2799 Jain recipes with no onion, garlic, potato, carrot, fresh ginger or other root vegetables, and no mushrooms, eggs or honey. Hing, dry ginger and turmeric powder are fine. Each has photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Apfelschorle, takes 2 minutes. Most take around 40 minutes.
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Mamri, better known as mandazi, are lightly sweet East African fried breads made with coconut milk and cardamom. They puff up golden and hollow and are soft inside. Serve warm with pigeon peas in coconut milk (mbaazi) for a classic Zanzibar breakfast, or with tea.
Small, round Swahili rice pancakes made from a yeasted batter of rice flour, coconut milk, grated coconut, sugar and cardamom. They're crisp and golden outside, soft and spongy inside. Serve hot with tea.
Injera is the soft, spongy, slightly sour flatbread eaten with Ethiopian stews: you tear it and scoop the food up with it. This home version uses rice and plain flour fermented with a home-made starter over a few days, then cooked on one side until covered in tiny holes. Serve rolled and sliced with missir wat, azifa and atter kik. Any fermented batter left over keeps in the fridge for the next batch.
A soft, savoury pie of blended boiled maize folded into a peppery white sauce and baked until golden on top. It's mild and comforting, a little like a corn pudding, and children love it. The eggs are optional: they make it set firmer. Serve hot with a salad or tomato stew.
Oyaki are the everyday snack of Nagano's mountain villages, where rice was scarce and wheat and buckwheat grew better. The plump dumplings are filled with whatever the season gives: pickled nozawana greens in winter, aubergine and miso in summer, sweet squash in autumn. Old farmhouses baked them in the ashes of the irori hearth; today they are browned in a pan and steamed, so they come out crusty on both faces with a soft, chewy middle. They travel well, which made them the lunch of farmers and hikers on the trails around Zenkoji temple. Chef's tip: let the dough rest for at least 30 minutes. A relaxed dough stretches thin around the filling without tearing.
Chunky skewers of pineapple, banana, strawberry, peach and nectarine drizzled with balsamic vinegar and dark muscovado sugar, then grilled over charcoal until the sugar caramelises. Warm, sticky and a little tangy. Serve hot as a barbecue dessert, with ice cream if you like.
Big pieces of sweet red pepper and fennel tossed with lemon, black pepper and olive oil and roasted until soft and just starting to brown, then topped with black olives, toasted pine nuts and fresh herbs. It works as a side or a light starter, warm or cold. The vegetables can also be roasted on the barbecue jiko.
All over India, fruit sellers with handcarts chop a plate of fruit chaat to order, and in Kolkata the evening carts near New Market and Gariahat pile guava, apple, papaya, banana, pomegranate and cucumber into a leaf bowl with chaat masala, black salt and lime. During Ramzan it appears at iftar, and in summer it is sold with a sprinkle of chilli. It is sweet, salty, sour and a little hot all at once, so it tastes nothing like a dessert fruit salad. Chef's tip: use at least one crunchy fruit (guava, apple or pear) and one soft one (banana or papaya) for contrast.
Whole bananas roasted on the barbecue until soft and sweet, cut into quarters, put on skewers, half-dipped in melted dark chocolate and rolled in chopped almonds, pistachios and cashews. It's a quick barbecue dessert that children love to help make. Serve them straight away while the chocolate is still soft.
Chunks of tender corn on the cob tossed in hot oil with cumin, green chillies, fresh coriander, turmeric, black pepper and lemon until every kernel is coated. It's hot, tangy and messy to eat with your fingers. Serve hot from the barbecue.
Chakuli pitha is Odisha's breakfast pancake and the first of the pithas a child learns to love; it is offered to Lord Jagannath and made at home on Sundays and for Manabasa Gurubar in the month of Margasira. Rice and a little urad dal are soaked, ground and fermented overnight, then poured onto a hot pan into a pancake that is thinner than an uttapam but softer and thicker than a dosa, with a lacy, holey top. It is eaten with aloo bhaja, ghuguni or simply with jaggery. Chef's tip: cook only on one side under a lid; the steam sets the top and keeps the holes.
When the monsoon arrives in Kolkata, the telebhaja shops at every para corner start frying beguni: long, thin slices of aubergine dipped in a spiced gram-flour batter and fried until the coat puffs and turns golden. It is eaten with muri and a cup of tea, or alongside khichuri on a wet Saturday. The inside should be soft and creamy, the shell thin and crackly. Chef's tip: a spoonful of rice flour and a pinch of nigella in the batter keep it crisp long after frying. This is a different dish from begun bhaja, where the slices are fried bare with turmeric and salt.
Chhena poda means 'burnt cheese', and it is Odisha's most famous sweet. It was first made in Nayagarh district, where a sweet maker is said to have left chhena and sugar overnight in a cooling wood oven. Fresh chhena is kneaded with sugar, a spoon of rice flour or semolina, and cardamom, then baked slowly until the outside caramelises into a dark, sticky crust and the inside stays moist and fudgy. It is offered to Lord Jagannath and sold in slabs at every Odia sweet shop. Chef's tip: line the tin with ghee-brushed banana leaf if you can; it adds the smoky note of the original.
Pootharekulu ('coated sheets') come from Atreyapuram village in the Godavari district, where women make translucent rice-starch films by dipping a cloth in batter and wiping it over a hot, upturned clay pot. Those whisper-thin sheets are then layered with ghee and powdered sugar or jaggery and folded into neat parcels that melt on the tongue. True rekulu need the special pot and years of practice, so this home method spreads a very thin rice batter on an upturned wok or non-stick pan and peels off the dried film. Sheets can also be bought ready-made in Indian shops; then just do the filling. Chef's tip: work with the sheets dry; brush ghee on, never sugar syrup, or they turn soggy and tear.
Qatayef only really appear in Egypt during Ramadan: in the weeks of the fast, street vendors in Cairo and Alexandria set up big griddles and pour rows of small pancakes that are cooked on one side only, then sold by the kilo for families to fill at home. The pale, bubbly side is folded around chopped nuts and raisins (or a creamy ashta filling), sealed into half-moons, baked or fried until crisp and dipped in syrup. They are eaten after iftar with tea. Chef's tip: cook the pancakes on one side only and don't flip them; the uncooked top stays sticky and is what glues the edges shut.
Travellers on the road from Patna to Rajgir stop at Silao, a small town near the ruins of Nalanda, for one thing: khaja, a pastry built from dozens of paper-thin layers that flake apart in the mouth and are glazed with a crackly sugar coat. Silao's halwais have made it for generations, and it is carried home in boxes as a present; it is also offered in temples and at weddings across Bihar and Odisha. It takes patience but no special equipment. Chef's tip: fry at a really low heat so the layers have time to open out like pages before the outside colours; hot oil seals them shut.
These are one of Tianjin's three famous snacks, named after Erduoyan ('ear hole') Lane, where the original shop opened over a hundred years ago. The dough is soft, slightly fermented glutinous rice, filled with dark, sweet red bean paste and fried until the shell is crisp and blistered while the inside stays chewy. Locals buy them for festivals and as a winter treat. Chef's tip: seal the edges thoroughly and fry at a moderate heat; hot oil makes them burst and spit.
The name means 'donkey rolling in the dust', after the golden soybean flour that coats these soft rolls like a donkey that has rolled on a dusty road. It's one of the old Beijing sweets sold at temple fairs and in snack streets near Houhai, often next to pea-flour cakes. Inside is chewy glutinous rice dough spread with red bean paste and rolled into a spiral. Chef's tip: toast the soybean flour yourself until it smells of roasted nuts; the shop-bought kind is often pale and flat-tasting.
