowls at street corners in summer, chilled with blocks of river ice, and the Qing court drank a version as a cooler. Today it comes in big jugs at copper-pot hotpot restaurants, where its sourness cuts through mutton and sesame sauce; families brew a pot every few days all summer. Smoked wumei plums give a deep, almost bacon-like smokiness, hawthorn adds fruity acid, licorice softens the edges and rock sugar rounds everything off, with dried osmanthus on top for a honeyed scent. It should be dark ruby, clear and refreshing, tart first and sweet after. The common mistake is boiling it hard for hours: the plum stones and hawthorn seeds release bitterness and the brew turns muddy. Simmer gently, strain early and chill fast. It is ready when the plums have collapsed and the liquid tastes clearly sour-sweet with a smoky finish. Licorice root is traditionally used in small amounts; people with high blood pressure, heart or kidney problems, or who are pregnant should keep the licorice out or check with a doctor. Chef's tip: add the osmanthus only after the heat is off, or its perfume vanishes.

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Juhua cha (chrysanthemum tea)

The small white hangbaiju flowers grown around Tongxiang, near Hangzhou, are picked in November, steamed and dried, and they end up in teapots all over China. Families brew them after a rich dinner, through the dry autumn, and iced in summer; dim sum houses in the south offer them as a caffeine-free choice, often mixed with pu-erh. The tea is pale gold, lightly floral with a faint bitterness like chamomile, softened by a little rock sugar and a few goji berries that turn plump and red in the pot. The common mistake is pouring boiling water straight onto the flowers and leaving them for twenty minutes; the tea turns brownish and bitter. Water just off the boil, around 90 °C, and a short steep keep it clear and sweet. It is ready when the flowers have opened like little daisies, the colour is light amber and the smell is honey-like. You can top up the pot two or three times. If you are allergic to ragweed, daisies or marigolds, try a small cup first or skip it, as chrysanthemum belongs to the same family. Chef's tip: for iced juhua cha, brew it double strength and pour it straight over a glass full of ice so it does not taste watery.

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