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Summer recipes: cool drinks, kulfi and light food

Sharbats, lassi, kulfi, aam ras, raita, cold salads and soups to keep you cool in the heat. (289 recipes)

Hong Kong red bean iceRed bean shaved ice

Red bean ice is a cha chaan teng drink and dessert in one: tall glasses of sweet stewed adzuki beans, sugar syrup and crushed ice, topped with a layer of evaporated milk, served all summer at the old-school cafés of Sham Shui Po and Mong Kok and at the dai pai dong on Stanley Street. You stir with a long spoon, sip the cold milky liquid through a straw and spoon up the soft beans. The beans can be cooked a day ahead. Contains milk. Chef's tip: add the sugar only once the beans are completely soft; sugar added early keeps the skins tough.

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Lahori kulfaKulfi with falooda

On hot Lahore nights, families stroll to Gawalmandi food street and the old shops near Anarkali for kulfa: a whole cone of dense, cardamom-scented kulfi is sliced into fat discs, laid over soft falooda noodles and spooned over with rabri, the thick sweetened milk. It is cold, chewy and creamy in every mouthful. Contains milk and tree nuts (pistachio and almond); the falooda noodles may contain wheat. Chef's tip: scrape the bottom and sides of the pan constantly as the milk reduces; one scorched patch flavours the whole batch.

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Socată (elderflower fizz)

In late May and early June, when elder bushes bloom white along every Romanian village lane and riverbank, grandmothers fill big glass jars with water, sugar, lemon slices and elderflower heads and set them on a sunny windowsill or balcony. Three or four days later the jar is fizzing gently and socată, the most beloved summer drink of rural Romania, is bottled and chilled for haymaking days, family lunches and long evenings in the courtyard. It is sweet and floral, like honeyed lemonade with the scent of muscat grapes, with a light natural sparkle. Like all young ferments it makes a trace of alcohol, well under 1% if drunk within a week. The common mistake is washing the flowers or picking them after rain: the pollen and wild yeast that start the fermentation are rinsed away and nothing happens. Pick dry, fully open heads on a sunny morning and just shake off insects. It is ready to strain when fine bubbles rise steadily and it smells floral and slightly tangy. Use only the flowers: elder stems, leaves and unripe berries are toxic. Chef's tip: a few raisins in the jar give the yeast a boost if your flowers are slow.

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Calamansi juice

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

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Melon juice (cantaloupe drink)

Afternoon merienda across the Philippines means something cold from a plastic cooler at the school gate, a jeepney stop or a carinderia: sago't gulaman, buko juice or this melon drink, with ribbons of orange cantaloupe suspended in sweet water. Vendors scrape the melon with a special spiral shredder, a kayod ng melon, so you get thin strands to chew through a fat straw. It tastes fresh, sweet and gently musky, more refreshing than a smoothie because the water stays clear and light; some stalls add evaporated milk, but the plain version is the classic. The common mistake is using a melon that is not fully ripe, which gives pale, crunchy strands and a flat drink; choose one that smells sweet at the stem end and gives slightly when pressed there. Shred straight into the jug so the juice from the melon is not lost. It is ready when the strands are soft and floating, the water has turned faintly orange and it tastes of melon rather than plain syrup. Chef's tip: a box grater's coarse side or a fork scraped along the flesh both work if you don't own a melon shredder.

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Gondhoraj gholLime-scented yogurt drink

In Kolkata the gondhoraj lime arrives with the monsoon heat, a knobbly green fruit whose peel smells of flowers and pine more than of sour citrus. Bengali households use it to lift dal and fish, but in the sticky months from Boishakh into Srabon it goes into ghol: dahi churned with cold water until frothy, sweetened lightly and scented with the zest, a squeeze of juice and a torn leaf. Cafés along Gariahat and old sweet shops serve it in clay bhaar cups after lunch, and it is just as good mid-afternoon with a plate of muri. It drinks thin, cool and silky, with a soft tang and a perfume that hits the nose before the first sip. The usual mistake is grating too deep or leaving the zest to sit for an hour: the white pith and the oils turn bitter. Take only the green outer layer, add it just before serving, and stop when the ghol smells floral rather than sharp. It is ready when the top is covered in fine foam and a spoon comes out lightly coated. Chef's tip: for the salted version, swap the sugar for black salt and a pinch of roasted cumin, as many Kolkata homes do on the hottest days.

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Variyali sharbat (fennel cooler)

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

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Agua de tuna (prickly pear drink)

Late summer is tuna season across the central highlands, from Hidalgo and the Estado de México down to Puebla's Teotihuacán valley, and that is when the big vitroleros in markets and taquerías turn shocking pink. Agua de tuna is just the cactus fruit blended with water, lime and a little sugar, strained, and poured over ice with lunch. Red tunas give a vivid colour and a taste between watermelon and pear; green ones make a paler, more herbal drink. It should be light and thirst-quenching, never syrupy. The commonest mistake is blending too long: the hard seeds crack and the agua turns gritty and slightly bitter. Pulse briefly, just enough to free the pulp, then strain well. It is ready when the liquid runs smooth through the sieve and tastes clearly of fruit with only a lift of lime. Handle unpeeled tunas with tongs or gloves: even 'cleaned' ones keep tiny glochids. Chef's tip: chill the peeled fruit before blending; cold pulp keeps its colour bright and needs less ice to dilute it.

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Cremolada (Lima passion fruit slush)

From January to March, when Lima's coast swelters, queues form at the cremolada counters of Barranco and along the Jirón de la Unión downtown for cups of this thick fruit ice. It sits between a granita and a sorbet: frozen fruit pulp scraped again and again until it is slushy and spoonable, with real bits of fruit through it. Passion fruit (maracuyá) gives a sharp, bright flavour; creamy lúcuma, with its maple and sweet potato taste, is the other favourite. Chef's tip: use a shallow metal tray; it freezes faster and evenly, so you get fine crystals rather than chunks.

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Hiyashi tomatoChilled tomato

Hiyashi tomato is the simplest thing on any Japanese izakaya menu in July and August: ripe tomatoes, chilled until icy, cut into wedges and served on a small plate, sometimes on crushed ice, to cool down a hot evening in Tokyo or Osaka. Many bars sprinkle salt; this home version leaves it out and offers a few drops of rice vinegar and toasted sesame oil instead, so the tomato's own sweetness and acidity do the work. About 0.0 g added salt; roughly 0.03 g per portion occurs naturally in the tomato. The usual mistake is using hard, pale supermarket tomatoes: this dish is only as good as the fruit, so buy deep red ones that smell of tomato at the stalk. Chef's tip: chill the plate as well as the tomatoes, so the wedges stay cold to the last bite.

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Limau asam boi (lime with sour plum)

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

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Agua de chilacayoteFig-leaf squash drink

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

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Suco de cajáHog plum juice

Walk along the beach barracas of Salvador or into any lanchonete in Recife and the juice board will list cajá near the top. The small yellow fruit, from tall trees that grow wild across Bahia and the Northeast, is too sour to eat out of hand but makes a juice with a scent that people there treat as a taste of home: floral, sharp and tropical, a little like passion fruit and mango crossed with lime. It is drunk ice-cold with lunch, with a plate of moqueca, or after an afternoon in the sun. Most Brazilians use frozen pulp, which keeps the fragrance well. The common mistake is drowning it in sugar or blending it with too much water so the perfume disappears; cajá should taste lively and tart, so sweeten lightly and taste as you go. It is ready when it is a bright golden-yellow, lightly frothy, and smells floral as soon as you lift the jug. Outside Brazil, look for frozen cajá pulp in Latin American shops; the same fruit is sold as jobo or yellow mombin, or ciruela in Mexico. Chef's tip: blend with half ice and half water instead of all water for a frothier, colder juice.

