3470 vegetarian recipes cooked without onion or garlic, as in Swaminarayan and sattvic kitchens, with no meat, fish, eggs or alcohol. Each has photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Apfelschorle, takes 2 minutes. Most take around 45 minutes.
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Every plaza in Mexico City seems to have a fruit cart with a glass case of jícama, cucumber, mango and pineapple, cut to order into tall sticks and packed into a cup. The vendor squeezes over lime and shakes on chile-lime salt, and you eat it with a toothpick on a hot afternoon. It's juicy, crunchy, sour and only a little hot. Chef's tip: chill the fruit well first; cold fruit and sharp chile make the contrast.
When watermelons are piled high in the markets of Jalisco and Sonora in summer, almost every taquería has a jar of bright pink agua de sandía next to the horchata. It needs only ripe watermelon, water, a squeeze of lime and a touch of sugar, and children love it. Chef's tip: a very ripe melon may need no sugar at all, so taste before you sweeten.
These crisp little cubes started in a Northeastern-style bar in São Paulo's north zone and spread to almost every botequim menu in the city, where they arrive in a paper-lined basket with a pot of sweet chilli sauce and a round of cold drinks. Hot milk is stirred into granulated tapioca and salty grated queijo coalho, the mixture sets overnight, and the cubes are fried until the outside shatters and the inside turns soft and stretchy. Queijo coalho is usually made with animal rennet, so for a vegetarian version look for a firm grilling cheese labelled vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: let the slab chill until it is completely firm, at least four hours, or the cubes slump in the oil.
Coconut pops are a classic of the paleterías of Michoacán and of the beach carts of Acapulco and Veracruz, where fresh coconuts are cracked open to order. They are milky, sweet and chewy with shreds of coconut, more like frozen coconut cream than ice. It contains dairy. Chef's tip: toast a third of the coconut lightly before using, which brings out a deeper flavour without changing the snowy colour much.
Mexican market juice stalls make agua de melón with the ripest, most fragrant cantaloupes, and many cooks blend in the seeds and the soft pulp around them, which adds a creamy body and a nutty flavour. It's served in tall glasses on hot afternoons from Guanajuato to Veracruz and is a favourite with kids. Chef's tip: smell the stalk end of the melon before you buy it; if it smells sweet, the drink will too.
Cần Thơ and Vĩnh Long, deep in the Mekong Delta's pomelo country, turn the thick white pith of the fruit into this thrifty, much-loved sweet soup. After salting and rinsing away its bitterness, the pith is coated in tapioca starch and cooked into clear, crunchy-chewy nuggets, served with soft split mung beans and a swirl of coconut milk. Sold at Saigon chè stalls, it is eaten cold or warm. Chef's tip: wash and squeeze the salted pith in several changes of water until it tastes neutral; one rinse leaves the whole pot bitter.
Every neighbourhood padaria in Brazil pulls trays of these small, golden rolls from the oven at dawn and again in the late afternoon, and people buy them by the half-dozen for breakfast with butter and milky coffee or for a pão na chapa on the griddle. The name means French bread, but the roll is Brazil's own: a thin, crackling crust with a raised lip along the cut, called the pestana, around a very light, fluffy crumb. Chef's tip: a tray of boiling water in the oven gives the steam that makes the crust thin and shiny.
Served in a hollowed pineapple, this is the fried rice of Thai beach restaurants and Bangkok family dinners alike, usually loaded with prawns and pork floss. The jay festival version swaps those for fried tofu and keeps out the garlic and spring onion, relying on curry powder, toasted cashews and juicy caramelised pineapple for flavour. It is sweet, salty and golden, and children love it. Chef's tip: freshly cooked rice is the mistake; use rice cooked the day before and chilled, or the grains clump and steam instead of frying.
Little boxes of folded pandan leaf filled with jelly sit on the trays of every khanom seller in central Thailand, from Chatuchak's dessert stalls to the morning market in Nakhon Pathom. The base is firm, cool and green with diced water chestnut for crunch; the thick white top is coconut cream set with rice flour and seasoned with a clear note of salt, which is the whole point. They are eaten as a mid-afternoon snack, two or three at a time. Chef's tip: most people undersalt the coconut layer; it should taste lightly salty on its own, so the sweet base underneath sings.
