Nankhatai, khari, cakes, samosas, dhokla, scones and other snacks to have with chai or tea. (104 recipes)
Gâteau marbré is the marble cake of French childhood, a vanilla and chocolate loaf with swirls through every slice, packed in school bags for goûter and sold in supermarkets everywhere as a lunchbox cake. Homemade, it is soft, buttery and quick. The common mistake is swirling too much, which turns the cake brown all through. Chef's tip: layer the two batters in the tin and drag a knife through just two or three times.
The quatre-quarts, "four quarters", is the butter cake of Brittany, made with equal weights of eggs, salted butter, sugar and flour, eaten in slices at goûter or with coffee, and sold wrapped in every Breton bakery. Weighing the eggs first and matching the rest to them is the old way. The common mistake is using cold butter, which will not cream. Chef's tip: whisk the yolks and sugar first, then fold in the whites at the end; it gives a lighter crumb.
Financiers are small, rectangular almond cakes said to have been made in the 1890s by a pâtissier near the Paris Bourse, shaped like gold bars so stockbrokers could eat them without dirtying their gloves; today they are served with coffee all over France. Egg whites, ground almonds and nutty browned butter make a cake that is crisp at the edges and moist inside. The common mistake is not browning the butter enough, which loses the flavour. Chef's tip: cook the butter until it smells of hazelnuts and the specks at the bottom turn brown, then strain it.
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.
Torta allo yogurt is the first cake many Italian children bake, because everything is measured using the empty yogurt pot: one pot of yogurt, then pots of sugar, flour and oil. It is a soft, moist everyday cake made in homes across the country for breakfast or the afternoon merenda (snack), plain or with fruit. This recipe gives the amounts in grams for an average 125 g pot. Chef's tip: use whole-milk yogurt at room temperature; it gives a moist cake that stays soft for days.
Every Italian nonna has her own ciambellone, the tall, plain ring cake that sits under a glass dome on the kitchen counter for breakfast, sliced and dunked in caffellatte or eaten with jam. It is made with eggs, sugar, flour and oil or butter, flavoured with lemon zest, and often marbled with cocoa. In Rome and Emilia it is also the cake brought to friends' houses and church fêtes. Chef's tip: whisk the eggs and sugar for a full 8 minutes, until very pale and thick; that air is what makes the cake rise tall without much baking powder.
Gâteau au yaourt is the first cake French children bake, at home and at nursery school, because everything is measured with the empty yogurt pot: one pot of yogurt, two of sugar, three of flour and half of oil. It is a soft, light everyday cake for goûter at four o'clock, often flavoured with lemon zest. The common mistake is overmixing once the flour is in, which makes it tough. Chef's tip: let children do the measuring; a standard 125 g pot is the size to use.
Krumiri were created in 1878 in Casale Monferrato in Piedmont, and they are said to be shaped like the curled moustache of King Vittorio Emanuele II, who had just died. They are sandy, buttery biscuits made with flour and fine cornmeal, piped through a star nozzle into a curved line, and still sold in their red tins in the town's old shops. Piedmontese eat them dunked in a glass of sweet wine or with a cup of hot chocolate. Chef's tip: use fine cornmeal, not coarse polenta; coarse grains make the biscuits gritty and stop them piping.
Canestrelli are the most delicate biscuits in Liguria: daisy-shaped shortbread with a hole in the middle, so fragile they melt in the mouth. The secret is hard-boiled egg yolks pushed through a sieve into the dough, with potato starch, which makes them crumbly and sandy. They are sold in Genoa and the hill town of Torriglia, piled in paper and covered with snowy icing sugar. Chef's tip: work the dough as little as possible and keep it cold; warm dough becomes too soft to cut into neat flowers.
Pune claims bhakarwadi as its own, and the queues outside the city's old sweet-and-farsan shops at Diwali prove it. Thin sheets of spiced pastry are spread with tamarind, sprinkled with a roasted filling of dry coconut, sesame, poppy seeds, coriander, fennel and chilli, rolled up tight and sliced into spirals before frying. Each bite is crisp, then sweet, then sour, then hot, which is why one is never enough. Gujarati farsan shops sell a sweeter cousin, but the Maharashtrian version keeps the chilli forward. They keep for weeks, travel well and make a good tea-time snack all year. Chef's tip: press the filling into the dough with the rolling pin before you roll the log; loose filling falls out when you slice and the spirals unwind in the oil.