Every April and May, when the hard, sour green mangoes arrive, Andhra homes turn into pickle factories. The mangoes are cut, stone and all, with a heavy cleaver, then mixed with freshly ground mustard, fiery red chilli powder, salt and a flood of sesame oil, and packed into ceramic jars to mature. Avakaya is fierce, pungent, salty and sour, and a tiny piece mashed into hot rice with ghee and dal is many Telugu people's idea of perfect lunch. A jar lasts the whole year. Chef's tip: every piece of mango, every knife and the jar must be bone dry; a single drop of water can turn a whole batch mouldy.
In Tamil Nadu the day starts with filter coffee: a strong decoction dripped slowly through a two-tier steel filter, mixed with plenty of hot, boiled milk and sugar, and frothed by pouring it from a height between a steel tumbler and its little bowl, the davara. It's served at every Chennai and Kumbakonam 'hotel' and in nearly every home, and it's thick, sweet and slightly bitter from the chicory in the coffee powder. Chef's tip: press the coffee only lightly in the filter and pour the water in slowly; packed too tight, it drips for an hour, and too loose, the decoction is thin.
On the morning of Thai Pongal in mid-January, families across Tamil Nadu cook new-harvest rice in a clay pot in the courtyard and wait for the milk to bubble over: 'pongalo pongal!'. That pot becomes sakkarai pongal, a sticky, golden-brown sweet of rice and moong dal cooked soft, then simmered with melted jaggery and finished with lots of ghee, cardamom, edible camphor and cashews and raisins fried golden. It's also the classic prasadam at Vishnu temples. It's the sweet twin of the peppery ven pongal. Chef's tip: dry-roast the moong dal until it smells nutty before cooking; it adds a toasty depth that plain boiled dal can't give.
Jaipur's old-city sweet shops fry malpua in wide pans of ghee from winter through Holi and Teej, and serve them stacked in a bowl with thick rabri. The batter is made with milk, a little khoya and crushed fennel, so each pancake turns soft and spongy in the middle with crisp, lacy brown edges, then soaks up a saffron-cardamom syrup. Some families also make them as an offering on Holi morning. The usual mistake is skipping the rest: unrested batter spreads unevenly and stays flat and chewy. Chef's tip: pour the batter into the centre of the pan from close above so it spreads by itself; this is how the lacy edges form.
Zunda is Sendai's signature sweet: young green soybeans mashed with sugar into a coarse, pale-green paste. Farmers in Miyagi made it at the end of summer, when edamame were at their best, and it is still sold everywhere from Sendai station's souvenir halls to small tea shops, now also as zunda shakes and rolls. The flavour is gentle, beany and fresh, closer to sweet peas than to red bean paste. Spoon it over warm, chewy rice dumplings and serve with green tea. Chef's tip: rub the skins off the cooked beans. It takes ten minutes but turns the paste from dull khaki to a vivid jade colour.
Ask a halwai in Ujjain, Indore or Ratlam for something festive and they will point to mawa bati: a fist-sized cousin of gulab jamun, made richer with more khoya, fried slowly to a near-mahogany shell and stuffed with nuts, saffron and cardamom. It turns up on wedding menus across Malwa and in sweet-shop boxes at Diwali, usually served warm with a spoonful of its own syrup. Cutting one open to find the green-gold filling is half the pleasure. Chef's tip: fry on a really gentle heat, with the oil barely shimmering; the bati should take a full 12–15 minutes to darken, which is how the middle cooks through.
Hokkaido grows most of Japan's sweetcorn, and in late summer roadside stands around Sapporo and Furano sell cobs so sweet people eat them raw. Butter corn is how the island turns that harvest into a side dish: kernels hissing in a hot pan with Hokkaido's other pride, butter, and finished with soy sauce until the edges catch. You'll find it as a ramen topping, a beer snack in izakaya and a bento filler. Serve it hot beside grilled vegetables or rice. Chef's tip: let the kernels sit in the pan without stirring for a minute at a time. A few browned, almost toasted kernels give the dish its nutty, popcorn-like smell.
Kootu sits halfway between a dal and a vegetable dish, and in Tamil homes it is the mild, kind side on a lunch plate next to a sharp rasam or a fiery kuzhambu. Chopped vegetables such as chow-chow, snake gourd, cabbage or pumpkin are cooked with moong dal until soft, then thickened with a paste of fresh coconut, cumin and a little green chilli. It's the dish many Tamil grandmothers give children and anyone recovering from a fever. Spoon it over rice with ghee or serve it alongside sambar and poriyal. Chef's tip: grind the coconut paste with the cumin raw, not toasted; the fresh, sweet cumin flavour is what makes kootu taste like kootu.
Kopi is the strong, thick coffee poured from long-spouted pots at kopitiams all over Singapore. The beans are dark-roasted with sugar and margarine, which gives a bittersweet, almost chocolatey brew, and the classic cup is sweetened with condensed milk. Order it like a local: kopi-o is black with sugar, kopi-c has evaporated milk, and kopi peng is iced. At home, a dark-roast robusta or espresso blend in a cloth sock or cafetière gets close. Chef's tip: pour the coffee back and forth between two jugs a few times; it cools slightly, aerates and gets the smooth, frothy kopitiam texture.
Tingmo are the everyday bread of Tibet: plain steamed buns made by stretching and twisting oiled strips of dough into a knot, so they open into soft, pull-apart layers. Families in Lhasa and Tibetan communities in Nepal and India eat them with spicy vegetable stews, dal and chilli sauce, tearing off pieces to mop up the sauce. The dough is simple; the twist takes a little practice. Chef's tip: once the steaming time is up, turn off the heat and wait 3 minutes before lifting the lid, so the buns don't collapse.
Roz bel laban (rice with milk) is the pudding of Egyptian homes and dessert shops alike, sold in clay pots and little foil cups across Cairo and eaten all year, especially in the evenings of Ramadan. It is made with short Egyptian rice cooked slowly in milk, thickened with a little cornflour so it sets creamy and spoonable, and scented with vanilla or orange blossom water. This is the roz bel laban fel forn version, finished in a very hot oven so the top blisters with brown spots, the way the Cairo dessert shops sell it. Serve it cold, scattered with pistachios or coconut. Chef's tip: stir the cornflour into cold milk before adding it; dropped straight into the hot pot it turns into lumps you can't whisk out.
Malabar parotta came from the hotels and tea stalls of Malabar in north Kerala and is now made all over the state, where parotta men slap and stretch dough on oiled marble counters late into the night. The soft dough is stretched paper-thin, pleated, coiled like a snail and griddled, then clapped between the hands so the layers pull apart into flaky ribbons. Eat it torn into vegetable kurma or a spicy black chickpea curry. Chef's tip: give the dough its full rest; well-rested dough stretches thin without tearing, which makes the layers.
Vetkoek ('fat cake' in Afrikaans) is fried at church fêtes, rugby matches and roadside stalls all over South Africa, and in townships it's known as amagwinya. The yeast dough fries into a crisp golden ball with a soft, steamy middle, split open while still warm. The best-known filling is curried mince, but just as many people eat them with grated cheese and apricot jam, golden syrup, or a spoon of chakalaka, as here. Chef's tip: keep the oil at a steady medium heat and turn the vetkoek often so they colour evenly and cook right through.
On the cold Tibetan plateau, people drink many cups a day of this salty, buttery tea, and a host keeps topping up a guest's bowl as soon as a sip is taken. Traditionally, brick tea is boiled for a long time, then churned with yak butter and salt in a tall wooden cylinder called a chandong. At home, a blender gives the same creamy, frothy result. It tastes more like a light broth than a sweet tea. Chef's tip: boil the tea hard and long; it needs to be very strong to stand up to the butter.