Ginger does the work garlic usually would in this festival favourite from the jay kitchens of Phuket and Bangkok's Yaowarat, where it is ladled over rice from steel trays under yellow flags. Crunchy wood ear and soft oyster mushrooms soak up a glossy sauce of fermented soybean paste and soy, and fine matchsticks of young ginger give heat and fragrance. No garlic, onion or spring onion go in, as jay rules forbid them. Chef's tip: old, fibrous ginger is the mistake here; choose plump young ginger with thin, pinkish skin so you can eat it by the forkful.
Thai spa receptions and roadside rice shops both pour this from big glass jars, and in Chiang Mai and Bangkok homes a pot is often simmering on hot afternoons. Bruised lemongrass gives a clean, lemony, slightly grassy taste and pandan a soft vanilla note; lightly sweetened, it is refreshing over ice and soothing warm on a rainy-season evening. Chef's tip: the usual mistake is chopping the lemongrass fine and boiling it hard, which makes it bitter; bash the stalks and simmer gently.
Bến Tre, the coconut province of the Mekong Delta, supplies most of the country's mứt dừa, but plenty of families still make a batch at home for the lacquered khay mứt, the tray of sweets put out for New Year visitors with green tea. The ribbons are chewy-soft in the middle and dry and sugary outside, white or dyed pale green with pandan, pink with dragon fruit or orange with gấc. Chef's tip: keep stirring gently over a low heat as the syrup thickens; high heat browns the coconut and the ribbons break if you stir roughly.
During the nine days of the Vegetarian Festival in Phuket Town and Bangkok's Chinatown, yellow flags mark the stalls selling food that is jay: no meat, no dairy and none of the pungent alliums. This gentle soup is what people drink alongside their stir-fries, a clear broth of daikon and dried shiitake sharpened with crushed white pepper and coriander root, holding soft silken tofu and slippery mung bean vermicelli. Out of festival season, cooks add garlic oil and minced pork. Chef's tip: don't boil after the tofu goes in; silken tofu breaks into crumbs, so let it warm through at a bare simmer.
Outside Mexican schools and parks, vendors fry little dried wheels and rectangles of wheat dough until they balloon into airy, crackly chicharrones de harina, also called duritos. They're handed over in a plastic bag drenched in lime juice and bottled hot sauce. At home you can buy the dried pellets (duros) at Latin grocers, and they puff in seconds. Chef's tip: fry just a small handful at a time; they triple in size.
In Hanoi summers, glass after glass of chè đậu đen is poured over crushed ice at pavement stalls, and many families keep a pot in the fridge because the beans are thought to cool the body. The beans are cooked whole until creamy inside but unbroken, then steeped in syrup until they turn dark and glossy; southern versions finish with a little coconut milk. Chef's tip: add the sugar only once the beans are completely tender; sugar too early toughens the skins and the beans never soften.
Southern Vietnamese cooks make chè khoai môn for ancestor offerings and for chilly monsoon evenings, when a warm, creamy bowl is welcome; Saigon stalls sell it hot from big pots. Chunks of taro, some left whole and some crushed into the pot, cook with glutinous rice until the whole thing turns thick and faintly lilac, then coconut milk is poured over. Chef's tip: wear gloves or oil your hands when peeling raw taro; the sap can make skin itch badly.
Thai drink stalls outside schools and markets keep a bottle of red sala syrup next to the condensed milk for this sweet, bubblegum-pink milk, a favourite of children from Bangkok to Hat Yai. Sala is a tangy palm fruit, and the syrup tastes of it lightly, almost like cream soda; any red sala-flavoured syrup from an Asian shop works. Shake it with ice until frothy. Chef's tip: the mistake is too much syrup, which turns it lurid and cloying; start with a tablespoon per glass and add more to taste.
On the first morning of Tết, and again at weddings and ancestor offerings, northern families set a dome of brilliant red xôi gấc on the altar: red for luck, sticky for a family that holds together. The colour comes from the arils of the spiky gấc fruit, which also gives a faint, melon-like sweetness, and coconut milk makes the grains rich and shiny. Frozen gấc pulp from Asian grocers works perfectly. Serve it warm, pressed into moulds, with a little sugar and toasted sesame, or beside giò lụa. Chef's tip: soak the rice for at least 6 hours; unsoaked glutinous rice stays chalky in the middle however long you steam it.