In Uttar Pradesh and Rajasthan the Holi tin is never complete without a stack of mathri next to the gujiya. These are thick, rough-edged discs of maida made very short with ghee, flecked with carom seeds and crushed black pepper, and fried slowly over a low flame for nearly twenty minutes until they turn pale gold and crumble into flaky layers. They taste savoury and peppery, a little like a buttery cracker, and they are meant for dipping in hot masala chai or eating with a sliver of mango or lemon pickle. Unlike the papad-thin Gujarati mathiya of moth bean flour, mathri is a sturdy wheat cracker that keeps for a month and travels in every child's luggage back to hostel. Chef's tip: don't knead the dough smooth; just press it together. Over-kneading builds gluten and makes mathri hard instead of flaky.
Namak pare are the easiest thing in the festive tin, and usually the first to run out. A simple salted dough with a little ghee, ajwain and black nigella seeds is rolled thin, cut into small diamonds and fried until golden and crunchy. They are much thinner and crisper than mathri, with a satisfying snap rather than a flaky crumble, and the kalonji gives a slightly oniony, peppery note. Punjabi and UP homes make big batches before Holi and Diwali, but they also turn up on train journeys, at kitty parties and with evening tea. Sprinkle with chaat masala for a tangier version. Chef's tip: roll the dough evenly, about 3 mm; thin spots burn while thick ones stay soft, and even sheets give every piece the same crunch.
Louise slice, or Louise cake, is a New Zealand tea-time classic found on church cake stalls and in grandma's tins from Invercargill to Whangārei. A buttery shortcake base is spread with raspberry jam and topped with a chewy coconut meringue that bakes to pale gold. It is light and pretty, and very easy. A common mistake is baking the meringue too hot, which browns it before it sets inside. Chef's tip: spread the meringue right to the edges so the jam doesn't bubble through.
Bun maska belongs to Mumbai's old Irani cafés, the bentwood-chair rooms such as Kyani & Co near Dhobi Talao, where office workers and students start the day with a split, generously buttered sweet bun and a glass of strong milky chai. The bun is pillowy and faintly sweet, the salted butter is spread so thick you see teeth marks, and the whole point is to dip it into the hot tea. Children love it as a weekend breakfast. Chef's tip: let the butter soften at room temperature; cold butter tears the delicate crumb.
Pumpkin scones are a Queensland country tradition, made famous by the farm-raised wife of a long-serving state premier and baked for every Country Women's Association morning tea from Toowoomba to Rockhampton. Mashed pumpkin makes them golden, soft and slightly sweet, and they are best warm from the oven with plenty of butter. A common mistake is wet pumpkin; steam or roast it and let it cool so the dough isn't sticky. Chef's tip: cut straight down without twisting the cutter, so the scones rise tall and even.
When the monsoon breaks over Delhi, the pakora stalls of Lajpat Nagar and the lanes off Chandni Chowk do their best trade, and moong dal pakode are the favourite: light, airy balls of soaked and coarsely ground yellow lentils, fried until crunchy and served in paper plates with grated white radish and green chutney. They are naturally gluten free and vegan. Chef's tip: beat the ground batter hard with your hand for a few minutes; the trapped air is what makes them fluffy inside.
Ratlam in western Madhya Pradesh is so proud of its sev that it carries a GI tag, and every Malwa household keeps a tin for poha, usal and chai-time munching. What makes it different is the spice: ground clove, black pepper and ajwain give a warm heat that builds slowly, and the sev is pressed thick and fried until deep gold. The common mistake is frying in oil that is too hot, which browns the outside while the centre stays soft and soon goes chewy. Chef's tip: cool completely before you store it in an airtight tin; it keeps crisp for three weeks.
In Chennai's old tea shops, many started by Irani and Muslim families, a glass of strong tea comes with a plate of small onion samosas: thin, crackly pastry folded around a filling of nothing but slow-cooked onion, green chilli, curry leaves and a little poha to soak up the juices. They are sold by the dozen in the evenings and at bus stands across Tamil Nadu. The pastry is the thin, ready-rolled samosa-patti kind, so they are quick to fold. The common mistake is undercooking the onion, which leaks water and makes the samosas soggy; fry it until soft and sweet, then cool. Chef's tip: seal the folds with a thick paste of flour and water, not plain water, so they do not open in the oil.
Through Ramadan, the streets around Charminar fill with iftar stalls, and the small, papery keema samosas are among the first things to sell out before the sunset call to prayer. The filling is minced mutton cooked dry with onion, ginger-garlic, green chilli, mint and garam masala, folded into thin strips of samosa pastry and fried until they shatter. Families make them in batches and freeze them for the whole month. The common mistake is a wet filling, which makes the pastry soggy and can burst; cook the mince until every bit of liquid has gone. Chef's tip: cook the mince fully to at least 71 °C before filling, because the quick fry only crisps the pastry; it will not cook raw meat through.