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Chłodnik litewskiChilled beet leaf soup

In Podlasie and the lake country of north-east Poland, chłodnik is the soup of hot June and July days, when young beets are pulled with their leaves still tender. The beet greens and baby beets are cooked briefly, chilled, then stirred into kefir with cucumber, radish, spring onion and lots of dill, so the soup turns shocking pink, tangy and cold. It is served as a starter or a light lunch with half a hard-boiled egg in each bowl. Suitable as part of a balanced diet. About 170 kcal and 13 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is mixing the kefir into warm beets, which makes it split and dulls the colour, so chill them completely first. Chef's tip: add a squeeze of lemon to the cooking beets; the acid keeps the colour a vivid pink instead of brownish.

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Sharbat-e bidmeshk (willow blossom sherbet)

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

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Sharbat-e zaferan (saffron sherbet)

Big steel urns of golden saffron sherbet are poured for guests at Iranian weddings and engagement parties, and the same drink is handed out on the street as nazri during Muharram and at memorial gatherings, when families offer something sweet and cool in the name of the departed. Saffron from Khorasan is ground with a sugar cube, bloomed in a little water and stirred into syrup with rose water and lemon. The result is honey-sweet and floral, with saffron's faint bitterness and hay-like perfume at the end, and a colour that should be a clear, sunny orange-gold. The usual mistake is dropping whole threads straight into cold water, which gives a pale, patchy drink and wastes expensive saffron; grind it first and let it bloom for at least 10 minutes. You know the bloom is ready when the water is a deep red-orange and smells strongly of saffron. Taste before serving: it should be sweet but finish clean, with the lemon just noticeable. Chef's tip: an ice cube placed on the ground saffron and left to melt slowly gives the deepest colour of all, an old Iranian trick.

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Glaçon râpéShaved ice with syrups

On a hot Sunday at Flic en Flac or Mon Choisy, families queue at the glaçon râpé man, who shaves a block of ice into a cup, then pours over bright red and green syrups and, if you ask, a thick ribbon of sweetened condensed milk. The ice should be fluffy and dry like fresh snow, so the syrup sinks in and streaks the colours together, and the condensed milk turns the bottom of the cup into a sweet, milky slush. A home blender makes a fine version if the ice is very cold; the common mistake is using ice straight from a bag that has half-thawed, which turns to watery slush. Chef's tip: put the cups and the blender jug in the freezer for 20 minutes first, then pulse in short bursts rather than running the motor.

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TepacheFermented pineapple drink

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

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Akajiso juice (red shiso cordial)

Bunches of red shiso fill Japanese greengrocers for a few weeks in June and July, mostly bought to colour umeboshi. Gardeners from Kyoto's Ohara valley to Kantō boil the surplus into this cordial and keep it in the fridge for hot afternoons. Simmering pulls a murky purple-brown liquid from the leaves; the magic is the moment the vinegar goes in and the whole pan flushes a brilliant clear magenta. Diluted with ice water or soda water it tastes sweet-sour and herbal, like a cross between blackcurrant, mint and cinnamon. The most common mistake is simmering the leaves too long or with the stems: it turns grassy and bitter. Strip the leaves, boil them for five minutes only, until they have turned green and limp, then lift them out. The cordial is ready when it is jewel-bright and clear. Bottle it in a clean, sterilised bottle and keep it in the fridge for up to three weeks; discard if it fizzes, clouds or grows mould. No fresh red shiso nearby? Japanese and Korean shops sometimes sell it in summer, and it grows easily from seed. Chef's tip: freeze some as ice cubes to drop into sparkling water.

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Ragi ambaliFinger millet porridge drink

Across rural Andhra Pradesh and Telangana, farm workers drink a big glass of ragi ambali in the early morning before the summer heat, and clay pots of it are sold at roadside stalls in April and May. Finger-millet flour is cooked into a thick paste, left overnight to ferment lightly, then thinned with buttermilk and stirred with raw onion, green chilli and curry leaves into a cool, tangy, savoury drink. It is suitable as part of a balanced diet. About 140 kcal and 22 g carbohydrate per portion. The usual mistake is pouring the ragi flour straight into boiling water, which makes lumps; mix it with cold water first. Chef's tip: cook the paste until it turns glossy and darker, about 8 minutes; undercooked ragi tastes raw and floury.

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Mugicha (roasted barley tea)

From the rainy season in June until the cicadas fall quiet in September, almost every Japanese household keeps a tall jug of mugicha in the fridge. It is poured for children coming in from summer club practice, for grandparents after an afternoon nap, and alongside cold sōmen at lunch, because it carries no caffeine and can be drunk all day. Whole barley grains roasted until deep brown give a cup that tastes of toast, a little of coffee and a little of popcorn, with a clean, dry finish and no sweetness at all. Supermarkets sell it in tea bags, but loose roasted grains simmered in a pan make a rounder, darker brew. The usual mistake is leaving the grains in the jug or letting the hot tea sit out on the counter for hours: it turns bitter and, being a grain infusion, it sours quickly in summer heat. Strain it, cool it fast in a sink of cold water, and drink it within two days. It is ready when the liquid is a clear amber-brown and smells like freshly toasted bread. Chef's tip: dry-toast the grains for two minutes before brewing to wake up a bag that has been open a while.

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Sharbat-e rivas (rhubarb sherbet)

For a few weeks in spring, after Nowruz, sellers come down from the Alborz foothills, the mountains of Khorasan and Kurdistan with bundles of rivas, the thick-stalked wild rhubarb. People peel and eat the stalks raw with salt, cook them into khoresh, and boil the rest into syrup to keep the taste of the season into summer. Sharbat-e rivas is pink, sharp and refreshing, like sour cherry and green apple together, softened by sugar and lifted by mint. The common mistake is boiling the rhubarb hard and pressing it through the sieve, which makes the syrup cloudy, brownish and stringy; simmer gently and let it drip on its own. Use only the stalks, never the leaves, which are poisonous. The syrup is ready when it is clear, rose-coloured and coats a spoon in a thin film; it keeps for two weeks in a clean bottle in the fridge, and should be thrown away if it fizzes, smells of alcohol or grows mould. Garden rhubarb is a good substitute for rivas; the reddest stalks give the prettiest colour. Chef's tip: a strip of lemon peel in the pot brightens the colour and stops the syrup tasting flat.

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Durofrío de mangoFrozen mango milk pops

In the hot streets of Centro Habana, durofríos are sold straight from the front windows of family homes: a few pesos buys a frozen cup of fruit juice or fruit and milk, popped out and eaten on a stick or straight from its paper cup. Children queue for them after school in the long summer afternoons, when the sea breeze has dropped. This version blends ripe mango with milk and lime into a creamy, fruity ice that is firm, as the name says ("hard-cold"), rather than soft like ice cream. Swap the milk for water or guava juice for a dairy-free fruit ice. It contains milk. Chef's tip: make the mix taste a little too sweet before freezing; cold dulls sweetness.

