Black bean tacos with lime slaw
Proof that a meat-free taco night can be the best one. The beans are mashed with chipotle and cumin so they hold together in the tortilla, and a quick lime slaw adds crunch.
124 recipes that use lime, with photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Limonada suíça, takes 5 minutes. It is most often cooked with garlic, onion and coriander.
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Proof that a meat-free taco night can be the best one. The beans are mashed with chipotle and cumin so they hold together in the tortilla, and a quick lime slaw adds crunch.
Along the rivers of Banjarmasin in South Kalimantan, breakfast often means soto Banjar eaten at a wooden riverside warung, sometimes after a dawn trip to the floating market. Unlike the turmeric sotos of Java, this broth is pale and clear, perfumed with the sweet spices that traders brought up the river centuries ago: cinnamon, cloves, star anise, cardamom and nutmeg. Shredded chicken, glass noodles, carrot and a boiled egg go into the bowl with rice cakes, and lime and a little chilli sharpen it at the table. Chef's tip: toast the whole spices in the pan for a minute before the paste goes in; it brings out their sweetness without the dusty edge of ground spice.
A light, creamy fool of fresh mango puree, sharpened with lime, folded through whipped cream and yogurt so it's prettily rippled. Served in tall glasses, it's somewhere between a drink and a pudding. Chill for an hour or two and decorate with fresh mango slices just before serving.
Pho began in the north, around Hanoi and Nam Định, and is now eaten all over Vietnam, often for breakfast. Phở chay is the Buddhist vegetarian version served in temple kitchens and chay restaurants: the deep, clear broth comes from charred onion and ginger, toasted star anise, cinnamon and cloves, simmered with daikon, carrot, sweetcorn and dried shiitake instead of beef bones. Silky flat rice noodles, golden tofu and mushrooms go in the bowl, and everyone adds their own bean sprouts, Thai basil, lime and chilli at the table. Chef's tip: char the onion and ginger until properly blackened in patches and toast the spices in a dry pan until they smell like warm Christmas cake; that smoky, perfumed base is what makes the broth taste like pho and not vegetable soup.
Moqueca is the great stew of Bahia, cooked in a clay pot with coconut milk, tomatoes, peppers and dendê, the red palm oil that gives Salvador's food its colour and flavour. Fish is usual on the coast, but moqueca de palmito e banana-da-terra, with heart of palm and ripe plantain, is a much-loved vegetarian version: sweet, tangy and fragrant with coriander and lime. Serve with white rice and farofa. Chef's tip: layer the vegetables rather than frying them, and add half the dendê at the start and half at the very end. The final splash keeps its fruity, nutty aroma, which is the real taste of Bahia.
Limonada suíça is the creamy, frothy limeade served in juice bars and lunch counters all over Brazil. Despite the name ('Swiss lemonade'), nobody knows of any Swiss link, and it's made with whole Tahiti limes, blended briefly, skin and all, then strained and sweetened with condensed milk. It's cold, zingy and pale green, perfect with a hot lunch. Chef's tip: blend for no more than 10–15 seconds. Lime peel gives the drink its wonderful perfume, but blended too long it releases bitterness from the pith; serve it straight away for the same reason.
Tacos al pastor are the night-time taco of Mexico City, born when Lebanese immigrants' spit-roasted shawarma met Mexican dried chillies: meat marinated in guajillo and achiote is stacked on a vertical spit (the trompo), shaved into small corn tortillas and finished with pineapple, onion and coriander. This vegetarian version, tacos al pastor de hongos, uses torn oyster mushrooms in the same brick-red adobo, seared hard in a hot pan until the edges crisp and char like meat cut from the trompo. Expect smoky, tangy, gently hot tacos with bursts of sweet, caramelised pineapple; serve them with salsa verde and lime wedges. Chef's tip: press the mushrooms flat with a spatula and leave them alone in a very hot pan; moving them around makes them steam and go soft instead of crisp.
Tinga comes from Puebla, where shredded meat is simmered in a sauce of sweet sliced onion, tomato and smoky chipotle chillies and piled onto tostadas or tacos. Here roasted cauliflower takes the place of the chicken: browned in a hot oven so it turns nutty and holds its shape, then folded through the brick-red sauce so every floret is glossy and smoky. The result, tinga de coliflor, is sweet, tangy and properly spicy; serve it in warm corn tortillas or on crisp tostadas with avocado, shredded lettuce and lime. Chef's tip: cook the onions slowly until soft and sweet before the tomatoes go in; the sweetness is what balances the heat of the chipotle.