Old Bangkok's Phra Nakhon district made mee krob famous as a royal-banquet dish, and it still appears at festive Thai Chinese dinners: a tangle of rice vermicelli puffed in hot oil, then tossed in a sticky sweet-sour sauce. Classic shops fold in prawns, egg and pickled garlic; for the jay festival this version uses fried tofu and pickled ginger, with orange zest standing in for the rare som sa citrus. Serve it with fresh bean sprouts and chilli. Chef's tip: the common mistake is a hot glaze, which wilts the noodles; cool the sauce until thick and toss just before serving.
Hanoi grandmothers hand out mứt gừng in the cold, damp days of Tết as much for warmth as for sweetness: each slice is sugary at first, then hot and spicy. The northern style uses plump young ginger, soaked to tame its fire, then candied until each slice is bright yellow and frosted white. It sits on the New Year tray with candied coconut, lotus seeds and roasted watermelon seeds, and goes with a pot of green tea. Chef's tip: choose young, smooth-skinned ginger and slice it thinly across the grain; old fibrous ginger stays stringy and painfully hot.
Hồ Chí Minh City street carts fry these little 'cocoons' in big woks, and on rainy evenings a paper bag of them, still too hot to hold, is a favourite with students and children. The inside is soft, sweet mashed sweet potato bound with a little rice flour; the outside is a shaggy, crunchy coat of fine sweet-potato threads that looks like a silkworm's cocoon. Eat them plain, or dip in sweetened condensed coconut milk. Chef's tip: squeeze the shredded sweet potato dry and keep the oil at 170 °C; wet shreds and cool oil give greasy, limp cocoons.
On a sticky afternoon in Bangkok, from the food courts of Siam to roadside dessert carts, this is the bowl people order to cool down. Each 'ruby' is a cube of water chestnut wrapped in a chewy, glassy coat of tapioca, so you get crunch inside slipperiness, all floating in jasmine-scented syrup and salted coconut milk with shaved ice. Some shops add jackfruit strips. Chef's tip: shake off excess starch before boiling; a thick coating turns into a gluey lump instead of a thin, see-through skin.
In town plazas from Oaxaca to Guadalajara, neveros still churn nieve de garrafa by spinning a tall metal can in a wooden barrel of ice and rock salt, scraping the frozen walls with a long paddle. Lime nieve is the sharpest and most refreshing, pale green from the zest, and it is eaten in small cups after a hot walk through the market. At home a metal bowl set in ice and salt works the same way. Chef's tip: add the zest at the start but strain it out; that way you get its oils without the bitterness.
Born in the 1990s at a juice stand in Guadalajara, Jalisco, the biónico is now the city's favourite breakfast on the go: a tall cup of chopped papaya, melon, apple, banana and strawberries drenched in a sweet cream of yoghurt, soured cream and condensed milk, then scattered with granola, coconut and raisins. Kids adore it and it takes fifteen minutes. Chef's tip: cut the banana last and fold it straight into the cream, so it stays pale.
Mangonadas, also called chamoyadas, are a Mexican street sweet sold by neverías and fruit stands from Guadalajara to the US border: thick frozen mango blended to a slush, layered in a tall cup with sticky red chamoy and chile-lime salt and crowned with fresh mango cubes. Sweet, sour, salty and hot at once, it comes with a chewy tamarind-candy straw for stirring. Chef's tip: freeze the mango in cubes beforehand, so you get a thick spoonable slush without watering it down with ice.
Brick-red and glossy, chamoy is the sauce Mexicans splash over fresh fruit, mango sorbet, crisps and the rim of a michelada glass. It is said to descend from Asian salted plum sauces, but today's version is pure Mexican: dried apricots and hibiscus simmered and blended with chile, lime, sugar and salt. Homemade chamoy is fruitier and less sweet than the bottled kind. Chef's tip: it thickens a lot as it cools, so take it off the heat when it still pours like warm ketchup.
Before dawn in Mexico City, León or Puebla, neighbourhood bakeries pull trays of bolillos from the oven for tortas, molletes and the morning coffee. The rolls are oval with pointed ends and one deep slash, a thin crackly crust and a light, slightly chewy crumb, born from the French bakers who worked in Mexico in the 1860s. This version is made with no lard or butter, so it is vegan. Chef's tip: a tray of boiling water in the oven for the first ten minutes is what gives the crust its shine and crackle.