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Nước sấu (sấu fruit drink)

When Hanoi's tamarind-like sấu trees drop their small green fruit in May and June, street vendors start selling glasses of nước sấu: a few candied fruits, a ladle of ginger syrup, cold water and crushed ice. Families make big jars to last until the season ends in August. It is sipped with a spoon so you can bite into the crunchy-soft fruit at the bottom. It tastes sour and sweet at once, with a clean ginger warmth and a flavour a little like green mango and plum. Traditional cooks soak the peeled fruit in limewater to keep it crisp; a salt soak works well at home. The common mistake is skipping the blanch and slow syrup: raw fruit stays acrid and the syrup clouds. Blanch the fruit briefly, then cook it gently in sugar until it turns translucent yellow-green and the syrup is clear and glossy. Store it in a sterilised jar in the fridge for up to 2 months with a clean spoon; discard if it fizzes, smells fermented or shows mould. Fresh sấu is rare abroad; look for frozen sấu in Vietnamese shops, or use firm green ambarella. Chef's tip: slash each fruit a few times so the syrup soaks all the way in.

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Liangban sansiCold three-shred salad

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

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Neer mor (spiced buttermilk)

From April to June, when Chennai and Madurai bake at forty degrees, temples, shops and political parties set up 'thaneer pandhal' sheds by the roadside, offering free neer mor to every passer-by from great clay pots. At home it comes after a rice meal of sambar and rasam, or in the middle of the afternoon. The curd is churned and thinned with water until barely white, then seasoned with green chilli, ginger, curry leaves, coriander and a pinch of asafoetida, sometimes finished with a tempering of mustard seeds. It should be very thin, salty, tangy and herby, with a little chilli heat and a lingering savoury scent. The common mistake is using too little water: it then drinks like a heavy lassi rather than a thirst-quencher. Aim for about one part curd to four parts water. It is ready when the buttermilk is smooth, cold and pale green-flecked, and smells of curry leaf. It keeps a day in the fridge. Chef's tip: crush the ginger, chilli and curry leaves rather than chopping them; bruising releases far more flavour into the thin liquid.

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Sorbete de curubaBanana passionfruit milk drink

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

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TizanaFruit in orange juice

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

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Trà chanhIced lime tea

On warm evenings the pavement beside St Joseph's Cathedral in Hanoi fills with rows of tiny plastic stools, and nearly everyone is holding a tall glass of trà chanh, cheap green tea poured over ice with a squeeze of lime and plenty of sugar, sipped with a saucer of sunflower seeds while the city's scooters roar past. It is sharp, sweet and very refreshing. Chef's tip: brew the tea in water just off the boil, around 80 °C; boiling water makes green tea bitter.

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Paneer soda (rose soda)

Every Tamil town once had a soda shop with crates of Codd-neck bottles sealed by a glass marble, and the pop of the marble being pushed down was the sound of a hot afternoon. Paneer here means rose water, not cheese, and paneer soda is rose syrup topped with that sharp local fizz, sold in Madurai, Tiruchi and Coimbatore by the bus stand and at temple festival stalls in Chithirai and Vaikasi, the hottest months. It is sweet and floral at first, then the bubbles and a touch of lime cut through and leave the mouth clean. The mistake most people make is boiling the rose water with the sugar: the scent cooks away and you are left with plain syrup. Make the syrup first, let it cool, and only then stir in the rose water. The syrup is ready when it is clear and slightly thickened, like thin honey, and the finished drink should be rosy pink and still foaming as you hand it over. Chef's tip: chill the syrup, the soda and the glasses well; warm soda loses its fizz the moment it meets the syrup.

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Suanmeitang (sour plum drink)

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

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EiskaffeeIced coffee with ice cream

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

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ŠaltibarščiaiCold beetroot soup

Šaltibarščiai is the shocking-pink soup of Lithuanian summers, so loved that Vilnius holds a pink soup festival every June: cooked or pickled beetroot grated into cold kefir with cucumber, dill, spring onion and boiled egg, served with a plate of hot boiled potatoes on the side. The contrast of icy soup and steaming potatoes is the point. A common mistake is using warm beetroot, which dulls the colour and warms the soup. Chef's tip: grate chilled beetroot into ice-cold kefir and let it stand for 10 minutes; the colour deepens to vivid fuchsia.

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Tarragon lemonade

Tarkhuna is the emerald-green soda that every Tbilisi child knows, sold from street fountains since the early 1900s and still poured in tall glasses at cafés on Rustaveli Avenue. The bottled kind is coloured; the home version gets its green from blitzing fresh tarragon with lemon and syrup, giving an aniseedy, sweet-sour fizz. A common mistake is boiling the tarragon, which dulls the colour and turns the flavour stewed. Chef's tip: blitz the herb into cool syrup and strain it straight away; the drink stays vivid green for a day in the fridge.

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Gola gandaShaved ice with syrups

Nothing says summer evening at Clifton beach or Burns Road quite like the clatter of a gola ganda cart, where a block of ice is shaved on a hand plane, packed round a stick into a fist-sized ball and doused in rose-pink, mango-orange and purple kala khatta syrups. It melts fast in the Karachi heat, so children lick it from the bottom as it drips, and the fancier stalls serve it in a plate with condensed milk, desiccated coconut and a pinch of chaat-style salt on the sour syrup. At home a hand ice shaver or a powerful blender makes snow fine enough to press into balls. The most common disappointment is ice crushed too coarsely, which will not hold together and lets the syrup run straight through. Chef's tip: freeze the ice from boiled and cooled drinking water in a shallow tray, and put the glasses or plates in the freezer too, so the gola keeps its shape for longer.

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Doodh sodaMilk with lemon-lime soda

It sounds odd until you are standing in a crowd at a Lahore milk shop on a 45 °C June night, when a tall glass of doodh soda, foamy and sweet with a sharp citrus fizz, is the most refreshing thing in the city. The doodh-walas of Gawalmandi and Mozang chill milk in steel drums over ice, then pour it from a height into a glass with lemon-lime soda so that it froths like a milkshake, and people drink it straight after dinner or after a late plate of fried fish or chana. It tastes like a lighter, bubbly lassi, and children love it. What usually goes wrong is warm milk or flat soda, which makes it taste curdled rather than crisp. Chef's tip: chill both the milk and the soda until very cold, pour the milk first and add the soda in one go, then serve at once while the foam is high.

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Kachi lassiMilk and water lassi

Harvest time in the Punjab is thirsty work: when the wheat is being cut in the April heat, a steel jug of kachi lassi is carried out to the workers: fresh milk thinned with cold water, stirred with sugar and poured over chunks of ice. Unlike yogurt lassi there is no tang, just a light, clean, milky sweetness that quenches thirst better than plain water, and in many villages it is the drink offered to any guest who arrives on a hot afternoon. Some people add a pinch of salt instead of sugar, or a few drops of rose water. The traditional kind uses raw milk straight from the buffalo; use pasteurised milk instead to be safe. The usual mistake is making it with too little water, which turns it heavy instead of refreshing. Chef's tip: whisk it hard or shake it in a jar so it turns frothy, which makes it feel even cooler.

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Falsa sherbetFalsa berry drink

For a few short weeks in May and June, Punjabi fruit sellers from Multan to Lahore pile their carts with falsa, tiny purple-black berries with a big seed and a sweet-sour, grape-like flavour, and roadside stalls crush them in big jugs of iced water with sugar and a pinch of black salt. The sherbet is a striking magenta, tart and salty-sweet, and people swear by it as a cooler against the loo, the scorching summer wind; it is also a favourite at iftar when Ramadan falls in summer. Outside Pakistan look for frozen falsa in South Asian grocers, or use blackcurrants, which give a similar colour and sharpness. A common slip is blending the berries hard, which cracks the seeds and turns the drink bitter. Chef's tip: just rub the berries with the sugar and a little water by hand or pulse very briefly, then strain, so you get all the juice and colour and none of the bitterness.