Quesadillas de hongos are sold from comales at markets all over central Mexico, from Mexico City to the forests around Toluca where wild mushrooms are picked in the rains. The mushrooms are fried hard with onion, garlic and green chilli and finished with epazote, a pungent herb with notes of mint, anise and citrus that is the signature of central Mexican cooking. Folded into corn tortillas with stringy cheese, they are earthy, juicy and a little hot. Serve with salsa roja and lime. Use a cheese made with vegetarian rennet; low-moisture mozzarella is a good stand-in for Oaxaca cheese. Chef's tip: fry the mushrooms until all their liquid has gone; wet mushrooms make the tortilla soggy.
Elote (corn on the cob) is sold all over Mexico from street carts in the evening: grilled or boiled cobs speared on a stick, slathered in mayonnaise and crema, rolled in crumbly cotija cheese and dusted with chilli powder, with a squeeze of lime. Charring the corn adds smokiness to the sweet kernels, and the creamy, salty, sour and hot toppings make it irresistible. Serve it at a barbecue or as a snack; kids can skip the chilli. Cotija is often made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian-rennet feta or a vegetarian hard cheese if that matters to you. Chef's tip: let the cobs cool for a minute before spreading the mayonnaise, so it clings rather than sliding off.
Esquites are the cup version of elote, sold by street vendors across Mexico City from big pots: corn kernels sautéed with butter, onion, green chilli and epazote, simmered in a little salty water, then spooned into cups and topped with mayonnaise, lime, crumbled cheese and chilli powder. Each spoonful is sweet, buttery, tangy and warm, with a splash of the corn broth at the bottom. They make a great snack or side for tacos. Choose cotija or feta made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: let the kernels brown slightly in the butter before adding the water; those toasty bits give esquites their depth.
Tostadas, crisp flat corn tortillas, are eaten all over Mexico as a quick meal or snack, and tostadas de frijol are the everyday vegetarian version: a thick smear of refried beans topped with shredded lettuce, tomato, avocado, crema and crumbled cheese. The contrast between the shattering crunch, the creamy beans and the cool, fresh toppings is the whole point. Buy ready-made corn tostadas, or bake your own from corn tortillas. Use queso fresco made with vegetarian rennet, or mild feta. Chef's tip: spread the beans warm and thick right to the edge; they act as glue for the toppings and stop the tostada from shattering when you bite it.
Molletes are a favourite cheap breakfast and after-school snack across Mexico, especially in Mexico City cafés: a bolillo (a crusty, oval white roll) split, buttered and toasted, spread with refried beans, covered with cheese and grilled until bubbling, then topped with fresh pico de gallo. They are crunchy, creamy and gooey, and children love them. Use crusty white rolls or short pieces of baguette if you can't get bolillos, and a mild melting cheese made with vegetarian rennet, such as mild cheddar, mozzarella or Oaxaca cheese. Chef's tip: toast the buttered rolls before adding the beans, so the bread stays crisp underneath instead of going soggy.
Pico de gallo, also called salsa fresca or salsa mexicana, is the fresh, uncooked salsa that sits on every Mexican table: diced ripe tomato, white onion, serrano chilli and coriander, brightened with lime juice and salt. It is crunchy, juicy and clean-tasting, with just enough heat, and goes with tacos, quesadillas, eggs, beans, rice and tortilla chips. It is best within an hour of making. Chef's tip: add the salt just before serving; salt draws water out of the tomatoes and leaves the salsa sitting in a puddle.
Pozole verde is the green pozole of Guerrero, where Thursday is pozole day and families gather round big bowls of it in Chilpancingo and Acapulco. The broth gets its colour and body from tomatillos, green chillies, coriander and toasted pumpkin seeds (pepitas) blended into a creamy sauce, and it is full of plump, chewy hominy (maíz pozolero), the nixtamalised corn kernels that open like flowers as they cook. This vegetarian version swaps the usual pork for oyster mushrooms and chickpeas, which give the soup a meaty bite. Serve it with the garnishes in little bowls so everyone builds their own: shredded cabbage, radish, onion, oregano, lime and crisp tostadas. Chef's tip: toast the pumpkin seeds only until they puff and start to pop; if they turn brown the whole pot tastes bitter and goes khaki instead of bright green.
Sopa de tortilla, also called sopa azteca, is one of the best-loved soups of Mexico City's fondas: a brick-red broth of charred tomato, onion, garlic and dried pasilla chilli poured over crisp strips of fried corn tortilla. The strips soften at the edges and stay crunchy in the middle, and the toppings of avocado, fresh cheese, cream and fried chilli rings make each spoonful different. It is a starter in a comida corrida (set lunch) and a cure-all on a cold evening. We use a well-flavoured vegetable stock in place of chicken broth. Chef's tip: fry the blended tomato purée in hot oil until it darkens and smells sweet before adding the stock; this "seasoning" of the sauce is what makes Mexican soups taste deep rather than thin.