A gevulde koek is two discs of short, buttery dough sandwiching a thick layer of almond paste (spijs), glazed with egg and crowned with half an almond. Every Amsterdam bakery has a stack of them, and they are the classic koffie snack at about eleven in the morning, or something to eat on the bike home from the Noordermarkt. The pastry is crumbly and the middle soft, fragrant and lemony. It contains wheat, egg, milk and almonds. Chef's tip: make the almond paste a day ahead; it firms up and is much easier to shape into neat discs.
Melting moments are the soft, crumbly biscuits found in Australian and New Zealand bakery jars and grandmother's tins, two rounds made with custard powder and icing sugar sandwiched with a lemon butter icing. The custard powder gives them their yellow colour and tender, short texture that melts in the mouth, hence the name. A common mistake is overbaking; they should be pale, not golden. Chef's tip: press each ball with a floured fork for the classic stripes.
Sockerkaka, 'sugar cake', is the everyday sponge of Swedish homes, baked in a tall fluted ring tin and served in slices with coffee, or with berries and cream in summer; nearly every Swedish child bakes one with a grandparent. It is light and buttery with a crisp, golden outside. A common mistake is opening the oven before 35 minutes, which makes the cake sink. Chef's tip: butter the tin and dust it with fine breadcrumbs, as Swedish cooks do, so the cake releases cleanly and gets a crisp crust.
In the last nights of Ramadan, Egyptian kitchens fill with flour dust, trays and relatives as families bake kahk for Eid al-Fitr, and many still send them to the neighbourhood bakery's big oven. Hot ghee is rubbed into the flour so the cookies bake up crumbly and melting, fragrant with sesame and kahk spice, and each one is pinched with a patterned tweezer or pressed in a wooden mould before baking. They are filled with agameya, a sticky honey, nut and sesame paste, and buried under icing sugar, then served to every Eid visitor with tea or coffee. Overbaking is the mistake to avoid; kahk should be pale on top and only golden underneath. Chef's tip: the dough is ready to shape once a ball holds firm but crumbles if you squeeze it hard; it should never feel stretchy.
Named after the women of Algiers, dziriettes are the jewels on any wedding or Eid tray: thin, crisp pastry pinched into a flower or crown, filled with a dome of almond paste scented with orange blossom, then baked and soaked in warm honey. They take patience, but the result is delicate and fragrant, with a shatter of pastry giving way to a soft, moist almond centre. Families often make a few hundred over several evenings, together, before a celebration, and serve them with mint tea or coffee. Chef's tip: roll the dough so thin you can almost see the worktop through it; thick pastry is the commonest mistake and turns dziriettes stodgy instead of crisp.
Ask anyone who grew up in Algeria about the night before Eid and they will mention the smell of halwat tabaa baking: buttery shortbread cut and printed with a patterned metal stamp, then sandwiched in pairs with apricot jam. Children love helping to press the patterns, and the biscuits fill the tins offered to neighbours on the morning of the feast. They are tender and short, with a clean vanilla flavour against the tangy jam, and keep well for a week. A fluted round cutter and the tines of a fork will do if you have no stamp. Avoid working the dough too much or letting it get warm, as the stamped pattern then spreads and blurs in the oven. Chef's tip: dip the stamp in flour and tap off the excess before every press; a sticky stamp blurs the pattern, which is the most common disappointment.
Mchewek means something like 'prickly', which is exactly how these cookies look: balls of almond paste rolled in flaked almonds so the flakes stick out like spines, each topped with half a candied cherry and baked only until the tips turn gold. Inside they stay soft and chewy, like a rustic macaroon. Being made with no flour, they suit anyone avoiding gluten, and they appear on Eid and wedding trays all over Algeria, often brushed with a little honey syrup for shine. Chef's tip: take them out when the edges are just golden and the centres still feel soft; overbaking is the classic mistake and leaves them dry and crumbly once cool.
During the last days of Ramadan, Khartoum neighbourhoods smell of butter and vanilla as women bake bitifoor, the piped biscuits whose name comes from the French petit four, for the Eid visits that follow. They are piped into rosettes, fingers and swirls, sometimes topped with a piece of glacé cherry or dipped in chocolate, and arranged on platters with ka'ak and sweets for guests. The texture is melt-in-the-mouth, short and delicate. Over-soft butter is the classic mistake, giving biscuits that spread into flat puddles; use butter soft enough to dent, not oily, and chill the piped trays for 15 minutes. Chef's tip: a little cornflour in the flour keeps them extra tender and crisp.
Queen Elizabeth cake has been a favourite in Canadian homes and Quebec bakeries since the 1950s, especially around coronations and royal visits, and it still turns up at Montreal family birthdays and Sunday teas. A moist, tender date cake is baked, then covered in a bubbling coconut and brown-sugar topping and put under the grill until it caramelises. It is humble, rich and keeps well for days. A common mistake is walking away from the grill; the topping goes from golden to burnt in under a minute. Chef's tip: soak the dates in boiling water with the bicarbonate so they melt into the crumb.