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Imli aloo bukhara sharbatTamarind and plum cooler

Pakistani grandmothers prescribe this deep brown drink for heatstroke, an upset stomach and the sluggish days of Ramadan fasting in June, and it is sold in tall glasses at sehri and iftar stalls in Karachi, Hyderabad and Lahore. Tamarind and dried aloo bukhara plums are soaked, simmered, mashed and strained into a concentrate, which is then sweetened, seasoned with black salt and roasted cumin and served poured over ice. The flavour is fruity, tart and slightly smoky from the plums, with the savoury lift of the salt. The concentrate keeps for a week in the fridge, so a big batch lasts through a heatwave. The usual problem is skipping the straining step and serving it thick with fibres and seeds, which makes it more like a chutney than a drink. Chef's tip: let the plums soak in the hot liquid for an hour after simmering, so they give up all their sourness and colour before you strain them.

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SardaiAlmond and fennel milk drink

Old Lahoris remember the sardai-wala in the lanes of the Walled City, sitting cross-legged with a huge stone mortar and a wooden pestle, grinding soaked almonds, melon seeds, fennel, poppy seeds and black pepper into a pale paste and whisking it into chilled sweet milk. It is creamy, nutty and floral, with the gentle aniseed cool of fennel and a little warmth from pepper, and it was drunk through the hot months as protection against heat. Today it is easier to make with a blender, but the principle is the same: soak, grind fine, strain, chill. Many people forget to soak the seeds long enough, and the drink ends up gritty with a chalky aftertaste. Chef's tip: soak everything for at least 2 hours, or overnight, and strain through a muslin cloth, squeezing hard, so the sardai is silky and full of flavour.

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MathaSalted buttermilk

Thinner than lassi and salty rather than sweet, matha is what Old Dhaka drinks after a plate of kacchi biryani or a heavy afternoon of tehari and rezala. Vendors around Nazimuddin Road and Bangshal carry it in tall clay pots, churned so long that tiny flecks of butter float on top, and pour it into glasses with a pinch of roasted cumin and black salt. It tastes tangy, cool and faintly smoky, and it cuts through rich, oily food like nothing else. People often make it with thick Greek-style yoghurt and no extra water, which gives a heavy drink that sits in the stomach; matha should be pourable and light. Chef's tip: churn with plenty of ice in the jug so the butter firms into flecks you can skim off or leave floating, as the street sellers do.

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SobiaRice and coconut milk drink

Before the sunset call to prayer in Ramadan, juice shops in Cairo's old quarters fill plastic bags and jugs with sobia for families to carry home, and it is one of the classic drinks for breaking the fast. It is milky white, sweet and smooth, with a gentle coconut flavour and a light body from the rice that makes it filling after a long day without food. This version simmers the rice-coconut milk briefly so it is safe to keep for a day or two in the fridge. Allow an hour for soaking the rice. The common mistake is not straining well, which leaves the drink gritty; push it through muslin. Chef's tip: chill it for at least 3 hours, because sobia tastes flat unless it is ice-cold.

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Sugarcane juice

Juice shops all over Cairo and the towns of Upper Egypt crush sugarcane through clattering steel rollers and serve the pale green juice ice-cold for a few pounds a glass, a favourite in the summer heat and after Ramadan fasting. It is sweet, grassy and refreshing, with a faint lemony edge, and it tastes best within minutes of pressing. Without a press, peeled cane chopped small and blended with a little water gives a very close result at home. Chef's tip: peel the cane completely, because the hard green rind makes the juice bitter and dark.

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June plum juice

When June plums (ambarella) fall from backyard trees across Jamaica, families blend the sour green-gold fruit into a sharp, refreshing juice with fresh ginger and lime. It is tangy like green apple, with a faintly mango-like perfume, and is drunk ice-cold with Sunday lunch. The big mistake is blending the spiny stone in with the flesh; cut the flesh away first or the juice turns bitter and fibrous. Chef's tip: use slightly underripe, firm plums for the brightest, sharpest flavour.

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PiraguasShaved ice with fruit syrup

Push-cart piragüeros park by the plazas of Old San Juan and along the beaches on hot afternoons, scraping a block of ice by hand, packing it into a paper cone shaped like a little pyramid and soaking it in bright syrups: tamarindo, parcha (passion fruit), coco or frambuesa. At home, two quick fruit syrups and a blender or ice shaver do the job. The common mistake is using coarsely crushed ice, which lets the syrup run straight through; the ice needs to be fluffy like snow to hold it. Chef's tip: pour a little syrup in the bottom of the cup, pack in ice, then add more syrup, so the last bite is as sweet as the first.

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KoldskålCold buttermilk soup

On the first warm day of summer, Danes buy cartons of koldskål and packets of kammerjunker, small crunchy rusks, and the season has begun: koldskål is a cold, sweet, tangy buttermilk 'soup' with lemon and vanilla, eaten from bowls as a dessert or a light supper, sometimes with strawberries. Homemade, it is whisked with egg yolks for richness. Raw egg yolk is not suitable for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system, so this recipe uses pasteurised egg yolks. A common mistake is serving it at room temperature; it must be very cold. Chef's tip: whisk the yolks and sugar until thick and pale before the buttermilk goes in, which gives a silky, foamy soup.

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Aiyu jelly with lemonAiyu fig jelly with lemon

Squeezing a little cloth bag of seeds in a bowl of water until it turns into jelly sounds like a magic trick, yet that's how aiyu has been made for well over a century in Chiayi, at the foot of the Alishan hills where the climbing fig grows wild. The pectin in the dried seeds sets the water into a soft, glassy, pale-gold jelly with almost no taste of its own, so it's cut into cubes and served icy cold with tart lemon juice and honey syrup, the most refreshing thing on a sticky Taipei summer afternoon. The classic failure is a bowl that won't set, usually because the bowl was oily or the water was distilled or very soft; it needs ordinary tap or mineral water. Chef's tip: rub the bag steadily for 8–10 minutes and stop as soon as it feels slippery and nothing more comes out, or the jelly turns cloudy and bitter.

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Hong Kong iced lemon tea

Ask for 'ling cha, dung' at any Hong Kong cha chaan teng and a tall glass arrives crammed with ice, a heap of thin lemon slices and a long spoon for pounding them, the default thirst-quencher with set lunches all year round. The tea is brewed almost bitter, so it holds its own against the ice, and the sharp lemon and simple syrup turn it bright, tangy and refreshing. It is drunk with everything from macaroni soup breakfasts to afternoon pineapple buns. The common slip is brewing tea at normal strength, which tastes thin and watery once the ice melts; double the tea. Chef's tip: press the lemon slices with the back of the spoon only a few times to release juice and oil from the zest; grinding them to a pulp brings out bitterness from the pith.

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Barbadine punchGranadilla milk drink

Barbadine, the giant granadilla, grows on vines over backyard fences across Trinidad and turns up at Sunday lunch blended into a pale, creamy punch. The fruit's soft white flesh and the perfumed seed pulp inside are both used, giving a gentle passion-fruit flavour that milk, nutmeg and a little sugar round out. It is alcohol-free and made for the whole family. A frequent mistake is blending the seeds hard, which cracks them and turns the drink gritty and bitter: pulse the pulp briefly and strain it. Chef's tip: if you can't find barbadine, use the pulp of 6 passion fruit plus 200 g peeled honeydew melon for a similar taste.