In Mexican home kitchens carlota de limón is the dessert everyone's aunt knows by heart: layers of Marías biscuits and a lime cream whipped from condensed and evaporated milk, chilled until it slices like a cake. It is made on hot afternoons in Sonora and Veracruz and turns up at every children's party. The lime curdles the milk just enough to thicken it, so there's no cooking at all. It contains wheat and dairy. Chef's tip: blend in the lime juice slowly, with the motor running, until the cream thickens visibly.
The town of Tocumbo in Michoacán sent paleteros all over Mexico, and their shops, the paleterías michoacanas, sell fruit ice pops from Tijuana to Cancún. Mango con chile is one of the most loved: chunky frozen mango purée, sharp with lime, with a ribbon of chile powder through it and more sprinkled on top. Chef's tip: leave a few small cubes of mango in the purée, so every bite has real fruit.
Pale green and very refreshing, agua de pepino is the cooler sold from market juice stands in Mexico City and Oaxaca when the afternoon heat builds, and families blend a jug for comida on hot days. Cucumber, lime and a few mint leaves give a clean, light taste with very little sugar. Chef's tip: leave some of the peel on the cucumber for colour, but strain the drink so it stays silky.
At the candy stalls of Oaxaca's Mercado 20 de Noviembre and in the towns of Michoacán, bright green candied limes stuffed with snowy coconut are a jewel of traditional dulcería. The limes are scraped, soaked and boiled to take away the bitterness, then candied over two days until glassy, hollowed and filled. They are sweet, chewy and sharp at once, made for weddings and gifts. Chef's tip: change the soaking water every time without fail, as that is what takes away the bitterness of the pith.
Brown, cloudy and gloriously tart, agua de tamarindo fills the big glass vitroleros at taquerías and fondas across Mexico, especially in hot Guerrero, Colima and the Yucatán, and it is the drink most people reach for with a plate of tacos de guisado. The pods are peeled, simmered and rubbed through a sieve, so it tastes far fresher than paste or concentrate. Chef's tip: soak the pulp in the hot cooking water before you rub it, which loosens every bit from the seeds.
Mamey, the rough brown fruit with salmon-orange flesh that tastes like sweet potato, pumpkin and almond at once, is a favourite in Tabasco, Chiapas, Veracruz and the Yucatán, and its ice cream is a star of the nevería in any southern town. The fruit is naturally so creamy that a little milk and sugar is enough. It contains dairy. Chef's tip: use a mamey that gives like a ripe avocado when pressed; underripe ones taste chalky.
Zamora in Michoacán gave its name to chongos, soft knots of fresh milk curd slowly poached in their own whey with sugar and cinnamon until the syrup turns golden and the curds turn springy. They are served cool in small glass bowls after Sunday lunch, and jars are sold at roadside stands across the Bajío. Traditionally the milk is set with animal rennet; use a vegetarian rennet (microbial or plant-based) to keep it vegetarian. Chef's tip: never stir after the curds form, only tilt the pan, or they break into crumbs.
In the Mekong Delta, the week before Tết means trays of papaya, daikon and carrot strips drying in the sun on every balcony, to be packed into jars for dưa món. The drying makes the vegetables wonderfully crunchy and lets them drink up a sweet, salty brine. Families eat a little alongside thịt kho trứng and bánh tét to cut the richness over the holiday. The classic brine uses fish sauce; this one uses tamari, which keeps it vegan and gives a deep amber colour. Chef's tip: dry the strips until they bend like leather; damp vegetables go soft and cloudy in the jar.
Mekong Delta households, where banana trees line every canal, make chè chuối when the fruit is ripe and plentiful, and Saigon sweet-soup stalls sell it warm in the evening. Short, sweet bananas soften in coconut milk thickened with tapioca pearls, turning slightly pink as they cook, and the bowl is finished with toasted sesame and crushed peanuts. It is eaten warm, never iced. Chef's tip: use firm, just-ripe bananas; very soft ones dissolve into mush before the tapioca is cooked.