Sopa de fideo is the soup almost every Mexican grew up on, served at home from Monterrey to Mérida as the first course of the midday meal. Thin fideo noodles (short broken vermicelli) are fried in oil until golden before the tomato broth goes in, which gives them a toasty, nutty flavour and stops them turning to mush. This version uses a vegetable stock, so it is vegan and very kind to small children. Serve it with lime, a little dried chilli for the grown-ups and bread or tortillas. Chef's tip: fry the noodles over a medium heat and keep stirring; they go from pale to golden to burnt in seconds, and you want the colour of a digestive biscuit.
Arroz verde is red rice's fresher sister, popular across central Mexico as a side for mole, enchiladas and beans. The rice is toasted in oil and then simmered in a vivid green purée of poblano pepper, coriander, parsley and a handful of spinach, so it comes out fluffy, herby and gently peppery, the colour of spring grass. It is vegan with vegetable stock and pairs especially well with mole rojo or roasted vegetables. Chef's tip: blend the greens with cold stock and add it straight to the rice; heated slowly or left standing the purée loses its colour, so make it right before you need it.
Frijoles de la olla, beans cooked slowly in a pot (traditionally clay) with just onion, garlic and a sprig of epazote, are the backbone of Mexican home cooking from north to south. Served brothy in a bowl with chopped onion, chilli and lime, they are a meal on their own; mashed and fried in oil they become frijoles refritos, the creamy refried beans that go into tacos, tortas, sopes and molletes. This recipe makes both: one pot, half served as it is, half refried. We fry in vegetable oil rather than lard, so it is vegan. Chef's tip: salt the beans only once they are tender; salting at the start won't stop them cooking, but adding it late seasons the broth better and saves you from oversalting as it reduces.
Agua de jamaica is one of the aguas frescas, the cooling fruit and flower drinks ladled from huge glass barrels at markets and taquerías all over Mexico. It is made by steeping dried hibiscus calyces (flor de jamaica) in hot water, giving a deep crimson drink that tastes tart like cranberry, lightly floral and very refreshing over ice. It is naturally vegan and keeps for days in the fridge. Use the concentrate as the base and sweeten to taste. Chef's tip: don't boil the flowers for long or leave them steeping for hours; too much extraction makes the drink tannic and harsh.
Ceviche is Lima's great obsession, eaten at lunchtime in cevicherías all along the coast; this vegetarian ceviche de champiñones keeps everything that makes it thrilling except the fish. Raw mushrooms are sliced thin and tossed at the last minute in leche de tigre, the bright, peppery marinade of lime, garlic, ginger, celery and ají limo, so they turn silky but still bite back. Red onion brings crunch, coriander freshness, and on the plate it gets the classic Lima company: a slice of sweet potato, a wedge of corn on the cob and a handful of toasted cancha. Serve it as a starter on a hot day, straight away. Chef's tip: squeeze the limes gently by hand and stop before the pith; pressing hard or using a squeezer that crushes the peel makes the leche de tigre bitter.
Causa limeña is Lima's cold potato terrine: yellow potatoes mashed with lime, oil and ají amarillo, pressed into layers and filled. In Lima it is a lunchtime starter sold in every menú and at every family party, often with tuna or chicken; this vegetarian causa is filled with ripe avocado and a creamy salad of corn, peas and carrot. The potato should be smooth, sunny yellow, tangy and gently hot, and the whole thing is served cold in neat slices. Make it in the morning for dinner, or the day before for a party. Chef's tip: mash the potatoes while warm but add the lime only once they have cooled; lime on hot potato turns the mash grey and gluey.
Tacu tacu was born in the Afro-Peruvian kitchens of Lima, as a thrifty way to turn yesterday's beans and rice into something new; today it appears on the menus of smart criollo restaurants too. Mashed canario beans and rice are fried with garlic, onion and ají amarillo, then shaped in the pan into a long, crisp-edged cake, soft inside and golden outside. It is a hearty lunch for two with a sharp salsa criolla of onion and lime, and often a fried ripe plantain on the side. Canario beans are pale yellow and creamy; pinto or cannellini beans work well. Chef's tip: use cold, day-old rice and beans; warm, freshly cooked ones are too soft to hold their shape and the tacu tacu falls apart.
Sopa de quinua is everyday food in the Andes, from Puno on Lake Titicaca to Cusco and Huancayo, where quinoa has been grown for thousands of years. Quinoa, potato, carrot and corn simmer in a light broth seasoned with garlic, cumin, oregano and a little ají amarillo, and the potato breaks down slightly to give body. It is light yet filling, the soup families eat at midday to warm up in cold mountain air. In Peru it is finished with huacatay, the black mint of the Andes; a mix of mint and coriander stands in well. Chef's tip: rinse the quinoa in a sieve under running water, rubbing it, until the water stops foaming; the natural saponin coating tastes bitter and soapy.