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Morir soñandoOrange and milk drink

Its name means "to die dreaming", and on a hot afternoon in Santo Domingo a tall glass of it from a colmado or juice stand feels exactly like that: fresh orange juice and ice-cold evaporated milk, sweetened and stirred over lots of ice into something like a creamsicle. Many Dominican families make it with dinner on Sundays. The common mistake is pouring the milk into the juice, or using warm ingredients, which curdles it; the juice goes slowly into very cold milk. Chef's tip: squeeze sweet, low-acid oranges and chill the juice and milk for an hour first, and it will stay smooth.

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Mango shaved ice

Every summer, from late May to September, the dessert shops of Taipei's Yongkang Street have queues that stretch round the corner for one thing: a mountain of feathery milk ice buried under cubes of ripe Aiwen mango. The ice is frozen milk shaved so thinly it melts on the tongue like snow, and it's drenched in mango syrup and sweetened condensed milk, often with a scoop of mango sorbet on top. At home, freeze the milk base the night before; the active work then takes about 15 minutes. Shaving the block straight from the freezer is a common mistake, as it splinters into icy shards; let it soften for 5 minutes so it curls into ribbons. Chef's tip: chill the serving bowls in the freezer too, so the snow holds its height while you add the toppings.

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Barley water

Ask for 'barley' at any drinks stall in a Singapore kopitiam and you get a tall glass of cloudy, faintly sweet barley water, the drink older relatives swear by on the hottest afternoons because it is said to cool the body. Home cooks simmer pearl barley for an hour with knotted pandan leaves, and in Teochew and Cantonese households chunks of winter melon go in as well for a gentle, cucumber-like sweetness. The result is light and clean, ideal beside a plate of chicken rice, char kway teow or anything greasy and salty. The usual mistake is boiling it hard, which turns the liquid starchy and slimy instead of smooth and pale; keep it at a gentle simmer. Chef's tip: don't throw away the softened barley grains; spoon some into each glass, as the stalls do, or eat them warm with a little rock sugar as a light dessert.

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Bahamian switchaKey lime drink

On Bahamian porches and at Fish Fry stalls in Nassau, switcha is the everyday cooler: fresh key limes squeezed with sugar and cold water, stirred up in a big jug with plenty of ice. It's sharper and more fragrant than lemonade, and you'll see the lime halves floating in the jug. The usual mistake is putting sugar straight into cold water, where it sinks undissolved: make a quick syrup first. Chef's tip: drop a few squeezed lime halves into the jug for 10 minutes for extra aroma, then take them out before the pith turns it bitter.

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Jamaican soursop juice

Soursop punch is a Sunday-dinner drink in Jamaica, made when a ripe, soft soursop comes from the market or a yard tree, and it is also sold in bottles at roadside juice stands. The white, custardy pulp tastes of pineapple, banana and strawberry all at once, and blended with milk, nutmeg and vanilla it becomes thick and creamy. The common mistake is blending the black seeds, which taste bitter and should not be eaten; always pick them out by hand. Chef's tip: use a fruit that gives softly all over when pressed, like a ripe avocado.

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Champola de guanábanaSoursop milk shake

On a sticky afternoon in Havana, a tall glass of champola is the classic cooler: soursop pulp blended with ice-cold milk and a little sugar into something between a shake and a fruit drink. Soursop (guanábana) tastes of pineapple, banana and lemon at once, with a creamy body all its own. The common mistake is blending the black seeds in, which makes the drink bitter, so remove every one or use frozen pulp. Chef's tip: add a squeeze of lime just before serving; it sharpens the fruit and stops the drink tasting flat.

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GuarapoSugarcane juice

Guarapo stands, or guaraperas, pop up across Cuba wherever cane grows, crushing fresh stalks through a press and pouring the pale green juice straight over ice. It tastes grassy and gently sweet, never sugary, and it is drunk the moment it is pressed. You need a sugarcane press or juicer, or fresh peeled cane and a strong blender; bottled cane juice is a poor substitute. The common mistake is pressing the cane long before serving, because the juice darkens and starts to ferment within an hour. Chef's tip: chill the cane before pressing and add the lime as you press, which keeps the colour bright.

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Grenadian nutmeg ice cream

Grenada, the Spice Isle, grows much of the world's nutmeg, and in St George's ice cream parlours the local favourite is a rich egg-custard ice cream scented with freshly grated nutmeg. The flavour is warm and almost floral, nothing like the dusty jar spice, and it is lovely with fried plantain or a slice of black cake. The common mistake is overheating the custard so the eggs scramble; take it off the heat as soon as it coats a spoon. Chef's tip: grate the nutmeg straight into the hot milk and let it steep for 20 minutes before making the custard, so the flavour runs all the way through.

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LimonanaFrozen mint lemonade

The name joins limon and nana, lemon and mint, and this slushy green lemonade is what beach cafés from Herzliya to Eilat hand over the counter on blazing summer days. Lemon juice, sugar syrup, a big handful of mint and ice are blended until smooth and frosty, so the drink is sour, sweet and cooling at once. It is alcohol-free and children love it. The mistake is blending the mint so long that it turns bitter and brownish; a short, hard blitz keeps it bright. Chef's tip: make the syrup ahead and chill it, then use plenty of ice so the drink stays thick rather than watery.

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GazozFruit syrup soda

Before bottled soft drinks, the kiosks along Rothschild Boulevard and in Florentin sold gazoz: a squirt of fruit syrup topped up with fizzy water from a tap. Tel Aviv cafés have revived it as a glass crammed with fresh and lightly fermented fruit, flowers and herbs, so it is pretty, tart and only gently sweet. Make it on hot afternoons, for children's birthdays or as an alcohol-free welcome drink. The mistake is pouring the soda too early, so it goes flat before you drink it. Chef's tip: macerate the fruit in syrup for at least 30 minutes, ideally overnight in the fridge, so it bleeds colour into the glass.

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Salpicón de frutasDiced fruit in watermelon juice

Salpicón is what Caleños grab at fruit stands and in the parks of San Antonio when the afternoon heat sets in: a tall cup of tiny, jewel-like cubes of papaya, pineapple, mango, banana and apple, swimming in freshly blended watermelon juice, eaten with a spoon and drunk to the last drop. Some stalls top it up with a fizzy orange or lemon soda; this version keeps it to fresh juice. It is sweet, cool and very refreshing. The mistake people make is cutting the fruit too big; the joy is in tiny cubes you can drink through the juice. Chef's tip: blend and strain the watermelon just before serving and keep everything ice cold; watermelon juice loses its fresh taste within an hour.

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Jugo de maracuyáPassion fruit juice

Passion fruit grows easily in the warm valleys of Colombia, and maracuyá juice is the default glass at many lunch tables, from Huila to the coast. It is intensely aromatic and sharp, so it needs plenty of water and sugar, and it is served over ice; a milk version is made too, but the water one is the more refreshing. Street juice stands blend it fresh all day, and it pairs especially well with fried fish, rice and patacones, or any spicy dish. People tend to over-blend it, crushing the black seeds into gritty, bitter bits; just pulse until the pulp lets go of the seeds, then strain. Frozen passion fruit pulp from Latin shops is a good, cheaper option and needs no straining. Chef's tip: scoop the pulp from wrinkled, heavy fruit; the more wrinkled the skin, the sweeter and more fragrant the fruit inside.