Spiral curry puffs are a tea-time thing in Singapore, picked up warm in paper bags from Malay kueh stalls at Geylang Serai, from heritage bakeries in Tiong Bahru, or eaten at the 4 pm break with teh tarik. The pastry is the point: two doughs rolled together into a log, sliced, and rolled out so that the cut edge shows tight spirals that shatter into crisp layers when fried. Inside is a soft, peppery filling of potato and onion cooked with curry powder and curry leaves. Shops also sell versions with chicken and a wedge of hard-boiled egg; this one keeps to potato and uses vegetable shortening so the pastry stays dairy-free. The usual mistake is frying in oil that is too hot, which browns the outside while the inner layers stay doughy; a steady medium heat lets the spirals open. Chef's tip: let the filling cool completely and keep it fairly dry, or steam from the potato will burst the seams in the oil.
No Singapore birthday table, office tea or visit to grandma's feels complete without a pandan chiffon cake, the pale green ring sold whole at heritage bakeries and neighbourhood confectioners and carried home in a box, and travellers fly home with one in their hand luggage. The crumb is cottony and springy, moist from coconut milk, and the flavour comes from juice squeezed from blended pandan leaves: grassy, vanilla-like and faintly nutty. It is served plain, in tall wedges, with kopi or tea. The usual mistake is greasing the tube pan; a chiffon needs to cling to bare metal to climb, and cooling it upside down is what keeps it tall. Chef's tip: beat the egg whites only to firm, glossy peaks that curl over at the tip; stiff, dry whites won't fold in smoothly and leave white streaks and holes.
Bakeries across Hong Kong pull trays of cocktail buns from the oven before the morning rush, and schoolchildren and commuters buy them warm in paper bags to eat on the bus or with milk tea at a cha chaan teng. The story goes that 1950s bakers invented them to use up day-old bread mixed with sugar and coconut, so the name is a playful nod to a cocktail of leftovers. Today the soft, milky roll holds a sweet, buttery coconut filling that's slightly sandy and chewy, under two piped stripes and a scatter of sesame seeds. A soft, warm filling tends to ooze out during proving and baking, so chill it until firm before you roll the buns. Chef's tip: roll each bun up tightly from the long side and pinch the seam well, then place it seam-down; loose rolls split open in the oven.
In Alboraya, just north of Valencia, the horchaterías that serve cold tiger-nut horchata in summer put a plate of fartons beside every glass: long, slim, soft buns with a shiny sugar glaze, designed to be dunked and to soak up the milky drink without falling apart. The dough is enriched with egg, milk and sunflower oil rather than butter, which gives them their light, cottony crumb. They are just as good with coffee or cold milk. A common mistake is rushing the second rise; under-proved fartons stay tight and bready instead of airy. Chef's tip: roll each strip a little thinner than you think, about as thick as your finger, because they almost double in the oven.
This contains pork: the name comes from saïm, the pork lard brushed over the dough before it is coiled, and it is what gives an ensaïmada its shattering, flaky layers. Mallorcans eat them for breakfast with hot chocolate or coffee, and at Palma airport you will see travellers carrying flat hexagonal boxes of large ones home as gifts. The dough is enriched with egg and sugar, stretched until thin enough to see through, rolled into a rope and wound into a loose spiral, then proved overnight. Chef's tip: oil your hands and the worktop generously before stretching, so the dough slides rather than sticks and tears.
Bakeries across the French Basque province of Labourd, from Cambo-les-Bains to Saint-Jean-de-Luz, sell this round cake by the slice, and the village of Itxassou has long filled it with black cherry jam instead of cream. The dough sits between a biscuit and a shortcake, rich with butter and ground almonds, and it hides a thick layer of vanilla pastry cream. Some bakers add a spoon of rum to the cream; this one leaves it out. A common mistake is baking it too pale, so the crust stays soft: wait for a deep golden top. Chef's tip: chill the dough well, as it is very soft and much easier to roll when cold.
The little town of Lisieux, in the Pays d'Auge, has made sablés since the 1800s, and the word means 'sandy', for the way they crumble on the tongue. They are one of the simplest things a Normandy kitchen bakes: good salted butter, sugar, egg yolks and flour, rolled into a log, sliced and baked pale gold. Normans dip them in coffee or serve them with fruit compote, teurgoule or a bowl of fromage blanc, and children grow up with a tin of them in the cupboard. Chef's tip: work the dough as little as possible once the flour goes in; the less you knead, the more tender and sandy the crumb.
