13 recipes that use dried red chilli, with photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Champiñones al ajillo, takes 15 minutes. It is most often cooked with turmeric, garlic and cumin seeds.
Run out of dried red chilli? ½ tsp chilli flakes per chilli.
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Everyday Gujarati dal: smooth, thin pigeon pea lentils simmered with tomato, peanuts, drumsticks, kokum and dried dates, sweet with jaggery and sharp with lemon, under a fragrant tempering of cloves, curry leaves and mustard. Vary it by changing the seasoning and tempering: for example, temper it with curry leaves, mustard and onions fried in oil, and finish it with green chillies, sambhar masala and kokum pieces. Serve hot with plain boiled rice.
A thin, silky Gujarati kadhi of sour yogurt and gram flour, gently sweet with jaggery and fragrant with cinnamon, cloves, curry leaves and fenugreek seeds. Stir it all the time as it comes to the boil so it doesn't split. Serve with pigeon pea lentil khichdi or rice.
Champiñones al ajillo are on the menu of almost every tapas bar in Spain: button mushrooms seared in olive oil with plenty of sliced garlic, a little dried chilli (guindilla), a splash of dry white wine or fino sherry and a handful of parsley. They are usually brought to the table still sizzling in a small terracotta cazuela, with bread to mop up the garlicky juices. Serve them with tortilla, patatas bravas or on toast for a quick lunch. Chef's tip: cook the mushrooms over a high heat in a single layer and do not salt them until they have browned; salt draws out water too early and the mushrooms stew grey instead of searing golden.
Shingara is Bengal's samosa, and every Kolkata sweet shop fries a batch for the evening tea crowd. It differs from the North Indian kind in small, important ways: the pastry is flecked with nigella seeds, the potatoes are diced rather than mashed, and in winter the filling gets cauliflower florets, fried peanuts and a few raisins, all tempered with panch phoron. The shape is a tall cone with a tight pleated top, so it stands upright on the plate. Chef's tip: dice the potato small (1 cm) and cook it only until just tender; mushy potato turns the filling into mash and loses that Bengali bite.
Rasam is the thin, sour, peppery broth that runs through every Tamil Nadu meal, poured over rice after sambar or sipped from a tumbler when you have a cold. This tomato version is the everyday kind: ripe tomatoes and tamarind simmered with crushed garlic, black pepper and cumin, then lifted with a tempering of mustard seeds, dried chilli and curry leaves. It's light, warming and ready in 25 minutes. Serve it with plain rice and a dry vegetable, or on its own in a cup. Chef's tip: once you add the spice mix, take the rasam off the heat as soon as it froths up; boiling it hard turns the flavour flat and the pepper harsh.
Aloo posto is one of West Bengal's best-loved everyday dishes: cubes of potato cooked gently in a thick paste of ground white poppy seeds, green chilli and mustard oil. The poppy seeds give a nutty, creamy coating without any dairy, and the nigella seeds and raw mustard oil add a sharp, fragrant edge. It's simple, mild and comforting, eaten with plain rice and dal in Kolkata homes. Chef's tip: grind the soaked poppy seeds with the green chillies and a splash of water until truly smooth; a gritty paste never turns creamy.
Across Nepal, from Terai farmhouses to trekking lodges below Everest, dal bhat is not a dish so much as the meal itself, eaten twice a day, late morning and early evening, often with the words "dal bhat power, 24 hour". The plate is always the same idea: a mound of plain rice (bhat), a thin, soupy lentil dal scented with jimbu (a dried Himalayan allium) fried in ghee, a dry vegetable tarkari, a little stir-fried greens when there are some, and a sharp spoonful of achar. You pour the dal over the rice and mix it by hand, a little at a time, with bites of curry and pickle. Most newcomers make the dal too thick; Nepali dal should run off the spoon like a light soup so it soaks the rice. Chef's tip: fry the jimbu in the hot ghee only until it darkens a shade and smells of garlicky onion, about 10 seconds, then pour it straight into the dal and cover the pan to trap the aroma.
In the terraced hill villages between Pokhara and Ilam, families pack mustard, radish and cauliflower leaves into clay pots after the autumn harvest, let them ferment for a week or two and then sun-dry them into gundruk. That dark, tangy leaf is the store cupboard of the winter months, and its most common use is this thin, sour soup (jhol), served on the side of dal bhat or with dhido, the stiff buckwheat or millet porridge of the hills. It tastes a little like a smoky, vinegary green tea and is light, warming and very cheap. A handful of roasted soybeans (bhatmas) is often thrown in for crunch. The mistake is to cook gundruk without soaking it first, which leaves it gritty and too sour. Chef's tip: squeeze the soaked leaves hard and fry them in the oil until they crackle before you add water; that frying gives the soup its toasty depth.
Kootu sits halfway between a dal and a vegetable dish, and in Tamil homes it is the mild, kind side on a lunch plate next to a sharp rasam or a fiery kuzhambu. Chopped vegetables such as chow-chow, snake gourd, cabbage or pumpkin are cooked with moong dal until soft, then thickened with a paste of fresh coconut, cumin and a little green chilli. It's the dish many Tamil grandmothers give children and anyone recovering from a fever. Spoon it over rice with ghee or serve it alongside sambar and poriyal. Chef's tip: grind the coconut paste with the cumin raw, not toasted; the fresh, sweet cumin flavour is what makes kootu taste like kootu.
Keerai masiyal is the plain, green, buttery-soft mash Tamil mothers make with whatever keerai the market has that morning: arai keerai, siru keerai, amaranth or plain spinach. The leaves are cooked with shallots, garlic and green chilli and then mashed, traditionally with a wooden mathu, until smooth but still a little textured, then finished with a cumin tempering. It's eaten mixed into hot rice with a spoon of ghee or sesame oil, next to sambar or rasam, and it's a favourite first food for toddlers. Chef's tip: cook the greens uncovered; covering them traps the gases that turn the leaves dull olive instead of bright green.
Walk into a bar near Madrid's Plaza Mayor or Puerta del Sol and you will hear gambas al ajillo before you see them: peeled prawns still spitting in a small terracotta cazuela of olive oil, sliced garlic and dried chilli. They arrive at the table bubbling, with a basket of bread for mopping up the golden oil, which many people think is the best part. At home it takes ten minutes and works as a tapa for four or a quick supper for two. Chef's tip: pat the prawns completely dry with kitchen paper before they go in, so they sizzle in the oil instead of stewing in their own water.
Bacalao al pil pil belongs to Bilbao and the rest of Bizkaia, where it fills restaurant menus in Lent and Holy Week and reappears on Christmas Eve tables. It is made from just four things: desalted salt cod, olive oil, garlic and a dried chilli. The trick is the sauce. The cod gives off gelatine as it cooks gently in warm oil, and swirling the clay dish round and round turns that oil into a thick, pale, mayonnaise-like emulsion; the name comes from the 'pil pil' sound of it bubbling. Plan ahead, because thick salt cod needs 24–48 hours of soaking in the fridge. Chef's tip: buy thick, skin-on loins (lomos); the gelatine that makes the sauce comes from the skin.
Shito is the black pepper sauce that sits on every Ghanaian table and travels in every student's suitcase. Onions, ginger and garlic are cooked down slowly in a lot of oil with ground dried shrimp, smoked dried fish and chilli until the mixture turns almost black, rich and crunchy-savoury. A spoonful lifts kenkey, waakye, jollof rice, eggs or plain bread. The mistake almost everyone makes the first time is cooking it on high heat: it scorches and turns bitter. Low and slow is the whole secret. Chef's tip: stir the bottom of the pot every few minutes in the last half hour, when it darkens fastest.