Đà Lạt, cool and misty, made the mushroom hotpot famous, and vegetarian lẩu restaurants in Hanoi and Saigon now fill up with groups on cold or rainy evenings. A clear broth sweetened with daikon, corn cobs, carrot and apple sits on a burner in the middle of the table; everyone drops in mushrooms, tofu and greens, fishes them out a minute later and spoons them over rice noodles. Expect to top up the pot and keep eating for an hour. Chef's tip: simmer the broth vegetables gently and never boil hard; a rolling boil clouds the broth and dulls its natural sweetness.
Bangkok's old dessert shops in Thonburi and the markets around Ayutthaya stack trays of this cake on their counters, and it turns up at weddings and house blessings because 'chan' also sounds like rising a level in life. Each green or white band is steamed on top of the last, so the finished slice is springy, faintly chewy and scented with pandan and jasmine; children eat it by peeling off one layer at a time. Serve it at room temperature with hot jasmine tea. Chef's tip: the classic mistake is pouring the next layer before the one beneath has turned fully translucent, which blurs the stripes; give each layer its full five minutes.
Long before coffee arrived, atole was the morning drink of central and southern Mexico, and in villages of Oaxaca, Puebla and Tlaxcala plain atole blanco is still drunk hot with tamales at breakfast or on cold evenings. Fresh masa is whisked into water and cooked until it thickens to a silky, gently sweet drink with a toasty corn taste. Made with water it is vegan. Chef's tip: strain the masa before cooking, so the atole is smooth with no lumps.
Saigon's chay restaurants, the ones tucked beside pagodas that fill up on the 1st and 15th of each lunar month, nearly always have a plate of this on the table: golden tofu cubes buried under a crunchy, fragrant rubble of fried lemongrass and red chilli. The tofu stays soft inside, the lemongrass turns nutty and crisp, and a splash of tamari with a little sugar glazes everything. Eat it with steamed jasmine rice, sliced cucumber and a bowl of clear vegetable soup. Many chay cooks skip garlic and shallot, so this version leaves them out. Chef's tip: mince the lemongrass really finely and fry it on its own until golden; coarse chunks or lemongrass added with the tofu stay woody and chewy.
Bocoles are breakfast across the Huasteca, the green hill country shared by Veracruz, San Luis Potosí and Tamaulipas, where they come off the comal at dawn to be split open and stuffed. The masa is enriched with fat (traditionally pork lard; vegetable shortening here keeps them vegetarian) so the cakes are tender and slightly crumbly. Fill them with beans, cheese and salsa, or with scrambled egg. If you keep a vegetarian kitchen, note that ranch-style fresh cheese is usually set with animal rennet; a vegetarian queso fresco or feta does the same job. Chef's tip: cook them slowly over a medium-low heat so the thick centre cooks through before the outside burns.
Old Bangkok coffee shops in Chinatown and Bang Rak still brew oliang through a long cotton sock, using a dark blend of coffee roasted with corn, soybeans, rice and sesame that gives it a toasty, almost cocoa-like flavour. It is served black, heavily sweetened and poured over crushed ice in tall glasses, a mid-morning pick-me-up for market traders. Look for any Thai 'oliang powder' blend in Asian shops, or mix dark coffee with roasted grains as below. It contains caffeine, so it is not one for children. Chef's tip: adding sugar after chilling is the mistake; dissolve it while the coffee is hot, or it stays gritty.
Once made in the palace kitchens of Ayutthaya, these miniature chillies, mangosteens and mangoes now fill gift boxes in Bangkok bakeries for weddings, merit-making and Mother's Day. The inside is a smooth, sweet paste of mung beans and coconut milk; the outside is a thin, shiny skin of jelly, so each one tastes a little like marzipan in a glass coat. Making them is an afternoon project best shared. Chef's tip: a paste that is too wet won't hold a shape and slides off the stick; cook it until it pulls away from the pan in one soft ball.
In homes from Monterrey to Guadalajara, a big bowl of creamy apple salad is chilling in the fridge on Christmas Eve, ready to sit alongside roast pork or turkey, and the kids usually go back for seconds as dessert. Crisp diced apple, juicy pineapple, celery for crunch, raisins and toasted pecans are folded into a sweet dressing of cream, condensed milk and a little soured cream. Many versions add marshmallows, but most contain gelatine, so they are left out here. Chef's tip: chill it for an hour before serving; the dressing thickens and the flavours marry.