Palets are the thick cousin of the thin Breton galette biscuit: chunky rounds as wide as a small cookie and nearly a centimetre high, crisp on the outside and crumbly within, tasting strongly of salted butter. Bakeries in Pont-Aven and all along the Finistère coast sell them in tins, and Breton families serve them with coffee, with a bowl of cider-poached apples or crumbled over ice cream. Baking them in muffin tins or metal rings keeps their shape and straight edges. Chef's tip: use proper salted butter rather than adding salt to unsalted; the flavour is rounder and the dough handles better.
Pilgrims finishing the Camino in Santiago de Compostela see this cake in every bakery window around the cathedral, dusted white with icing sugar and stencilled with the cross of St James. It is made only from ground almonds, sugar, eggs and a little lemon and cinnamon, so it is naturally free of gluten, moist and dense with a thin crisp crust. Galicians eat it with coffee after Sunday lunch or at weddings. A common mistake is overbeating the eggs to a foam, which makes the cake rise and then sink; just mix until smooth. Chef's tip: cut a cross from paper and lay it on the cold cake before sifting over the icing sugar.
The smooth, round macaron with its ruffled 'foot', sandwiched around a ganache, is a Paris creation of the early 1900s, and the city's tearooms still sell them in pastel rows for gifts, weddings and afternoon tea. They are made from just ground almonds, icing sugar and egg whites, but they reward care: weigh everything, age the whites if you can, and rest the piped shells until a skin forms. This recipe uses a simple dark chocolate ganache; once you have the method, change the filling to raspberry jam or lemon curd. Chef's tip: bang the tray firmly on the worktop three times after piping; it knocks out air bubbles that would crack the tops.
Dijon has been baking pain d'épices since the Middle Ages, and the shops near the old ducal palace still sell it by the slice, plain or glazed with orange. It is a dense, fragrant honey loaf, sold all year but eaten most in December, when Burgundian families toast slices for breakfast, spread them with butter, or serve them with cheese and pears. The Dijon style uses wheat flour and a whole egg, which makes it softer than the rye-flour loaves of Reims. Chef's tip: wrap it and wait a day before cutting; the crumb turns moist and the spices settle and deepen.
Small, fluted and almost black on the outside, canelés are the signature cake of Bordeaux, sold in pâtisseries all over the city and eaten with morning coffee or at teatime. The thick, caramelised crust cracks to reveal a soft, custardy centre scented with vanilla. The batter traditionally includes dark rum; this version gives it as an option and uses extra vanilla and a little orange zest instead, so it can be made alcohol-free. Copper moulds are traditional, but silicone canelé moulds work well at home. Chef's tip: rest the batter for at least 24 hours in the fridge; fresh batter puffs up like a soufflé and the cakes lose their shape.
Catalan bakeries sell carquinyolis in paper bags, especially around Christmas and village festivals, and grandparents keep a tin of them to dunk in coffee, milk or, after a big lunch, a glass of sweet wine. They are cousins of Italian cantucci, but often rougher, with whole unpeeled almonds and a hint of lemon and cinnamon. Baked once as a log, sliced, then baked again, they keep for weeks. Chef's tip: slice the logs while still warm with a serrated knife and a single firm cut; cold logs crumble and the almonds shatter.
Perrunillas are the cookies of Extremaduran grandmothers, baked in village ovens for Christmas, weddings and the days after the matanza, when fresh lard was plentiful. They are thick, pale and so short they crumble the moment you bite, with a crackly sugar top, and they are eaten with coffee or a glass of milk in the afternoon. This contains pork (pork lard), so they are not vegetarian. Chef's tip: beat the lard and sugar for a good few minutes until very pale and fluffy; that air is what makes them light.
Castilleja de la Cuesta, just west of Seville, has made these hand-pressed tortas for well over a century, and across Andalusia they are dunked into morning coffee or eaten as an afternoon snack. The dough is little more than flour, olive oil infused with anise and sesame, and a pinch of yeast, rolled until you can almost see through it and baked with a crust of sugar. Chef's tip: roll each torta directly on the baking paper you will bake it on; the dough is too thin to lift without tearing.
Across Syria, Lebanon and Palestine, trays of ghraybeh appear for Eid and weddings next to ma'amoul; in Aleppo they are often shaped into little bracelets with a pistachio at the join. Made from just ghee, icing sugar and flour, they are so tender they crumble as soon as you bite, and they should stay ivory-white, never brown. Serve with strong coffee or mint tea. Common mistake: baking until golden — they should come out pale and still soft, and firm up as they cool. Chef's tip: whip the ghee and sugar for a full 10 minutes until white and fluffy; that is what gives the melting texture.