Provoleta is the first thing off the grill at an Argentine asado: a thick round of provolone-style cheese, invented by Italian immigrants in Buenos Aires, cooked in a small iron pan or straight on the grate until the outside forms a golden crust and the inside turns molten. It comes to the table bubbling, sprinkled with oregano and chilli flakes and drizzled with chimichurri, to scoop up with crusty bread. Many provolones use animal rennet, so check the label and choose one made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: chill the cheese well before cooking; cold cheese forms a crust before the middle melts and runs.
Upperi, the yellow raw-banana chips of Kerala, are fried in huge cauldrons in the snack shops of Kozhikode and Thrissur and handed round in bags at every Onam sadya, where they are one of the first things laid on the leaf. Green nendran bananas are sliced straight into hot coconut oil, and a splash of salted water goes in at the end, so the salt clings to every chip. The result is crisp, golden and faintly sweet, with that unmistakable coconut-oil smell. Chef's tip: rub a little oil on your hands before peeling the bananas; the sap stains skin and is very hard to wash off.
Pap is the everyday staple of South Africa, eaten in Soweto kitchens and Limpopo villages at almost every evening meal, and in a three-legged pot at every braai. It is plain white maize meal cooked in water, in two main styles: stywe pap (stiff pap), smooth enough to roll into balls and dip into relish, and krummelpap (crumbly pap), steamed into dry, fluffy crumbs. Both are eaten with chakalaka or a tomato-and-onion sauce. Chef's tip: wet the meal to a paste before it hits the boiling water, or you'll be fighting lumps for the next 20 minutes.
Tsampa, roasted highland barley flour, has been the staple food of the Tibetan plateau for centuries. Every morning, families in Lhasa and in nomad tents put a handful in a bowl, pour in butter tea, add a knob of butter and knead it with their fingers into small, nutty balls called pak. It's filling, quick and easy to carry. Barley flour is easy to find; toast it in a dry pan if it isn't already roasted. Chef's tip: add the tea a little at a time; you want a dough like firm marzipan, not a paste.
Fara is what a Chhattisgarhi kitchen does with yesterday's rice: it is kneaded with rice flour and hot water into a soft dough, rolled into little fingers, steamed and then tossed in a crackling tadka. Served at teatime or packed for long bus journeys, it is soft and chewy inside with spots of crispness from the pan. Some families spoon it into a thin, tangy curry instead, but the dry tempered version is the one sold in Raipur's snack corners. Chef's tip: knead the dough while it is still hot from the water; cold rice dough cracks and the fara split as they steam.
In the Kashmir Valley this deep-red lamb braise turns up at every wazwan, the multi-course wedding feast cooked by hereditary chefs, and on Sunday tables in Srinagar through the cold months. The Kashmiri Pandit version cooked here uses no onion, garlic or tomato: the colour comes from mild Kashmiri chillies, the warmth from ground fennel and dry ginger, and the body from yogurt cooked down until the fat rises red to the top (that red oil is the 'rogan'). Eat it with plain steamed rice, the Kashmiri way. Chef's tip: use bone-in shoulder or leg and give it time; the bones and slow simmer make the thick, glossy gravy, and boneless meat turns stringy before the sauce is ready.
Jeju's haenyeo, the island's women free-divers, have gathered abalone from its rocky coast for generations, and porridge made with it is a favourite breakfast on the island. Restaurants near the harbours and many hotel breakfast tables offer it, often a soft green-grey from the abalone guts cooked into the rice. It's gentle, warming food, also cooked for anyone who is unwell or tired. Frozen cleaned abalone works well; the porridge is just paler without the guts. Chef's tip: toast the soaked rice in sesame oil with the abalone until the grains turn translucent at the edges before adding any water; it gives the porridge its nutty flavour.
Tire d'érable (maple taffy, or 'tire sur la neige') is the highlight of a spring visit to a Québec or eastern Ontario sugar shack: hot boiled maple syrup is poured in ribbons over clean packed snow, where it firms into a chewy, amber toffee that you roll up onto a wooden stick. It's sold at winter carnivals in Québec City and made at home on a tray of snow or crushed ice. Chef's tip: use a sugar thermometer and stop at 112–114 °C; a few degrees under and it stays runny, a few over and it turns hard as candy.
Pazham pori is what the glass cases of Kerala's roadside tea shops are full of at four in the afternoon: long slices of ripe nendran banana dipped in a sweet batter and fried in coconut oil until puffed and golden. Bite through the crisp, slightly chewy coat and the banana inside is soft, hot and honeyed. People eat them standing at the counter with a glass of frothy, milky chaya, or carry a paper parcel home for the family. Chef's tip: wait until the nendran skins are mostly black; the banana must be fully ripe to turn creamy when fried.
Saskatoon berries grow wild across the Canadian prairies, and in July families in Saskatchewan, Alberta and Manitoba pick them by the pail for pie. They look like blueberries but taste sweeter and nuttier, almost like a cross with cherry and almond, with soft seeds. The city of Saskatoon takes its name from the Cree word for the berry, misâskwatômina. A double-crust saskatoon pie with ice cream is classic prairie summer dessert. Chef's tip: saskatoons are low in acid, so lemon juice is essential to wake up the flavour; outside Canada, use blueberries with a few drops of almond extract.
Bannock is a quick bread of flour, baking powder, fat and water, cooked in a cast-iron pan, baked, fried or wrapped around a stick over a campfire. It's eaten in First Nations, Métis and Inuit communities across Canada, at powwows, family meals and on the land, and every family has its own version. Its history is complicated: wheat flour and lard reached many communities through trade and government rations, and bannock became both a food of survival and a living symbol of community and resilience. Long before that, Indigenous breads were made from local plants and roots. This is a simple home pan version, not any one nation's recipe. Chef's tip: mix only until the dough just comes together; overworking makes bannock tough.
Geelrys, or yellow rice, is the bright, faintly sweet rice that comes to the table in the Western Cape with bobotie, curries and Sunday roasts, and at Cape Malay weddings and funerals alike. It is cooked with turmeric, a stick of cinnamon, a little sugar and plump raisins, then finished with a knob of butter so the grains gleam. The sweetness is gentle, just enough to soften a spicy curry. Chef's tip: add the raisins at the start so they plump in the cooking water; added at the end they stay tough and chewy.
In Mongolian summer, when the herds are milked several times a day, families on the steppe gently heat fresh milk in a wide pan, ladling and pouring it back to froth it, then leave it overnight. By morning a thick, wrinkled, pale-gold skin of cream has formed: öröm. Lifted off and folded, it's spread on boortsog (fried dough) or bread with a sprinkle of sugar and eaten with milk tea. It's rich, slightly nutty and very simple. Chef's tip: use the widest, heaviest pan you own and the lowest possible heat; öröm needs a large surface and patience, not boiling.
Mambazha pulissery appears in Kerala kitchens in April and May, when small, fragrant village mangoes fall from the trees, and it is often on the Vishu sadya. Whole small ripe mangoes, or chunks of bigger ones, are simmered with jaggery and chilli until syrupy, then loosened with a coconut-cumin paste and lightly soured yogurt. Unlike kalan, it stays thin and pourable: sweet, tangy and mildly hot, with the fenugreek tempering on top. Pour it over rice, with a thoran on the side. Chef's tip: use very ripe, slightly fibrous mangoes; firm ones make it sour and the sweetness never comes through.
Haupia is the dessert of every Hawaiian lūʻau and family party: coconut milk thickened and set into smooth, wobbly-firm squares that you can pick up with your fingers. It was once set with arrowroot from the pia plant; today cornflour does the job. It tastes clean, cool and gently sweet, and is also layered on chocolate pies and spread on cakes in Honolulu bakeries. Chef's tip: keep whisking until it's as thick as mayonnaise and big bubbles plop slowly; underdone haupia won't set firm enough to slice.