Saigon's café-dessert shops made chè khúc bạch a craze in the 2010s, and it is still a cooling order on hot afternoons around Bến Thành. Soft, creamy cubes of almond-scented milk jelly float with lychees in a light lychee syrup, topped with crunchy toasted almonds, all over crushed ice. Gelatin is often used; this version sets with agar so it is vegetarian, and it holds firm even in tropical heat. Chef's tip: boil the agar for a full 2 minutes before adding the milk; agar that is only warmed won't set, which is the usual reason the jelly stays runny.
Palmiers, "palm leaves", are the crisp, sugar-glazed puff pastry hearts sold by the bag in French bakeries and eaten with coffee or by children at goûter. Puff pastry is rolled in sugar instead of flour, folded towards the centre from both sides, sliced and baked until each heart is caramelised and glassy. The common mistake is underbaking, which leaves them soft and pale. Chef's tip: turn them over halfway through baking so both sides caramelise.
Apricot jam is the most loved jam in France, made in July with the apricots of the Roussillon and the Rhône valley and used for breakfast, for glazing fruit tarts and for filling croissants. Halved apricots are macerated with sugar, then boiled quickly so they keep their bright orange colour. The common mistake is stirring too hard, which breaks up the fruit. Chef's tip: add a few drops of almond extract at the end for the taste of the kernels; do not add the kernels themselves, which are not safe to eat in quantity.
Radis beurre is the simplest and most French of apéro snacks and bistro starters: crisp pink French breakfast radishes from the spring market, served with cold, good butter and flaky salt, often with a baguette. It is how Parisians welcome the first radishes in April. The common mistake is using old, woolly radishes; they must be firm and peppery. Chef's tip: soak the radishes in iced water for 30 minutes to make them extra crisp, and leave a little of the green tops on to hold them by.
Mendiants are little discs of chocolate topped with an almond, a hazelnut, a raisin and a dried fig, the four "beggars" of the Provençal Christmas, whose colours were said to match the robes of the four mendicant orders of monks; they are part of the thirteen desserts and a favourite home-made Christmas gift. The common mistake is letting the chocolate set before adding the toppings, so they fall off. Chef's tip: pipe only six discs at a time and top them straight away.
The pompe à l'huile is the centrepiece of the thirteen desserts of Christmas Eve in Provence, a flat, slashed sweet bread made with olive oil and scented with orange-blossom water. Tradition says it must be torn by hand, never cut, or you will be ruined in the year to come, and it is eaten after the gros souper on 24 December. The common mistake is using a harsh, peppery olive oil, which overpowers it. Chef's tip: use a mild, fruity olive oil and brush more over the warm loaf.
Tarte à la tomate is a summer favourite all over Burgundy, home of Dijon mustard, made from July to September for picnics, light lunches and apéritif. A crisp shortcrust case is spread thickly with mustard and grated cheese, covered with overlapping tomato slices and herbs and baked until the tomatoes are jammy; the mustard mellows into a warm, tangy layer. Comté and Gruyère are usually made with animal rennet; use a vegetarian hard cheese if you prefer. The common mistake is using watery tomatoes, which make the pastry soggy. Chef's tip: salt and drain the tomato slices on kitchen paper for 15 minutes before laying them on the tart.
The religieuse, "nun", is a Parisian pâtisserie classic invented in the 1850s, so called because the two stacked choux buns, glazed in brown icing with a little ruff of buttercream, look like a nun in her habit. It is still a treat bought at weekend bakeries in Paris for a special goûter. The common mistake is underbaking the choux, which collapse when filled. Chef's tip: once baked, prop the oven door open with a wooden spoon and leave the choux inside for 10 minutes to dry out.
The mustard vinaigrette is made fresh in every French kitchen before dinner, often right in the bottom of the salad bowl, and spooned over butter lettuce served after the main course and before the cheese. The classic ratio is one part vinegar to three of oil, with a spoonful of Dijon mustard to hold it together into a thick emulsion. The common mistake is dissolving the salt in the oil, where it stays gritty; it must go in the vinegar first. Chef's tip: dress the leaves just before serving and toss with your hands, so every leaf is coated but not soggy.