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RaspaoShaved ice with blackberry syrup

On a hot Barranquilla afternoon, the raspao cart is the fastest way to cool down. The vendor scrapes a block of ice with a metal plane, packs the snow into a cup and floods it with bright syrups: kola, tamarind, lime, blackberry. Many add a ribbon of condensed milk on top, but this version stays vegan and lets the fruit carry it. Children love it, and it is a fun one to make at home with a blender and a jug of syrup. The usual misstep is pouring warm syrup over the ice, which melts it to slush in seconds, so chill the syrup completely first. Make the syrup a day ahead if you like; it keeps a week in the fridge. Chef's tip: freeze water in a shallow tray, then blitz the slab in pieces with a few pulses for fluffier, snow-like ice than ice cubes give.

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Camu camuCamu camu berry juice

Camu camu are small purple-red berries that grow on bushes along the flooded riverbanks of the Peruvian Amazon, and in Iquitos and Pucallpa they are sold as frozen pulp and blended into a sharp, pink refresco at juice bars and lunch places. The flavour is intensely sour, more than lime, with a faint cherry note, and the berries are famous for containing far more vitamin C than oranges. It is the drink people order with a heavy plate of tacacho or rice. Never boil camu camu or make the juice hours ahead: heat and air quickly fade its colour and much of the vitamin C, so blend it cold and drink it soon. Frozen pulp or freeze-dried powder from health-food and Latin shops are the forms you'll find abroad. Chef's tip: start with half the pulp and add more to taste; it's strong enough that a little goes a long way.

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Queso heladoCinnamon coconut milk ice

Despite the name, there's no cheese in it: queso helado is Arequipa's old-fashioned frozen milk dessert, cut into thick rounds that look like a slice of fresh cheese and dusted with ground cinnamon. Vendors in white aprons sell it around the Plaza de Armas and at the Yanahuara viewpoint, traditionally churned in a metal pail spun over ice and salt, and every Arequipeño has a favourite stall. It is creamy, mildly milky and fragrant with cinnamon, clove and grated coconut, less rich than ice cream and slightly icy in a pleasant way. Many recipes thicken it with egg yolks; this one uses evaporated and condensed milk with a little cornflour so it stays egg free. The common error is freezing it untouched, which gives one hard block of ice: stir it every 45 minutes for the first few hours. Allow at least 4 hours of freezing on top of the cooking time, or make it a day ahead. Chef's tip: freeze it in a loaf tin lined with cling film, then lift it out and slice it into rounds for that true street look.

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Helado de lúcumaLúcuma ice cream

Ask anyone in Lima, Cusco or Trujillo for the national ice-cream flavour and they will say lúcuma, the green-skinned Andean fruit with dry, golden-orange flesh that tastes of butterscotch, maple and sweet potato. Every ice-cream parlour, supermarket freezer and street cart sells it, and it's also folded into cakes and milkshakes. This no-churn version needs no machine: frozen lúcuma pulp (or lúcuma powder, both in Latin shops and health-food stores) is whisked into condensed milk, then folded into whipped cream and frozen. It comes out smooth, rich and naturally caramel-coloured. The mistake is over-whipping the cream to stiff peaks, which makes the ice cream grainy and buttery; stop at soft peaks. It needs at least 6 hours in the freezer, so make it the day before. Serve with a slice of chocolate cake or on its own. Chef's tip: a pinch of salt and a few drops of lime sharpen lúcuma's mellow flavour so it doesn't taste flat when frozen.

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AguajinaAguaje palm fruit drink

Aguaje is the scaly, chestnut-red fruit of the moriche palm that grows in the flooded forests around Iquitos, and its orange flesh ends up in ice lollies, ice cream and, above all, aguajina, the cold drink sold in plastic cups at every corner and in Belén market. The taste is unusual and loved locally: tangy, a little like apricot and carrot, with a rich, slightly oily body. Fresh aguaje must be softened in warm water for an hour before its thin layer of pulp can be scraped off; outside Peru, frozen aguaje pulp from Latin American shops is the realistic choice and gives a good result. A common slip is adding all the sugar before tasting: the pulp's sourness varies from pack to pack, so sweeten at the end. Serve very cold with lunch or on a hot afternoon. Chef's tip: blend the pulp with only part of the water first, so it breaks down fully, then stir in the rest.

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Mate com limãoIced mate with lime

On Copacabana and Ipanema, vendors in orange uniforms trudge across the hot sand carrying two metal barrels, one of iced mate tea and one of limonada, shouting 'mate, limão!' and mixing the two in a plastic cup for each customer. The tea is chá mate tostado, roasted yerba mate leaves brewed like ordinary tea, with a smoky, toasty taste; with sweet lime lemonade it becomes the definitive carioca beach drink, cold, tangy and gently caffeinated. Toasted mate is sold loose or in tea bags in Brazilian shops; green yerba mate gives a grassier result. Squeezing the limes too hard, or blending them whole, is the usual pitfall, because the white pith turns the lemonade bitter. Chef's tip: brew the tea strong and chill it completely before mixing, so the ice does not dilute it.

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Ab havij bastaniCarrot juice with saffron ice cream

Every juice bar in Tehran, from Tajrish Square to the stalls of Valiasr Street, sells ab havij bastani: a tall glass of fresh, ice-cold carrot juice with a scoop of saffron ice cream floating on top. People eat it with a long spoon in summer, stirring the melting ice cream into the juice until it turns creamy and pale orange. It is sweet, earthy and cooling, and kids treat it as a dessert. Chef's tip: chill the carrots well before juicing; warm juice melts the ice cream at once and loses its fresh taste.

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Sharbat-e khakshirIced rosewater drink with seeds

Khakshir are the tiny reddish seeds of flixweed, and in Yazd, Kashan and across the hot centre of Iran a glass of khakshir sharbat is what people drink on scorching summer afternoons and to break the fast on long Ramadan days. The seeds swell slightly and float through sweet iced water perfumed with rosewater, giving a gentle crunch; some add a squeeze of lime or a little sour cherry syrup. Find khakshir at Iranian grocers. Chef's tip: rinse the seeds in several changes of water and pour off anything that floats; dust and grit come away with it.

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Sharbat-e beh limooQuince and lime syrup drink

Quince and lime syrup is an old-fashioned Persian cooler, the drink grandmothers in Isfahan and Tehran bring out on hot afternoons, said to settle the stomach and cool the body. Grated quince simmered in syrup turns from cream to a soft rosy amber and gives a floral, almost honeyed scent; fresh lime juice cuts through the sweetness. Diluted with iced water, it is lovely after a heavy meal of rice and stew. Chef's tip: cook the grated quince gently for the full time; the colour only turns pink after long, slow simmering.

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Sharbat-e albalooSour cherry syrup drink

In early summer, when sour cherries arrive from the orchards around Karaj and Mashhad, families make a big batch of sharbat-e albaloo, the deep ruby syrup that is mixed with iced water for guests through the hot months. It is sweet, sharp and very refreshing, and the cooked cherries left over are not wasted: they go into albaloo polo, the cherry rice. A splash of the syrup also goes over shaved ice or yogurt. Chef's tip: stop cooking as soon as the syrup coats a spoon thinly; overcooked syrup loses its fresh cherry flavour and tastes of jam.

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Ensalada murcianaTomato, onion, olive and egg salad

This is Murcia's summer salad, and it surprises visitors because it is built on tinned peeled tomatoes rather than fresh ones. Murcia has long been a canning region, and the sweet, soft preserved tomatoes give a juicy base that is mopped up with bread in bars and on terraces from the city to the Mar Menor. Black olives, onion and hard-boiled egg go on top; bars very often add tinned tuna, which this vegetarian version leaves out. Chef's tip: dress it at least 20 minutes before serving so the onion softens in the tomato juice.