In Uruguay, a grey rainy afternoon has one answer: torta frita and mate. These thin discs of dough, pierced with a hole in the middle, are fried until puffed and golden and either sprinkled with sugar or eaten plain, still hot, between sips passed around the circle. In Montevideo you'll smell them from street stalls on wet days; at home they're made with butter or beef fat, here with butter. Chef's tip: the hole in the middle isn't decoration; it lets the centre cook through at the same speed as the edges.
Rellenitos surprise everyone who hasn't grown up in Guatemala: soft, sweet plantain dough wrapped around a filling of black beans cooked down with chocolate, cinnamon and sugar, then fried and rolled in sugar. They're sold in panaderías and at fairs, and made at home for afternoon coffee and Christmas. The beans taste nothing like a savoury dish; think of a fudgy chocolate paste. Chef's tip: mash the plantains while hot and chill the dough for 20 minutes; cold dough wraps cleanly without sticking to your hands.
Erissery is the golden, slightly sweet pumpkin dish of the Onam sadya in Kerala, and a favourite in homes all through the harvest season when the yellow mathanga pumpkins are piled up in the markets. Soft pumpkin and red cowpeas are bound with a coconut, cumin and green chilli paste, and the whole pot is crowned with grated coconut fried in coconut oil until it turns the colour of cinnamon. That crunchy, nutty topping is what makes it erissery. Serve with rice and parippu, or scoop it up with chapati. Chef's tip: keep the pumpkin pieces large so some stay whole while others melt into the sauce.
On cold mornings in La Paz, El Alto and Sucre, market stalls ladle out steaming api: a thick, spiced drink of purple corn flour with cinnamon, cloves and orange peel. It's served with a pastel, a big, thin fried empanada filled with fresh cheese and dusted with icing sugar, crackling and blistered outside. Some stalls swirl the purple api with white (corn and milk) api in the same glass. Chef's tip: whisk the corn flour into cold water before it meets anything hot, or it lumps immediately.
When it rains in Santiago, Chileans make sopaipillas. These round, pricked discs of dough are made with mashed pumpkin, which gives them a soft orange crumb, and are fried until puffed. Street carts sell them with pebre, mustard or ketchup; at home on wet winter afternoons they're 'pasadas', simmered briefly in a spiced chancaca (raw cane sugar) syrup with orange peel and cinnamon. Chef's tip: prick each disc several times with a fork before frying, so they puff evenly and don't balloon into one big bubble.
Olan is the quietest dish on a Travancore sadya leaf, the banana-leaf feast served in southern Kerala for Onam, weddings and temple festivals. Thin, glassy slices of ash gourd and soft red cowpeas sit in coconut milk with nothing louder than green chilli and curry leaves, and its job is to cool the palate between the tangy, fiery curries around it. The flavour comes from coconut milk added in two stages and a spoonful of raw coconut oil poured over at the end. Eat it with plain rice, or ladle it beside appam on an ordinary weekday. Chef's tip: slice the ash gourd as thin as a coin so it turns translucent in the time the coconut milk takes to thicken.
Canjeero (also called laxoox) is Somali breakfast, made fresh each morning in homes and sold in cafés from Mogadishu to Djibouti: thin, spongy pancakes from a soured batter, cooked on one side only so the top is full of tiny holes. Eaten warm, they are drizzled with sesame oil or ghee and sprinkled with sugar, then rolled up with sweet spiced tea; on weekends they come with liver or beans. They are smaller and lighter than Ethiopian injera and made mostly from wheat. Chef's tip: spread the batter in a spiral with the back of the ladle, starting in the middle; that is what makes the thin, even, lacy sheet.
Gurasa is a thick, soft, round wheat bread from Sudan, especially the north and west (Darfur and Kordofan), cooked in a covered pan rather than an oven. It is torn and eaten with mullah, ful or salata aswad, and for breakfast with sugar and a little oil or butter. The dough is a loose, yeasted batter, closer to a giant crumpet than a flatbread. Chef's tip: cook it covered over a low heat; a hot open pan burns the base before the thick centre cooks.
Waakye (say 'waa-chay') came south from the Hausa communities of northern Ghana and is now Accra's favourite breakfast and lunch, sold from big pots wrapped in leaves at roadside stalls before most offices open. Rice and black-eyed beans are cooked together with dried sorghum leaf stalks (waakye leaves), which dye the pot a deep reddish brown and add a faint earthy note. A full plate comes loaded with shito, gari, spaghetti (talia), salad and fried plantain. Chef's tip: cook the beans almost soft before the rice goes in; beans and rice finishing together is the whole trick.
Kisra (kisra rahifa) is the daily bread of northern and central Sudan: a sorghum batter left to sour for a day, then wiped across a very hot iron plate in a single sweep so it cooks into a lacy sheet as thin as paper. In homes it is made early each morning and stacked in folded layers to eat with mullah stews, especially during Ramadan. A wide crêpe pan and a plastic scraper or spatula work at home. Chef's tip: the pan must be hot enough that the batter sets the moment it touches; if it is too cool the sheet sticks and tears.
Makroudh is the sweet that Kairouan is famous for; the old holy city in central Tunisia sells it in boxes from shops around the medina, and it is made at home for Eid and weddings across the country. A soft dough of semolina and olive oil is wrapped around a roll of date paste scented with cinnamon and orange blossom, cut into diamonds, fried and dipped in syrup. Chef's tip: rest the semolina dough for an hour after mixing; the grains need time to drink the oil and water, or the makroudh cracks in the oil.
On Nicaragua's Caribbean coast, around Bluefields and the Corn Islands, coconut is in almost everything, and arroz con coco is a sweet spoon dessert rather than a side dish. Rice is simmered in fresh coconut milk with cinnamon, a clove or two and raisins until creamy and thick, then served warm or chilled, often after lunch or at Christmas. It's lighter and more fragrant than a milk rice pudding and naturally dairy free. Chef's tip: stir the coconut milk in two stages; adding it all at once at the start makes the fat split and the rice greasy.
Koba is the street sweet of Madagascar's highlands, sold in thick slices from huge logs wrapped in banana leaves at markets and taxi-brousse stops around Antananarivo and Antsirabe. Koba ravina is a dense block of ground peanuts, rice flour and brown sugar; koba akondro adds ripe banana and is softer. This home version makes small parcels that steam in an hour and a half instead of a whole day. Chef's tip: wrap the parcels tightly; loose parcels let water in and the koba turns sticky instead of firm.
Osmania biscuits are named after the last Nizam of Hyderabad, and they have been baked in the city's Irani bakeries for generations: round, crumbly, melt-in-the-mouth butter biscuits that are gently sweet with a distinct salty edge and a hint of cardamom. In old-city cafés, men linger over a plate of them and a cup of Irani chai in the early morning or after the evening prayers, dunking each one until it is just about to collapse. Chef's tip: chill the dough before cutting and baking; it keeps the biscuits round and thick instead of spreading thin.
No Bolivian table is set without llajwa, the fiery, bright salsa that goes on soups, potatoes, cheese empanadas and anything grilled. In La Paz and Cochabamba it's ground on a batán, a flat grinding stone with a rocking stone on top, which crushes tomatoes and locoto (a fleshy, very hot chilli) into a rough, juicy sauce. The signature herb is quirquiña, with a smell somewhere between coriander and rocket. Chef's tip: no stone? Pound in a mortar or pulse briefly; a blender whips in air and turns llajwa pink and foamy.
Baleadas are what Hondurans grab for breakfast on the way to work, from street stands in San Pedro Sula to the beaches of La Ceiba on the north coast. A thick, soft flour tortilla, warm from the comal, is spread with refried red beans, sprinkled with dry salty cheese and a spoon of mantequilla (sour cream), then folded in half. A 'baleada sencilla' stops there; add avocado, scrambled egg or fried plantain for a fuller one. Chef's tip: rest the dough balls a full 30 minutes; relaxed dough stretches thin by hand and puffs on the pan instead of shrinking back.