Easter Saturday morning in Greece smells of koulourakia: buttery cookie dough rolled into ropes, twisted into braids, coils and S-shapes, glazed with egg and baked to a deep shine. Children help shape them, and the tins last through Easter week for dunking in coffee or milk. The texture is crisp outside and tender within, with orange zest and vanilla. Common mistake: rolling the ropes too thick; anything wider than a pencil turns cakey rather than crisp. Chef's tip: chill the dough for 20 minutes before rolling and the twists keep their sharp edges in the oven.
Fat rascals are big, rough, fruit-studded cakes from the North York Moors, halfway between a scone and a rock cake, and the famous Harrogate tea rooms made them a visitor's treat. Each one gets a face of glacé cherries and blanched almonds before baking. Eat them warm, split and buttered, with a pot of tea. Chef's tip: work the dough as little as possible, just until it holds; overmixed rascals bake up tough.
Named after Queen Victoria, who took a slice with her afternoon tea, the Victoria sandwich is the cake of English village fetes, Women's Institute competitions and every birthday tea in the shires. It is two light butter sponges joined with raspberry jam and buttercream, finished with a dusting of caster sugar. Chef's tip: weigh the eggs in their shells and use the same weight of butter, sugar and flour; that is the classic way to get a perfect crumb.
A cream tea is the West Country's afternoon treat: warm scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam with a pot of tea, served in tea gardens across Devon and Cornwall. In Devon the cream goes on first and the jam on top; in Cornwall it's the other way round, and the argument never ends. These scones are plain and light so the cream and jam shine. Chef's tip: cut straight down with the cutter and don't twist it, or the scones rise lopsided.
Crumpets are the spongy, holey griddle cakes that Londoners and the whole of England toast on winter afternoons, soaked in melting butter. A loose yeasted batter is lifted with a little bicarbonate, poured into rings on a griddle and cooked gently on one side only, so bubbles rise and set into the famous holes. Chef's tip: grease the rings generously and keep the heat low; the top must set before the bottom burns.
Shortbread is Scotland's most famous bake, handed round at Hogmanay with a dram and packed in tins as a gift all year. The classic recipe is one part sugar, two parts butter and three parts flour, with a little rice flour for the sandy snap; it is shaped into a round and cut into petticoat tails, a shape linked with Mary, Queen of Scots. Chef's tip: bake low and slow so it stays pale gold; brown shortbread tastes bitter rather than buttery.
Welsh cakes, picau ar y maen or 'cakes on the stone', are cooked on a cast-iron bakestone in kitchens across Wales and sold warm at markets and rugby matches, and they are a must on St David's Day, 1 March. The dough is like a rich scone with currants and mixed spice, and they are dusted with sugar while hot. Chef's tip: keep the heat medium-low; they need time for the middle to cook before the outside darkens.
Bara brith means 'speckled bread', and this is the fruit loaf of Welsh farmhouses and tea rooms from Snowdonia to the Gower. Dried fruit is soaked overnight in strong black tea, then mixed with sugar, egg, flour and spice, so it is moist, dark and keeps well without any butter in the mix. Slice it thickly and spread with salted Welsh butter. Chef's tip: wrap it and wait a day before cutting; it gets stickier and slices cleaner.
Irish scones are the centre of afternoon tea in hotels and country houses from Galway to Wicklow, and the bake that every Irish cook makes from memory. Buttermilk makes them light and tender with a faint tang, and an egg wash gives the glossy golden top. Serve warm, split, with butter, raspberry jam and whipped cream. Chef's tip: press the cutter straight down without twisting; twisting seals the edges and stops them rising tall.
In Vienna the Gugelhupf is the Sunday cake of home bakers, set out on the table for afternoon Jause with coffee, and every family has its own fluted copper or ceramic mould. Unlike the yeasted ring cakes of Alsace and southern Germany, the everyday Viennese one is a Rührgugelhupf, a buttery sponge lifted with whisked egg whites, scented with lemon and studded with plump raisins. It is tender, light and keeps moist for several days under a cake dome. A common mistake is a badly greased mould; every ridge needs butter and flour or the cake tears as it comes out. Chef's tip: soak the raisins in hot water for 15 minutes, dry them and toss them in a spoon of flour so they don't sink.
Marmorkuchen is the cake German children grow up with: a tall, buttery ring of vanilla sponge swirled with chocolate, baked for birthdays and kindergarten parties and kept under a glass dome for afternoon coffee all week. It needs nothing but a dusting of icing sugar, though many families pour over a thin chocolate glaze. A common mistake is over-stirring the two batters together, which turns the cake a muddy brown instead of showing clear marbling. Chef's tip: layer the batters in the tin, then pull a fork through just once in a spiral; less is more.