The Saint-Honoré, named after the patron saint of bakers and created in a pâtisserie on the rue Saint-Honoré in Paris around 1850, is a celebration cake for christenings and saints' days: a puff pastry disc ringed with choux, a crown of caramel-dipped cream puffs and a centre of piped vanilla cream. It is a project, but each part is simple. The common mistake is touching the caramel, which burns badly. Chef's tip: dip the puffs top-down into the caramel and set them upside down on baking paper, so the tops dry flat and glassy.
The puits d'amour, "well of love", is an 18th-century Parisian pastry still made by old-fashioned pâtisseries in the capital, especially the famous one on the rue Montorgueil: small puff pastry cases filled with vanilla cream and finished with a crackling caramelised sugar top, like a crème brûlée in pastry. The common mistake is overfilling the cases, so the cream bubbles out under the grill. Chef's tip: fill just level and use a blowtorch for the sugar, in two thin layers.
The tarte fine aux pommes is the elegant, wafer-thin apple tart of Parisian brasseries, ordered after lunch and served warm, sometimes with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Paper-thin slices of apple are overlapped on a disc of puff pastry, brushed with butter and sugar and baked until the edges caramelise. The common mistake is letting the pastry puff, which pushes the apples off. Chef's tip: bake the pastry with a second tray on top for the first 10 minutes to keep it flat and crisp.
Nougat noir is the dark, crunchy sister of white nougat, made of just honey and almonds cooked until caramelised, and in Provence both are placed on the Christmas Eve table as part of the thirteen desserts, the white for purity and the black for the shadows. The common mistake is cooking it too far, so it tastes burnt and bitter. Chef's tip: stop as soon as the honey turns a deep amber and the almonds start to crackle.
The tarte Bourdaloue was created in the 19th century by a Parisian pâtissier on the rue Bourdaloue, behind the church of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, and it is still a classic autumn and winter tart in Paris bakeries. Poached pear halves are fanned over almond cream in a sweet pastry case and baked until the cream puffs up golden around the fruit. The common mistake is using wet pears, which make the almond cream soggy. Chef's tip: pat the pears dry on kitchen paper and slice them thinly crosswise, keeping each half together, so they fan out neatly.
Crème chantilly is named after the Château de Chantilly north of Paris, where the 17th-century steward Vatel is said to have served it, and today it crowns waffles, crêpes, fruit tarts and hot chocolate in cafés across France. Cold cream is whipped with a little icing sugar and vanilla to soft, billowy peaks, light rather than stiff. The common mistake is over-whipping, which turns the cream grainy and then into butter. Chef's tip: chill the bowl and whisk for 15 minutes first, and stop as soon as the cream holds soft peaks that just flop over.
Pommes purée is the smooth, rich mash served all over France with roast chicken, sausages or a Sunday daube, and made famous in Paris restaurants where chefs beat in almost as much butter as potato. Floury potatoes are boiled whole in their skins, peeled hot, pressed through a ricer or sieve and beaten with hot milk and cold butter until silky. The common mistake is mashing in a food processor or with a blender, which turns the starch gluey. Chef's tip: dry the riced potato over a low heat for a minute before adding the butter; drier potato takes in more butter and tastes richer.
Italian hot chocolate is not a milky drink but almost a pudding: thick enough to coat a spoon, made with real dark chocolate and cocoa thickened with a little starch. On cold winter afternoons in Turin, Florence and Perugia, families sit in historic cafés with a cup topped with whipped cream (con panna), dipping biscuits into it. Children love it. Chef's tip: mix the cornflour and cocoa with a little cold milk to a smooth paste first; dropped straight into hot milk, they form lumps.
Budino is the dessert Italian children find in the fridge on a Sunday afternoon: a soft, wobbly milk pudding flavoured with cocoa and set with cornflour, poured into little cups or a mould and chilled. It is the kind of thing nonna makes in ten minutes for the grandchildren's merenda (afternoon snack), and it is gluten free and egg free. Chef's tip: whisk the cocoa, sugar and cornflour together before adding the milk; mixed dry, they don't form lumps.
Salame di cioccolato is the sweet that Italian children help to make: crushed biscuits mixed with melted chocolate, butter and cocoa, rolled into a log, chilled and dusted with icing sugar so that, when sliced, it looks just like a salami with "fat" spots of biscuit. It is served at birthday parties and Christmas, and some families add rum for adults. This version uses no raw eggs and no alcohol, so it is safe for everyone. Chef's tip: break the biscuits by hand into pieces the size of a fingernail; crumbs make it look like a plain chocolate log.