Apfelstrudel is the pride of Vienna's coffee houses, eaten warm in the afternoon with Schlagobers (whipped cream), vanilla sauce or ice cream. The secret is the dough: a soft, oiled dough stretched by hand over a floured cloth on the kitchen table until it is so thin you could read a newspaper through it, then rolled around tart apples, raisins, cinnamon and butter-fried breadcrumbs. It takes practice but not special skill. Chef's tip: fry the breadcrumbs in butter until golden before scattering them over the dough; they soak up the apple juices and stop the bottom of the strudel going soggy.
On Ecuador's coast, in Guayaquil and Manabí, breakfast is often a bolón: green plantain fried, pounded while hot with butter and salty cheese, shaped into a fist-sized ball and fried again until crusty. It comes with a cup of strong black coffee and a fried egg, and a little ají on the side; the other classic version uses pork crackling, but cheese bolón is just as common. Chef's tip: shape them while the plantain is still hot; once cold the starch sets and won't stick together.
In El Salvador pupusas are a Sunday-night ritual: families queue at the pupusería, where cooks pat the dough between wet palms with a soft clapping sound, and the second Sunday of November is National Pupusa Day. These thick masa cakes are stuffed with stringy cheese and smooth refried black beans, griddled until speckled, and eaten with your hands, topped with curtido and a thin tomato salsa. Chef's tip: keep a bowl of water with a splash of oil beside you and wet your hands before every pupusa, so the dough stays supple and the seams don't crack.
At every German and Austrian Christmas market, from Nuremberg to Vienna's Rathausplatz, the stalls selling Glühwein also sell Kinderpunsch: a steaming, alcohol-free mix of fruit tea and juices with cinnamon, cloves and orange, served in the market's own decorated mugs. Children love it, but so do drivers and anyone who just wants something warm to hold on a cold evening. It takes 20 minutes at home and makes the whole house smell of Advent. Chef's tip: keep it just below a simmer; boiling makes the spices bitter and dulls the fruit flavour.
Alouda is the cold, sweet milk drink sold from stalls in the Port Louis central market and at beaches all over Mauritius, especially on hot afternoons. Vanilla- or rose-scented milk is poured over soaked tookmaria (sweet basil) seeds and cubes of agar jelly, and often topped with a scoop of ice cream. It is a cousin of the Indian falooda. Because the jelly is set with agar agar, it is vegetarian. Chef's tip: soak the basil seeds for a full 20 minutes until each one has a thick, clear coat; dry seeds stick in the throat.
Xalwo is the sweet of Somali celebrations: weddings, Eid and the arrival of guests are all marked with a tray of this dark, glossy, chewy confection, cut into diamonds and served with coffee or spiced tea. Sugar is caramelised, then cooked slowly with cornflour and oil or ghee while the cook stirs without stopping until it pulls away from the pan. It is a cousin of Omani and Yemeni halwa. Chef's tip: stir constantly and keep going until the oil starts to separate and shine on the surface; stopped early, xalwo stays soft and does not set.
Papad ki sabzi comes from Rajasthan's dry interior, where fresh vegetables were scarce and pantries relied on sun-dried staples. Roasted papads are broken into a hot, spiced yogurt gravy at the last minute, so they soften but keep a little chew. Marwari households still make it on days when the vegetable basket is empty, eating it with bajra roti or phulka and a little ghee. Because it's ready in minutes, it's also a favourite for unexpected guests. The common mistake is adding the papads too early: they swell and turn to mush. Chef's tip: go easy on the salt, because papads are already well salted; season after tasting with the papad in.
Xawaash (pronounced 'ha-wash') is the spice mix every Somali kitchen keeps in a jar, used in rice, soups, stews, sambuusa fillings and even tea. Families toast and grind their own, often in quantity before Ramadan, and the balance of warm cumin, earthy coriander and sweet cardamom and cinnamon varies from house to house. It is different from Yemeni hawaij and Ethiopian berbere: there is no chilli in it. Chef's tip: toast each spice only until it darkens a shade and smells warm; burnt cumin turns the whole jar bitter.
When the new maize comes in, Central Americans drink their corn: atol de elote is fresh sweetcorn blended, strained and cooked with milk and cinnamon into a thick, pale-yellow drink, sipped from a cup or a gourd. In El Salvador it's sold at roadside stands with tamales de elote; in Guatemala it warms chilly highland evenings. Taste is like sweet corn custard you can drink. Chef's tip: strain the blended corn through a fine sieve and press hard; the skins make the drink gritty.
No Sankranti in coastal Andhra Pradesh is complete without ariselu. In the days before the January harvest festival, women gather to pound soaked rice into damp flour, cook it into a thick jaggery syrup, and press the dough into rounds on sesame seeds before frying. Each ariselu is chewy, dense and caramel-sweet, with a crisp sesame coat; after frying they are squeezed between two wooden spatulas to push out the excess oil. They keep for two weeks and are shared with every neighbour. Chef's tip: use home-made flour from soaked rice that is still slightly damp; dry shop flour gives hard, cracking ariselu.
Aseeda (asida) is the stiff, slightly sour sorghum porridge eaten across Sudan, especially in Darfur, Kordofan and the countryside, where it is the daily staple. The batter is left to ferment before being cooked into a smooth, firm dough, shaped in a bowl into a dome, and turned out with mullah poured around it. During Ramadan it is a common iftar dish. Chef's tip: beat hard with a wooden spoon once the dough thickens; that beating is what makes aseeda smooth instead of lumpy.
Mote con huesillo is Chile's summer refresher, sold in tall glasses from street carts on Santiago's Cerro San Cristóbal and at beaches up and down the coast. Huesillos are whole sun-dried peaches, soaked and simmered in a cinnamon caramel syrup; mote is husked wheat cooked until chewy. You drink the cold amber nectar and eat the wheat and peach with a long spoon. Chef's tip: soak the peaches overnight and cook them in their soaking water; that water carries much of the peach flavour.
Poriyal is the everyday dry vegetable of Tamil Nadu, and beans poriyal is the one that appears on banana-leaf meals at weddings, temple annadhanam and Monday-to-Friday lunch boxes alike. The beans are chopped very small, steamed in their own moisture with a mustard and urad dal tempering, and finished with a shower of fresh coconut, so each spoonful is bright green, a little crunchy and nutty. It sits next to sambar or kuzhambu with rice, and it also makes a good filling rolled into a chapati. Chef's tip: chop the beans into tiny 5 mm pieces; they cook in minutes, stay green and soak up the tempering far better than long pieces.
Qalb el louz ('heart of almond') is the Ramadan sweet of Algiers: a dense, sandy semolina cake with a ribbon of almond filling, cut into diamonds with an almond on top and soaked in syrup while hot. Pastry shops in the Casbah sell it by the tray after iftar, to eat with mint tea or coffee late into the night. The semolina is soaked overnight in butter and water, which gives it its moist, grainy crumb. Chef's tip: pour cold syrup over the hot cake; hot syrup on a hot cake makes it soggy instead of moist.
Guatemala's mole is not the savoury Mexican sauce but a dessert: fried sweet plantains bathed in a dark sauce of chocolate, tomato, a gentle dried chilli, sesame, pumpkin seeds and cinnamon. It appears at Christmas and during Semana Santa, and in the market comedores of Guatemala City all year, eaten warm with a sprinkle of toasted sesame. It's sweet, spiced and only faintly hot. Chef's tip: use Guatemalan or Mexican-style table chocolate (grainy, with sugar and cinnamon) if you can find it; with dark eating chocolate, add a little more sugar.