Before Eid and during Ramadan, Moroccan kitchens fill with the scent of fekkas: logs of a soft, eggy dough studded with almonds, raisins, aniseed and sesame are baked, cooled, sliced thin and baked again until dry, golden and very crunchy. They are offered to guests on trays with ghriba and other biscuits and dunked into mint tea or milky coffee, and they keep for weeks in a tin, so they are perfect to make ahead. The flavour is gently sweet, with liquorice notes from the anise and a little lemon. Avoid slicing the logs while they are still hot from the first bake; they crumble. Let them firm up first. Chef's tip: let the baked logs cool completely, ideally overnight, before slicing; warm logs crumble under the knife.
Every Moroccan home cook seems to have a meskouta recipe, the light, fluffy sponge that is baked in a ring tin and set out for afternoon tea, unexpected guests or a children's snack. This one is flavoured with fresh orange juice and zest; many families make a yogurt version instead, using the yogurt pot to measure everything, and that variation is in the steps. The crumb is airy and moist, not too sweet, and it pairs perfectly with mint tea or a glass of milk. No mixer is strictly needed, but it helps. Chef's tip: beat the eggs and sugar for a full 5 minutes until pale and tripled in volume; under-whipped eggs, the usual mistake, make a dense, flat meskouta.
Stroopwafels come from Gouda, the cheese town in South Holland, where bakers once made them from leftover crumbs and syrup. Today they are made fresh at Dutch markets, split while still hot and glued back together with warm caramel syrup. The Dutch way to eat one is to rest it on top of a cup of hot coffee or tea for a minute, so the steam softens the caramel. You need a thin waffle iron (a pizzelle or stroopwafel iron) to make them at home. Chef's tip: cut each waffle open the moment it comes off the iron; after 20 seconds it stiffens and shatters instead of splitting.
Butter tarts are fiercely loved in Ontario, where towns along the 'Butter Tart Trail' near Midland and Wellington County hold contests, and where Canadians argue about whether raisins belong in them. Small, flaky pastry cups hold a filling of brown sugar, butter, egg and syrup that bakes into a gooey, caramel-like centre with a crackled top. This version adds a little maple syrup and leaves raisins optional. Chef's tip: bake only until the filling bubbles and the edges are set but the centre still jiggles; runny is the goal, but overbaked tarts turn sugary and hard.
Named after the city of Nanaimo on Vancouver Island, these three-layer bars have been Canada's favourite tray bake since the 1950s, when the recipe appeared in local community cookbooks. A crumbly base of biscuit crumbs, cocoa, coconut and nuts is topped with a thick yellow custard-flavoured buttercream and a snap of dark chocolate. They're made for church sales, Christmas cookie tins and coffee breaks, and need no oven. Chef's tip: dip the knife in hot water and wipe it between cuts; it slices through the chocolate cleanly without cracking it.
Qalb el louz ('heart of almond') is the Ramadan sweet of Algiers: a dense, sandy semolina cake with a ribbon of almond filling, cut into diamonds with an almond on top and soaked in syrup while hot. Pastry shops in the Casbah sell it by the tray after iftar, to eat with mint tea or coffee late into the night. The semolina is soaked overnight in butter and water, which gives it its moist, grainy crumb. Chef's tip: pour cold syrup over the hot cake; hot syrup on a hot cake makes it soggy instead of moist.
Pazham pori is what the glass cases of Kerala's roadside tea shops are full of at four in the afternoon: long slices of ripe nendran banana dipped in a sweet batter and fried in coconut oil until puffed and golden. Bite through the crisp, slightly chewy coat and the banana inside is soft, hot and honeyed. People eat them standing at the counter with a glass of frothy, milky chaya, or carry a paper parcel home for the family. Chef's tip: wait until the nendran skins are mostly black; the banana must be fully ripe to turn creamy when fried.
Osmania biscuits are named after the last Nizam of Hyderabad, and they have been baked in the city's Irani bakeries for generations: round, crumbly, melt-in-the-mouth butter biscuits that are gently sweet with a distinct salty edge and a hint of cardamom. In old-city cafés, men linger over a plate of them and a cup of Irani chai in the early morning or after the evening prayers, dunking each one until it is just about to collapse. Chef's tip: chill the dough before cutting and baking; it keeps the biscuits round and thick instead of spreading thin.
Irani chai came to Hyderabad with Persian migrants who opened cafés across the old city, and it is now the city's signature drink, poured at all hours in places around the Charminar, often with Osmania biscuits or a bun maska. Unlike masala chai, it has no spices: strong tea is brewed slowly in a sealed pot (dum), while full-fat milk is simmered separately with a little khoa until thick and creamy. The two are mixed only in the cup, giving a rich, mellow, slightly sweet tea. Chef's tip: seal the tea pot lid with a little dough or foil, as the cafés do, so the brew steeps without losing steam or strength.