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Agua de fresa cremosaCreamy strawberry drink

In Hidalgo, the pulque country north of Mexico City, the pulquerías serve curados: pulque blended with fruit, and the strawberry one is pink, thick and creamy. Home cooks and taquerías make this alcohol-free cousin for the whole family, a strawberry agua fresca blended with evaporated milk, so it is like a light milkshake that you drink with tacos on a hot afternoon. It contains no pulque or alcohol. Chef's tip: use the ripest, darkest strawberries you can find; pale ones give a thin, sour drink.

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Bastani sonnatiSaffron rosewater ice cream

On summer evenings in Tehran, queues form outside old ice-cream shops for bastani sonnati, scooped between two thin wafers or into a glass beside faloodeh. The custard is rich with egg yolks and coloured deep gold with saffron, perfumed with rosewater and studded with pistachios and little shards of frozen cream that melt on the tongue. This home version uses an ice-cream machine or a fork-and-freezer method. Chef's tip: freeze the cream chips in a thin sheet the day before, so they are hard enough to stay as separate shards when folded in.

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Suco de acerolaAcerola cherry juice

Backyard acerola bushes are everywhere in Pernambuco, Paraíba and the rest of the Northeast, and the small, glossy red cherries fruit several times a year. Blended with water and a little sugar, they make a vivid orange-red juice, tart and cherry-like with a slightly floral finish, famously one of the richest natural sources of vitamin C. Lanchonetes often mix it with orange juice; at home it is the drink kids are handed when they have a cold. Fresh acerolas spoil within days, so outside Brazil use frozen acerola pulp. Letting it stand is the common mistake, since the vitamin C and colour fade quickly once blended. Chef's tip: blend it just before serving, and add the sugar sparingly, about a tablespoon per two glasses, to keep it light.

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CajuínaClarified cashew apple juice

Teresina, the capital of Piauí, treats cajuína as a matter of local pride, and the drink's traditional craft is officially recognised as part of Brazilian cultural heritage. It is cashew-apple juice that has been clarified until crystal clear, bottled and cooked in a water bath until the natural fruit sugars caramelise and turn it amber-gold. No sugar is added. Served ice-cold, it tastes of baked apple and honey with a hint of cashew, smooth and non-alcoholic. Small producers clarify the juice with gelatin or cashew-tree resin; this vegan home version clears it by settling and filtering instead, which takes patience. Real cajuína is shelf-stable thanks to commercial sterilising; this home batch must be kept in the fridge and drunk within a week. Skipping the slow filtering is the usual error, and cloudy juice turns murky brown instead of gold. Chef's tip: let the juice settle in the fridge overnight before filtering and pour off the clear top, leaving the sediment behind.

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Suco de maracujáPassion fruit juice

Brazilian lunch counters, the pratos feitos joints known as PFs, list suco de maracujá on every chalkboard, and many people order it for its famously calming effect after a long morning. Yellow passion fruit is blended briefly with cold water, strained and sweetened, which gives a vivid, perfumed, very tart drink that goes with rice, beans and a grilled steak just as well as with a beach snack. Use wrinkled, heavy fruit for the most juice, or frozen unsweetened pulp from Latin shops. Over-blending is the slip people make: crushed seeds turn the juice gritty and bitter. Chef's tip: blend the pulp with only a little of the water first, in a couple of short pulses, strain, then add the rest of the water and the sugar.

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Kahu sekanjabinLettuce with mint vinegar syrup

On Sizdah Bedar, the thirteenth day of the new year, Iranian families leave the city for parks and riverbanks around Tehran and Isfahan, and the picnic cloth almost always holds a jar of sekanjabin and a head of crisp romaine. The syrup is an ancient one: sugar and vinegar simmered together and steeped with fresh mint, sweet-sour and cooling. You tear off a lettuce leaf, dip it and crunch. The usual mistake is boiling the syrup too long, which turns it into hard toffee once cold. Chef's tip: keep the lettuce in iced water until the moment you serve; the colder and crisper the leaf, the better the contrast with the syrup.

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Suco de cupuaçuCupuaçu juice

Cupuaçu is a big, brown, furry-skinned fruit from the cacao family, and in Belém and Manaus its white pulp shows up in ice cream, sweets and above all juice, sold in every lanchonete and at the Ver-o-Peso market. The pulp is thick, creamy and intensely aromatic, with a flavour somewhere between pineapple, banana and chocolate, and very tart, so it is blended with water and sugar into a frothy, almost milkshake-like juice. Look for frozen cupuaçu pulp in Brazilian and Latin shops. Many cafés blend it with milk instead of water; that version is no longer vegan or dairy free. Too little blending is the usual problem, because the fibrous pulp stays stringy. Chef's tip: blend the pulp from frozen, in chunks, with the sugar and a little water first until smooth, then add the rest of the water.

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Suco de cajuCashew apple juice

Everyone in Ceará and Rio Grande do Norte has a cashew tree nearby, and in the season, roughly September to December, the fleshy yellow and red cashew apples hang heavily above the nuts. Their juice is the region's everyday drink: pale, cloudy, sweet-tart and faintly astringent, it leaves a slight dryness in the mouth that people love with fried fish or a plate of baião de dois. Fresh cashew apples rarely travel, so outside Brazil use frozen cashew-apple pulp (polpa de caju) from Brazilian shops. This is the fruit, not the nut, but anyone with a cashew allergy should still avoid it. Over-sweetening to hide the astringency is a common mistake, as the juice turns syrupy. Chef's tip: a few drops of lime and plenty of ice soften the dryness far better than extra sugar.

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Caldo de canaSugarcane juice

Ice-cold sugarcane juice pressed while you wait is the drink of Brazilian street fairs, poured into tall glasses at the pastel stall so you can wash down a hot, crisp pastel. São Paulo's feiras livres made the pairing famous, and in the Northeast the same juice is called garapa. It is pale green, very sweet, grassy and refreshing, sharpened with lime. Without a cane press, you can make it at home by blending peeled cane with a little water and straining it; buy fresh sugarcane sticks in Asian, Caribbean or Latin shops. It oxidises and darkens fast, so drink it immediately. Using cane that is not fully peeled is a common error, and the woody green rind makes the juice bitter. Chef's tip: chill the cane before peeling and blend it with ice cubes as well as water, so the juice comes out cold without being diluted later.

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Summer pudding

Summer pudding is the high-summer pudding of English country gardens, made when redcurrants, raspberries and blackcurrants ripen together in July. Slices of day-old white bread line a basin and soak up the juices of lightly cooked berries overnight, turning a deep crimson and setting into a dome. Serve with cream (or a plant cream for a vegan pudding). Chef's tip: keep back a few spoonfuls of juice to paint over any white patches after turning it out.

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Eton mess

Eton mess is served at Eton College's cricket match against Harrow each June, and it has become the English summer pudding for picnics and garden parties when strawberries are at their best. Crushed meringue, whipped cream and macerated strawberries are folded together at the last moment, so you get crunch, cream and juice in every spoonful. Chef's tip: fold it together just before serving; if it sits, the meringue dissolves into the cream.

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Hawaiian shave ice

Shave ice came to Hawaii with Japanese plantation workers, and on hot afternoons on Oahu's North Shore families still queue at roadside stands for a towering, soft cone of ice soaked in rainbow syrups. The ice is shaved so fine it is like fresh snow and soaks up the syrup instead of letting it run to the bottom. Without a shaver, freeze ice in a block and scrape it with a fork. Chef's tip: let the ice block sit out for 5 minutes before shaving; slightly tempered ice gives fluffier flakes.