Papelón con limón is the cold drink of Venezuela, served in jugs alongside arepas, empanadas and every Sunday lunch, and sold by the glass from street stalls in the heat of Maracaibo and the plains. Papelón is the Venezuelan name for panela, the dark block of unrefined cane sugar; melted into water and mixed with lots of fresh lime, it tastes like a caramel-scented lemonade. The hot Colombian cousin is aguapanela. Chef's tip: dissolve the papelón in warm water first, then chill; it never fully dissolves in cold water and leaves grains at the bottom.
Ranon'apango is the everyday drink of Madagascar: after rice is cooked, the crust at the bottom of the pot is left to toast until golden, then water is boiled with it to make a pale amber, nutty, slightly smoky drink. It is served warm or cold in jugs alongside meals in homes and hotelys, and is a safe way to drink boiled water. Chef's tip: toast the crust until golden-brown, not black; burnt rice makes the drink bitter.
Bambalouni are the big, flat, chewy doughnuts sold hot and wrapped in paper at the top of the blue-and-white village of Sidi Bou Said, outside Tunis, and on beaches all along the coast in summer. The dough is very soft and yeasty; it is stretched by hand into a ring and fried until puffed and blistered, then rolled in sugar. They are best eaten warm with a mint tea. Chef's tip: oil your hands, not the bench, to shape them; floured dough browns too fast and loses its blistered look.
Fry jacks are the smell of a Belizean morning: in Belize City and the Cayes, breakfast spots fry these squares and triangles of dough until they balloon up hollow and golden. They come beside refried beans, scrambled eggs and cheese, or torn open and drizzled with honey or jam. They're lighter and puffier than a doughnut, crisp outside and chewy within. Chef's tip: roll the dough thin, about 3 mm, and slit each piece once in the middle; that's what makes them puff like a pillow.
Mageu (also amahewu or mahewu) is a thin, sour, nourishing drink of fermented maize porridge, made in homes across Zimbabwe, South Africa, Zambia and Botswana and drunk by farm workers, schoolchildren and anyone needing a filling lift on a hot afternoon. A little wheat flour or a spoonful of the last batch starts the fermentation overnight. Commercial cartons are sold everywhere, but home-made tastes fresher. Chef's tip: let the porridge cool to lukewarm before adding the starter; too hot and it kills the fermentation.
Unniyappam are small, round sweet dumplings that Kerala families make for Vishu and Karthika, and they are a well-known temple offering at Guruvayur and Sabarimala. A batter of ground rice, ripe banana and jaggery, studded with ghee-fried coconut bits and sesame, is fried in the round hollows of an unniyappa chatti until crisp and dark brown outside and soft and spongy in the middle. They keep for a couple of days in a tin and are perfect with tea. Chef's tip: let the batter rest for an hour; it softens and puffs a little, giving lighter unniyappam.
Nhopi is a simple Shona dish from Zimbabwe, made at harvest time when the pumpkins come in: pumpkin or butternut boiled soft, mashed and enriched with peanut butter. Some families stir in a little maize meal to make it thicker (nhopi dovi), and it is eaten for breakfast or as a side with greens. It is sweet, nutty and loved by children. Chef's tip: drain the pumpkin very well before mashing, or the nhopi turns thin and watery.
Koki is a dense, orange-red bean cake from the Douala and Bakweri country of Cameroon, made from skinned black-eyed beans blended with red palm oil, chilli and greens, then wrapped in banana leaves and steamed for hours. It is weekend food and market food, eaten with boiled plantain, cassava or ripe banana. It is related to Nigerian moi moi but heavier, richer with palm oil and full of cocoyam leaves or spinach. Chef's tip: warm the palm oil just until liquid before beating it in; poured in cold and solid it leaves streaks of fat instead of an even orange colour.
Ada pradhaman is the king of payasams on the Onam sadya across Kerala, served last on the banana leaf, sometimes with a crushed pappadam stirred in. Small flakes of rice ada are cooked soft, glazed in ghee and jaggery syrup, then simmered in thin coconut milk and finished with thick first-press milk, cardamom and a pinch of dried ginger. It is deep caramel-brown, silky and chewy at once. Serve warm in small bowls, or slightly chilled the next day. Chef's tip: rinse the cooked ada under cold water straight away; it stops the flakes sticking into a lump.
Bouye is the Wolof name for the powdery white pulp of the baobab fruit, and jus de bouye is the thick, creamy-tart drink sold in reused bottles from coolers all over Dakar and served at every family celebration. It tastes like sherbet with a hint of pear. Most cooks now use baobab powder, which is sold in health shops as well as African grocers. Sweetened condensed milk is optional but common. Chef's tip: whisk the powder into a little water first to make a smooth paste; poured straight into a jug it forms lumps that never dissolve.
Sydney and Wellington both claim the flat white, first poured in their cafés in the mid-1980s, and today it's the everyday coffee across Australia and New Zealand, from Melbourne's laneway cafés to a beach kiosk in Raglan. It's smaller and stronger than a latte: a double shot of espresso topped with milk steamed to a smooth, glossy microfoam with only a thin layer of froth on top, so the coffee stays at the front. It's velvety, rich and sweet-tasting without sugar. For a vegan version, use a barista-style oat milk. Chef's tip: stretch the milk only for the first few seconds, then sink the wand and let it spin; you want paint-like milk, not a hat of stiff foam.
Afghans are a New Zealand classic, found in the old home baking books passed down in Kiwi kitchens and in the glass cabinets of cafés and bakeries from Christchurch to Whangārei. Nobody is quite sure where the name came from. The dough is rich with butter and cocoa, and lightly crushed cornflakes give each biscuit a crunchy, slightly rugged texture. A swirl of soft chocolate icing and a walnut half finish them off. They're not too sweet underneath, which is why the icing works so well. Chef's tip: crush the cornflakes only lightly with your hand; fine crumbs disappear, but big flakes give the crunch an afghan is known for.
Hokey pokey is what New Zealanders call honeycomb toffee, and vanilla ice cream full of crunchy little nuggets of it has been the country's best-loved flavour since the mid-twentieth century; it's scooped into cones at dairies and beaches from Auckland to Invercargill. The honeycomb is a bubbling golden syrup toffee that foams up when bicarbonate of soda goes in and sets glassy and light. Folded through a rich no-churn vanilla base, it stays crunchy at first and slowly turns chewy and toffee-like. Chef's tip: don't stir the sugar once it starts to melt; swirl the pan instead, or it will crystallise and turn grainy.
No children's birthday party in Australia, and in New Zealand too, is complete without a plate of fairy bread, a tradition going back about a hundred years. Soft white bread is spread with butter and pressed face-down into a pile of hundreds and thousands, the tiny round coloured sprinkles, then cut into triangles. It's sweet, crunchy, buttery and gloriously bright, and children love making it as much as eating it. Many sprinkles are coloured with insect-based carmine (E120) or glazed with shellac (E904); for a vegetarian plate, choose a brand that uses neither. Chef's tip: use soft, spreadable butter right to the edges; it's the glue that holds every sprinkle.
Anzac biscuits are baked in kitchens all over Australia and New Zealand in the days before 25 April, Anzac Day, when both countries remember the soldiers of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps who landed at Gallipoli in 1915. Recipes appeared in fundraising cookbooks soon after the war, and they keep well because they contain no eggs: just oats, flour, coconut, sugar, butter and golden syrup, raised with bicarbonate of soda. Bake them short for chewy, longer for crunchy; every family has its side. Chef's tip: add the bicarbonate to the hot butter and syrup and wait for it to foam up before mixing; that froth is what makes them light and lacy.
Irani chai came to Hyderabad with Persian migrants who opened cafés across the old city, and it is now the city's signature drink, poured at all hours in places around the Charminar, often with Osmania biscuits or a bun maska. Unlike masala chai, it has no spices: strong tea is brewed slowly in a sealed pot (dum), while full-fat milk is simmered separately with a little khoa until thick and creamy. The two are mixed only in the cup, giving a rich, mellow, slightly sweet tea. Chef's tip: seal the tea pot lid with a little dough or foil, as the cafés do, so the brew steeps without losing steam or strength.