When the winter coriander in the Nashik markets comes in huge, fragrant bunches for a few rupees, Maharashtrian kitchens make kothimbir vadi. A batter that is mostly fresh coriander, held together with gram flour and sesame, is steamed into a cake, cut into squares, then shallow-fried until each piece has a crunchy shell and a soft, herby middle. It's a tea-time snack in Pune homes, a side on the festive thali and a favourite in tiffin boxes because it's good at room temperature. Serve with green chutney or tomato ketchup. Chef's tip: dry the coriander well after washing; wet leaves make the batter loose and the vadi soggy.
Feng li su are the gift-box sweet of Taiwan: little golden squares of crumbly, milky shortbread wrapped round a chewy pineapple jam. Bakeries in Taichung and Taipei pack them in tins for Lunar New Year, weddings and visiting relatives, and the name sounds like 'prosperity arriving' in Taiwanese Hokkien. Older bakeries bulk the filling with winter melon for a softer, sweeter jam; this home version uses fresh pineapple only, cooked down until thick and tangy. Chef's tip: chill the dough and the jam balls before wrapping; cold, firm pieces are far easier to seal without the jam breaking through.
Beskuit grew out of the Voortrekker need for bread that kept on long ox-wagon journeys; today a tin of rusks sits next to the kettle in homes from the Karoo to Pretoria, and they are dunked in early-morning coffee or rooibos. A soft buttermilk dough is baked as a loaf, cut into fingers and then dried in a low oven for hours until rock hard and crunchy. Chef's tip: dry the rusks slowly at a very low heat with the oven door slightly open; they should dry out completely, not brown further.
Neenish tarts have sat in the windows of Australian country bakeries for more than a century, and they're also found across the Tasman in New Zealand. Where the name comes from is still argued over, with one story placing it in the small town of Grong Grong in New South Wales. A crisp sweet pastry case holds a thin layer of raspberry jam and a fluffy mock cream, a beaten mixture of butter, sugar and milk, and the top is iced in two halves: one white, one chocolate. Many bakery mock creams use gelatine; this one doesn't. Chef's tip: beat the mock cream for a long time, a full 8–10 minutes, until the sugar has dissolved and it is white and fluffy, not gritty.
Afghans are a New Zealand classic, found in the old home baking books passed down in Kiwi kitchens and in the glass cabinets of cafés and bakeries from Christchurch to Whangārei. Nobody is quite sure where the name came from. The dough is rich with butter and cocoa, and lightly crushed cornflakes give each biscuit a crunchy, slightly rugged texture. A swirl of soft chocolate icing and a walnut half finish them off. They're not too sweet underneath, which is why the icing works so well. Chef's tip: crush the cornflakes only lightly with your hand; fine crumbs disappear, but big flakes give the crunch an afghan is known for.
Anzac biscuits are baked in kitchens all over Australia and New Zealand in the days before 25 April, Anzac Day, when both countries remember the soldiers of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps who landed at Gallipoli in 1915. Recipes appeared in fundraising cookbooks soon after the war, and they keep well because they contain no eggs: just oats, flour, coconut, sugar, butter and golden syrup, raised with bicarbonate of soda. Bake them short for chewy, longer for crunchy; every family has its side. Chef's tip: add the bicarbonate to the hot butter and syrup and wait for it to foam up before mixing; that froth is what makes them light and lacy.
Lamingtons are said to be named after Lord Lamington, Governor of Queensland at the turn of the twentieth century, and they're the cake of Australian school fundraisers, Country Women's Association stalls and morning tea at work; there's even a National Lamington Day on 21 July. Cubes of light butter sponge are dunked in a thin, glossy chocolate icing and rolled in desiccated coconut, so each one has a soft, chocolate-soaked outside and a fluffy middle. Some bakeries split them and fill them with jam and cream. Chef's tip: bake the sponge a day ahead, or freeze the cut squares for an hour; fresh sponge crumbles in the icing, firm sponge dips cleanly.
Sharlotka is the cake every Russian family bakes in September, when dachas around Moscow and Saint Petersburg drown in Antonovka apples. It is nothing like Polish szarlotka with its shortcrust: here the tin is packed with sliced tart apples and a feather-light batter of whisked eggs, sugar and flour is poured over, so it bakes into an airy, crackly-topped sponge holding a soft apple layer. Only four ingredients, and it is on the table in under an hour with tea from the samovar. Chef's tip: whisk the eggs and sugar for a full 8 minutes until pale and tripled; that air is the only raising agent and a short whisk gives a flat, rubbery cake.
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