The bicerin ("little glass" in Piedmontese dialect) has been served since 1763 at the tiny Caffè al Bicerin opposite the Consolata church in Turin, where it was the drink that churchgoers had after fasting before Mass. It is three layers in a small glass: thick hot chocolate at the bottom, espresso in the middle and cold, lightly whipped cream on top, not stirred, so you taste each layer in turn. Contains caffeine. Chef's tip: pour the coffee and then the cream slowly over the back of a spoon so the layers sit on top of each other instead of mixing.
Gratin de blettes is a thrifty winter favourite in Lyon and across Provence, where Swiss chard is a staple of every market garden and both the white ribs and the green leaves are used. The stalks are boiled until tender, the leaves wilted, and everything is folded into a nutmeg béchamel and baked under crisp breadcrumbs. It is served as a side with roasts or on its own for supper. The common mistake is not cooking the stalks long enough, which leaves them stringy. Chef's tip: peel the strings off the backs of the wide stalks like celery; the gratin will be silky.
In Italy the cappuccino is strictly a breakfast drink, ordered at the bar counter with a cornetto before 11 in the morning, never after a meal. It is a single espresso topped with an equal amount of hot milk and a thick cap of velvety foam, named after the brown habits of Capuchin friars. Baristas in Turin and Trieste are famous for their thick, glossy microfoam. Contains caffeine, so it's not for children. Chef's tip: heat the milk only to about 65 °C, when the jug is too hot to hold for more than a second; hotter milk tastes cooked and the foam collapses.
In Italian bars you can always ask for "un orzo": a hot drink made from roasted barley that looks like coffee and has a toasty, slightly sweet taste but no caffeine. During the war, when coffee was scarce, families drank it every morning, and today it is given to children, pregnant women and anyone avoiding caffeine. It can be made in a moka pot, served in a small cup like espresso or in a large one with milk. Barley contains gluten. Chef's tip: don't press the barley into the moka basket like coffee; packed tightly, it blocks the water and the pot hisses.
Strawberry jam is the jam of French breakfasts, spread on buttered baguette or tartines and stirred into fromage blanc, and families make it in early summer when the Plougastel and Carpentras strawberries are cheap at the market. Macerating the fruit overnight in sugar keeps the berries whole. The common mistake is cooking too long, which darkens it and loses the fresh taste. Chef's tip: test for a set on a cold saucer; when you push it with a finger, it should wrinkle.
Poires au vin are a simple winter dessert from Burgundy and the Loire, whole pears poached in red wine with sugar, cinnamon, orange and cloves until they turn a deep ruby, then served cold in their reduced syrup. The red wine version is made with alcohol, and most but not all of it cooks off; for children, pregnant guests or anyone avoiding alcohol, use red grape juice with less sugar and a squeeze of lemon. The common mistake is not turning the pears, so they colour unevenly. Chef's tip: leave the pears in the syrup overnight for the deepest colour.
Marrons glacés are the luxurious Christmas sweet of the Ardèche and Privas, whole chestnuts candied slowly in vanilla syrup and finished with a thin sugar glaze, given as gifts in December and served with coffee after the Christmas meal. Home versions use cooked, peeled chestnuts, which saves the hardest work. The common mistake is stirring, which breaks the chestnuts. Chef's tip: wrap the chestnuts in muslin, or set them in a steamer basket, so you can lift them in and out of the syrup without touching them.
Crème de marrons, sweet chestnut cream, was invented in Privas in the Ardèche in the 1880s to use up broken chestnuts from making marrons glacés, and it is now a French store-cupboard classic: spread on crêpes at Candlemas, stirred into fromage blanc, or piled into a Mont Blanc dessert. This home version uses cooked, peeled chestnuts. The common mistake is not blending it smooth enough. Chef's tip: blend while still warm, and push it through a sieve for a silky finish.
Green tomato jam is the thrifty end-of-summer preserve of French kitchen gardens, made in October in the south-west and Provence with the tomatoes that will never ripen before the frost; it tastes surprisingly like a mix of melon and lemon and is served with breakfast or with cheese. The common mistake is cutting the tomatoes too big, so they stay hard. Chef's tip: slice them thinly and leave them overnight in the sugar; they turn translucent when cooked.
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