Smashed avo became the signature breakfast of Sydney and Melbourne cafés in the 1990s and 2000s, and today it's on the menu of almost every café in Australia, from Bondi to Fitzroy, eaten on weekend mornings with a flat white. Ripe avocado is crushed roughly with lemon, salt and chilli and piled thickly onto toasted sourdough, then topped with salty crumbled feta and, often, a soft poached egg. It's creamy, sharp, crunchy and salty all at once. Chef's tip: smash the avocado with a fork, not a blender, and leave it chunky; the contrast between the rough avo and the crisp toast is the whole point.
Damper is the bread of the Australian bush: drovers, stockmen and swagmen carried flour and salt across the Outback and baked loaves in the ashes of the campfire, and it's still made in cast-iron camp ovens on camping trips from the Flinders Ranges to the Kimberley. Long before that, Aboriginal peoples ground native seeds into flour and baked seed cakes in the coals. Modern damper uses self-raising flour, a little butter and milk, so it rises into a craggy, golden round with a crisp crust and a soft, scone-like crumb. Tear it while warm and eat it with butter and golden syrup, which bush cooks called cocky's joy, or with soup. Chef's tip: mix with a knife and work quickly; the less you handle the dough, the lighter the damper.
Dehrori is the sweet Chhattisgarhi families make for Diwali, Holi and weddings, and it tastes like no other syrup sweet: soaked rice is ground coarse, left to sour gently with curd, then fried in ghee and dropped into cardamom syrup. The fermentation gives it a faint tang and a light, spongy crumb under a crisp shell, a little like a rustic cousin of rasbhari or gulab jamun. Grandmothers judge the batch by how well the dumplings hold their shape in the syrup. Chef's tip: grind the rice to the texture of fine semolina, not a smooth paste; that grain is what keeps dehrori light.
Mauby is one of the oldest drinks of the Eastern Caribbean, and in Barbados it's sold ice-cold from vendors in Bridgetown and made at home on hot afternoons. It's brewed from the bark of the mauby tree, simmered with cinnamon, clove, star anise, bay and orange peel, then sweetened and diluted. The first sip is surprising: bitter like strong tea or tonic, then sweet, spicy and refreshing, with a liquorice note. Bark is sold in Caribbean shops and online. Chef's tip: brew a strong concentrate and dilute it to taste; mauby lovers like it bitter, newcomers should start with more water and more sugar.
Tembleque gets its name from the way it shivers (tiembla) when you set it on the table, and in Puerto Rico it is the dessert of the Christmas season, from the parrandas of December through to the Three Kings in January. It's nothing more than coconut milk, sugar and cornflour cooked into a silky custard, poured into a mould and chilled until it holds its shape. It is cool, pure white, lightly sweet and tastes completely of coconut, with a blush of cinnamon on top. Chef's tip: use full-fat tinned coconut milk; light coconut milk sets thin and tastes watery.
Jigarthanda means 'cool heart', and on a hot evening in Madurai crowds queue around the carts near the Meenakshi temple for a tall glass of it. It's layered rather than blended: a spoonful of soaked almond gum (badam pisin), a glug of nannari (Indian sarsaparilla) syrup, chilled milk reduced until creamy and lightly caramel-coloured, then a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. The result is cold, floral, wobbly and rich all at once. This home version uses shop-bought vanilla ice cream; check that yours is eggless and gelatine-free. Chef's tip: let the reduced milk chill overnight; cold, thick milk is what makes it taste like the street version rather than flavoured milk.
Before the cola era, kvass was Russia's everyday thirst-quencher, sold every summer from yellow barrel trailers on Moscow street corners and poured into glass mugs. At home it is brewed from dried rye bread, sugar and a pinch of yeast, fermented for a day or two until it tastes malty, a little sour and gently fizzy, and only about 1% alcohol. It is drunk ice cold and is also the broth for okroshka. Chef's tip: toast the bread until really dark, almost burnt at the edges; that is where kvass gets its deep colour and its toasted, malty taste.
Kompot is the drink of Russian summers: a big pan of water with whatever the garden or market offers, apples, cherries, redcurrants, strawberries, plums, simmered for a few minutes, lightly sweetened and served cold from the fridge. It is what children drink with lunch at school canteens and summer camps from Moscow to Novosibirsk, and dacha cellars are lined with three-litre jars of it bottled for winter. The fruit at the bottom of the glass is everyone's favourite part. Chef's tip: switch off the heat as soon as it boils and let the fruit steep as it cools; long boiling makes it taste stewed and dull.
No Hyderabadi wedding feast, or dawat, ends without qubani ka meetha: dried Afghan apricots soaked overnight, then simmered slowly with sugar until they break down into a glossy, deep amber compote, served cold with thick cream or a scoop of vanilla ice cream. In Hyderabad the kernels from inside the apricot stones are scattered on top; at home, blanched almonds give the same look and taste, and are safer, as some apricot kernels are bitter and shouldn't be eaten in quantity. It is sweet, tart and jammy, and very easy to make for a crowd days ahead. Chef's tip: keep the soaking water and cook the apricots in it; it holds much of their flavour and natural sugar.
Tufahije came to Bosnia with the Ottomans, and the name comes from the Persian and Arabic word for apple. In Sarajevo's old Baščaršija quarter they sit in the windows of slastičarne (sweet shops), whole apples poached pale in lemon syrup, filled with sweet walnuts and capped with whipped cream; at home they are a favourite after the iftar meal during Ramadan and at Bajram. They are soft, juicy and only moderately sweet. Chef's tip: choose firm, slightly tart apples and poach them gently; boiling them hard is the classic mistake and leaves you with split, mushy apples.
Cornulețe are the little crescent cookies that fill tins in Romanian kitchens before Christmas and New Year, and that grandmothers in Sibiu and Timișoara bake by the hundred for weddings and name days. This version uses a tender yeasted dough made with butter and yogurt, wrapped around a spoonful of thick plum jam (magiun) or rose rahat and rolled into horns. They bake pale and soft, not flaky, and are rolled in vanilla sugar while warm (the recipe makes 32, two per serving), which sets them apart from the cream-cheese rugelach of Jewish baking. Chef's tip: use thick jam and pinch the ends shut; runny jam is the usual mistake and bubbles out and burns on the tray.
Dharwad peda has been made in this north Karnataka town for well over a century, first by families who came from Uttar Pradesh, and it now carries a geographical indication tag. Unlike pale, smooth pedas elsewhere, it is cooked slowly until the milk solids caramelise to a deep brown and a grainy, almost crumbly texture, then rolled in powdered sugar. Pilgrims and travellers carry boxes home from Dharwad and Hubballi, and families buy it for weddings and exam results. Chef's tip: let the cooked mixture cool for ten minutes before you add the sugar for rolling; added while too hot, the sugar melts and the pedas go sticky.
Mămăligă is the golden cornmeal staple of the Romanian countryside, from the hill villages of Oltenia to the farms of Maramureș, where it was once eaten more often than bread. It is cooked in water until thick enough to hold a spoon upright, turned out onto a wooden board and cut with a thread, then eaten hot with crumbled salty brânză and a cold spoon of smântână (soured cream). Unlike Ukrainian banosh, which is cooked in sour cream, mămăligă is plain cornmeal and water; the richness goes on top. It sits beside stews such as tocăniță or under a fried egg for supper. Chef's tip: rain the cornmeal in through your fingers while whisking, and keep stirring from the bottom; dumping it in at once is the classic mistake that leaves raw, gritty lumps.