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Palm Springs date shake

The Coachella Valley around Palm Springs and Indio grows most of America's dates, and roadside date farms along the desert highway have sold this shake to thirsty drivers since the 1930s. Soft Medjool dates are blended with vanilla ice cream and milk into a thick, caramel-flavoured shake. Chef's tip: soak the chopped dates in a little warm milk for 10 minutes first, so they blend completely smooth instead of leaving chewy bits in the straw.

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Southern sweet tea

Sweet tea is the house wine of the South, poured by the jug at every barbecue joint, meat-and-three and Sunday lunch from South Carolina to Texas. Strong black tea is sweetened while hot so the sugar dissolves completely, then cooled and poured over plenty of ice with lemon. A pinch of bicarbonate is an old trick that softens bitterness and keeps it clear. Chef's tip: let the tea cool to room temperature before chilling; putting it straight in the fridge hot makes it go cloudy.

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LemonanaFrozen mint lemonade

From café terraces in Ramallah and Jaffa to juice bars along Hamra Street in Beirut, summer means tall glasses of lemonana: lemons and fistfuls of fresh mint blended with ice into a sharp, sweet, electric-green slush. It is the drink handed to you after a walk through the market at noon, and it cools a mezze lunch like nothing else. Everything goes in a blender, but the mint must be fresh and plentiful. The common mistake is blending the mint for too long, which bruises it and turns the drink murky and grassy. Chef's tip: make a lemon-sugar syrup first and chill it; dissolved sugar sweetens evenly and lets you blend for only a few seconds.

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Erk sousLiquorice root drink

In the lanes of old Damascus and Aleppo, the erk sous seller is heard before he is seen, clacking brass cups as he walks with a great curved jug strapped to his back. His drink is liquorice root, slowly dripped through with cold water, dark, earthy, faintly bitter and naturally sweet, poured with a flourish over the shoulder during Ramadan iftars and hot afternoons. At home a sieve and a cloth do the job. The mistake people make is pouring boiling water over the root, which pulls out harsh bitterness; cold water and patience give a smooth, foamy drink. Liquorice root raises blood pressure if you drink a lot of it, so keep to a glass or two a day and skip it if you are pregnant or have high blood pressure. Chef's tip: a pinch of bicarbonate of soda in the damp root gives the drink its traditional thick, frothy head.

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VyssinadaSour cherry drink

Before fizzy drinks arrived, a tall glass of vyssinada was what you ordered in a Volos or Larissa kafeneio on an August afternoon: sour cherry syrup topped with iced water, sweet and sharp and bright red. Families in Thessaly still make a cordial from the summer cherry crop and keep the bottles in the fridge for weeks. Common mistake: squashing the cherries too hard through the sieve, which clouds the syrup — let the juice drip. Chef's tip: top with sparkling water and a squeeze of lemon for a lighter, livelier glass.

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BoozaStretchy mastic ice cream

In the covered Hamidiyeh souk in Damascus, men pound booza in frozen metal drums with long wooden pestles, and the thump of the mallets is part of the show. The ice cream is milky, chewy and elastic, thanks to sahlab (orchid-root flour) and mastic, then rolled in crushed pistachios. This home version thickens the milk with sahlab powder or cornflour and beats it as it freezes to get that stretch. Serve in scoops or slices, plain or with a spoon of rose syrup. Common mistake: grinding the mastic alone, which turns gummy; always pound it with a spoonful of sugar. Chef's tip: real sahlab gives the true chew, but a mix of cornflour and a pinch of guar gum gets very close.

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Qamar al-dinApricot drink

Damascus is famous for its apricots, and much of the summer harvest is pressed into thin orange sheets of apricot leather called qamar al-din. In Ramadan, almost every Syrian home soaks a sheet overnight and blends it into a thick, velvety drink to break the fast — it is sweet, slightly tart and full of energy after a long day. Serve it chilled, sometimes with a few soaked pine nuts on top. Common mistake: blending without soaking long enough; the leather needs time to soften or the drink is gritty. Chef's tip: add a splash of orange blossom water and a squeeze of lemon to wake up the apricot flavour.

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Tamar hindiTamarind drink

During Ramadan in Damascus, street sellers in bright waistcoats pour tamar hindi from tall brass jugs on their backs, clinking cups to call buyers before iftar. The drink is a deep brown infusion of tamarind, sweetened and sharpened with lemon and a touch of rose or orange blossom, served ice cold to quench a day's thirst. It is fruity, tangy and refreshing, and made in a big batch to keep in the fridge. Common mistake: boiling the tamarind hard — gentle soaking gives a clean taste, while boiling makes it muddy. Chef's tip: strain twice, the second time through a cloth, for a clear, glossy drink.

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Agua de chía con limónLime and chia water

In the markets of Michoacán, especially in Uruapan and Morelia, the glass barrels of agua fresca often include one cloudy, speckled with tiny seeds: agua de chía, limeade with soaked chia seeds that swell into soft little pearls. Chia has been grown in central Mexico since long before the Spanish, and the drink is light, sharp and very refreshing, with a gentle texture from the seeds. It is drunk with lunch or on hot afternoons. Chef's tip: stir the seeds into the water twice in the first ten minutes; otherwise they clump into jelly-like lumps.

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Porra antequeranaThick chilled tomato and bread soup

In Antequera, north of Málaga, porra comes to the table so thick that a spoon stands up in it, and bars in the old town serve it from May until the first autumn rains as a starter or a light supper. It is a cousin of salmorejo, but with green pepper and more garlic, and the town tops it with chopped egg and a thread of oil. Locally the garnish also includes tuna and cured ham; this version keeps it vegetarian with egg and diced pepper. A common mistake is thinning it with water to make it go further: porra should be spooned, never sipped. Chef's tip: use only the reddest, softest tomatoes of the summer, because a pale tomato makes a pink, flat-tasting porra however much oil you add.

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Limonada de cocoCoconut lime cooler

Cartagena's heat makes limonada de coco almost compulsory: beach kiosks and restaurants in the old walled city blend it to order, and it arrives as a pale, frosty slush, sharp with lime and rich with coconut. It is a drink to sip slowly with fried fish, coconut rice and patacones, or on its own on a hot afternoon. Coconut cream gives the body, sugar balances the lime, and a full load of ice gives the frozen texture. The common slip is blending lime pieces with their peel for too long, which turns it bitter within minutes; use juice plus a little zest instead. Shake the tin of coconut cream before measuring, since it separates. Serve it straight away, before it melts and separates. Chef's tip: freeze some of the coconut cream in an ice-cube tray beforehand and use it in place of half the ice for a thicker, creamier result.

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CholadoShaved ice with fruit

On a hot afternoon in Jamundí, just south of Cali, the stalls along the road to the river build cholados in tall plastic cups: a base of shaved ice drenched in bright fruit syrups, layers of chopped mango, papaya, pineapple, banana and strawberries, then a ribbon of condensed milk and a shower of coconut. It is half drink, half dessert, eaten with a long spoon as the ice melts into fruity, creamy slush. Children love it, and it is quick to build at home. The commonest mistake is shaving the ice too early; it melts into water before you finish assembling, so crush it at the last moment. Chef's tip: chill the fruit and glasses well beforehand and squeeze a little lime over the fruit so it stays bright.

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