Despite the name, pain à la grecque is pure Brussels: the 'Greek' is thought to come from the Flemish gracht, the canal next to the old abbey on the Wolvengracht whose monks handed out bread to the poor. Today it is a long, flat stick of cinnamon-spiced bread pressed into pearl sugar and baked until the sugar melts into a crunchy, glassy crust. Brussels bakeries such as those around the Sablon sell it by the slab, and it is eaten with coffee in the afternoon or dunked at breakfast. Chef's tip: press the dough hard into the pearl sugar on both sides; loosely scattered sugar just falls off in the oven.
Cuberdons are the purple, cone-shaped sweets sold from handcarts on the Groentenmarkt in Ghent, where locals call them neuzekes, 'little noses'. A thin, firm sugar crust encloses a syrupy raspberry centre, and they only stay that way for about three weeks before the inside crystallises, which is why they have never become an export. They are made with gum arabic, not gelatine, so they suit vegetarians and vegans. Making them at home is a fun weekend project: the syrup is poured into cone-shaped hollows pressed into a tray of dry cornflour, which slowly draws moisture out and forms the crust. Chef's tip: use a sugar thermometer and be exact; just a few degrees too low and the cones never form a crust, a few too high and they set solid all the way through.
Speculoospasta, a sweet spread made from crushed spiced caramel biscuits, is a Flemish invention of the 2000s: a home cook took the idea to a Belgian TV contest for inventors, and within a few years it sat next to chocolate spread on breakfast tables across Belgium and the Netherlands. Belgians spread it thickly on bread or toast, stir it into yoghurt, or warm it to pour over ice cream. Homemade, it tastes more of cinnamon and caramel and less of sugar than shop jars. Chef's tip: blitz the biscuits to a powder as fine as flour before adding liquid; any grit left now stays gritty in the jar.
Chicons au gratin, or witloof in de oven in Flemish, is the winter Sunday dish of Belgian grandmothers: whole heads of Belgian endive braised until silky, then baked in a nutmeg-scented cheese sauce until bubbling and brown. Endive was first forced in the dark cellars around Brussels in the 1800s, and it is still grown in the fields of Flemish Brabant. Traditionally each chicon is rolled in a slice of cooked ham; this vegetarian version leaves the ham out and lets the gentle bitterness of the endive meet the sweetness of the cheese. Serve it with mashed potato or crusty bread. Chef's tip: squeeze the braised endives firmly in a clean towel before they go in the dish; they hold a lot of water, and skipping this turns the sauce thin and watery in the oven.
Ask anyone who grew up in the Netherlands what they ate before school and the answer is usually a boterham met hagelslag: a slice of soft bread, well buttered, and covered edge to edge in chocolate sprinkles. It is not a treat for special days but an ordinary Dutch breakfast and lunchbox filler, and the country gets through millions of kilos of hagelslag every year. There are milk and dark chocolate versions, plus vruchtenhagel (fruity pastel sprinkles) and anijshagel (aniseed sprinkles). Chef's tip: the butter is the glue, so spread it right to the crusts and press the sprinkles down gently with the flat of a knife before you lift the slice.
In the weeks before 5 December, Sinterklaas evening (pakjesavond), Dutch kitchens and bakeries fill with the smell of speculaas: thin, crisp, dark-brown biscuits heavy with cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, ginger, cardamom and a little white pepper. Traditionally they are pressed into carved wooden moulds shaped like windmills or Saint Nicholas himself; at home most people roll and cut them, scatter almonds on top and bake them crisp. Make your own spice mix (speculaaskruiden) once and you'll never buy it again. Chef's tip: let the dough rest overnight in the fridge; the spices bloom into the butter and the flavour is twice as deep the next day.
On Christmas Eve, almost every Danish family ends dinner with risalamande, a cold vanilla rice pudding lightened with whipped cream and chopped almonds and served with a hot cherry sauce poured over the top. Hidden somewhere in the bowl is one whole almond, and whoever finds it wins the mandelgave, the almond prize, usually a marzipan pig. Some finders keep the almond in their cheek until everyone has eaten far too much. The rice base, risengrød, is often cooked on 23 December, eaten warm with butter and cinnamon, and the leftovers become risalamande the next night. Chef's tip: let the rice pudding cool completely before folding in the cream; warm rice melts the whipped cream and the pudding turns heavy instead of airy.
Despite the name, Mangalore buns are not baked at all: they are thick, soft puris made from a dough of overripe bananas, sugar, yogurt and flour, left for hours to turn slightly tangy, then deep-fried until they balloon. Every Udupi restaurant in coastal Karnataka has them on the breakfast board, served with coconut chutney and sambar, and children love them on their own. They are lightly sweet with a hint of cumin and a soft, bready inside. Chef's tip: use bananas with black-flecked skins; underripe bananas give a dense, pale bun that won't brown.
In Denmark rugbrød is not a speciality but the daily bread: a dark, dense, slightly sour loaf of rye flour, cracked rye kernels and seeds, baked in a tin and sliced thin for every smørrebrød lunch. Bakeries in Aarhus and Copenhagen sell it by the brick, and many households keep a jar of rye sourdough starter in the fridge just for it. The dough is more of a thick porridge than a dough; you spoon it into the tin rather than shape it. It needs patience: a long sour, a long bake and a full day of resting before it is cut. Chef's tip: wait at least 12 hours, ideally 24, before slicing; the crumb is still setting as it cools and cut early it will be gummy.
Şərbət is poured at the start of every Azerbaijani wedding, and the rose kind, scented with rosewater from the Absheron rose gardens, is the most loved; in Baku it is set out in crystal jugs for Novruz guests and at Ramadan iftar. This version adds two kinds of basil (reyhan): purple basil leaves steeped in the syrup for a clove-like scent, and soaked basil seeds that swell into soft, jelly-coated pearls. Lemon keeps it from tasting like perfume. Serve very cold, with ice, alongside sweets or a rich plov. Chef's tip: soak the basil seeds in plenty of water, at least 20 times their volume; crowded seeds clump into a single lump.
Venezuelan empanadas are big, crisp half-moons made with white precooked corn flour, fried to order at beach kiosks on Margarita Island and at breakfast stands across Caracas. Compared with the small, potato-filled Colombian empanadas, they are larger, paler and often a little sweet in the dough, and the classic vegetarian fillings are simply grated white cheese or black beans with cheese (like an arepa dominó). Eat them hot with guasacaca or a squeeze of lime. Chef's tip: add a spoonful of sugar to the dough; it helps the crust turn golden and blistered in the oil.
In Azerbaijan tea comes before, during and after everything, served in small pear-shaped armudu glasses in teahouses (çayxana) from Baku's boulevard to the hill towns of Lankaran, where most of the country's tea is grown. It is strong, clear and red-brown, often brewed with a sprig of mountain thyme (kəklikotu) or a crushed cardamom pod, and served with lemon, sugar cubes and little dishes of jam: cherry, quince, white cherry or even walnut. People sip the tea through a sugar cube held in the mouth or with a spoonful of jam, never stirring jam into the glass. It is also the drink that settles a match: tea served sweet at a matchmaking visit means yes. Chef's tip: warm the pot and glasses with boiling water first; tea brewed in a cold pot never reaches full colour.
In an Uzbek chaikhana, from Tashkent's shady teahouses to the courtyards of Khiva, the first thing to arrive is a teapot of kok choy, green tea, with small bowls (piala) and a plate of raisins, almonds and sweets. The host performs qaytarish: pours a bowl, tips it back into the pot, and repeats three times to blend the brew, then serves each guest a bowl only half full, a sign they should stay and be topped up. Green tea is drunk with plov to cut the oil, and all through hot summer days. Chef's tip: use water just off the boil (about 90°C) and warm the pot first; boiling water straight from the kettle makes Chinese green tea taste harsh.
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