Tacacho is the breakfast of the Peruvian Amazon, from Tarapoto to Iquitos: green plantains roasted over coals, mashed with fat and salt and shaped into balls. There it comes with cecina (smoked pork) and is mashed with lard and crackling; this vegan tacacho uses good oil and a pinch of smoked paprika for the same savoury, smoky depth. The balls are dense, chewy and starchy, crisp at the edges where the plantain charred, and they are eaten hot with a fiery chilli sauce or alongside stews. Use plantains that are fully green and firm. Chef's tip: mash the plantains while they are still very hot; as green plantain cools its starch sets and it won't bind into a smooth ball.
Mazamorra morada is a deep purple pudding from Lima, made by boiling Andean purple corn with pineapple peel and spices and then thickening the dark juice with sweet potato starch and fruit. It is sold in little cups at markets and street carts, and in Lima it is eaten all year but above all in October, often spooned into the same bowl as rice pudding, a combination called el clásico. It is fruity, gently spiced and wobbly, like a thick jam pudding. Dried purple corn (maíz morado) is sold in Latin shops and online; purple corn powder works too. Chef's tip: dissolve the starch in cold water and stir it in off the boil; tipping it into a bubbling pan makes lumps that never smooth out.
Chicha morada is Peru's favourite soft drink, served by the jug in every restaurant in Lima and drunk across the country with lunch. Andean purple corn is simmered with pineapple peel, apple, cinnamon and cloves, then sweetened and sharpened with lime to make a dark ruby drink that tastes of berries, spice and gentle tannin, a little like a spiced cranberry juice. It has no alcohol, unlike the fermented chicha de jora of the Andes. Dried purple corn (maíz morado) comes from Latin shops; purple corn powder works too. Chef's tip: add the sugar and lime only once the drink has cooled; lime added to the hot liquid turns it bitter.
In Jakarta, gado-gado is lunch from a pushcart: the Betawi seller grinds the peanut sauce to order on a stone ulekan, then tips blanched greens, potato, tofu, tempeh and egg into it and mixes everything by hand. The name roughly means "mix-mix", and that is how it's eaten, with every vegetable coated in a sauce that's nutty, sweet from palm sugar, sour from tamarind and as hot as you ask for. It's a full meal on its own, crunchy with emping or rice crackers on top. Chef's tip: loosen the peanut sauce with warm water only at the end and stop when it coats a spoon like custard; too thin and it slides off the vegetables and pools on the plate.
Mie goreng is what the gerobak noodle carts of Indonesian towns fry up after dark, each portion tossed in a blackened wok over a roaring flame, sweet and savoury from kecap manis and sharp with garlic. Unlike Malaysia's tomato-red mamak noodles, the Indonesian style is dark, glossy and dominated by sweet soy and white pepper, with plenty of greens and a scattering of fried shallots. This version swaps the usual chicken and prawns for tofu and mushrooms and is on the table in twenty minutes. Chef's tip: cook the noodles a minute short of the packet time and rinse them in cold water; they finish softening in the wok and stay springy instead of breaking.
Telur balado is a fixture of the nasi Padang counter and of West Sumatran home cooking: hard-boiled eggs fried until their whites blister and turn golden, then smothered in balado, the coarse red sambal of chilli, shallot and tomato that the Minangkabau cook with almost everything. The fried skin of the eggs grips the sauce, and the sambal is bright and fresh rather than long-cooked. It's a cheap, quick weekday lunch with rice and greens, and it travels well in lunch boxes. Chef's tip: grind the balado coarse, not smooth — the Padang version should look rough and glossy, with visible flecks of chilli skin.
Lawar is the dish of Balinese ceremonies: before a temple festival or a family rite, the men of the banjar gather at dawn to chop and mix it by hand in huge quantities. Many versions include meat, but lawar kacang, made with long beans, is common at home and at Balinese warungs, and it shows off base genep, the island's master spice paste of shallot, garlic, galangal, kencur, turmeric and chilli. Mixed with toasted grated coconut, it's crunchy, fragrant, sour and hot, and is eaten with rice the day it's made. Chef's tip: mix the lawar just before serving and with your hands, squeezing gently, so the spice paste works into the beans; made too early, it goes watery and dull.
Satay smoke drifts along Javanese streets every evening, where sellers fan charcoal grills set up on the pavement and serve skewers with peanut sauce, rice cakes and sliced shallot. Tofu and tempeh are naturals for it: they drink up a sweet-savoury marinade of palm sugar, tamari, coriander and garlic and pick up dark, sticky char at the edges. The sauce here is cooked until smooth and glossy, sweeter and milder than the grainy dressing on gado-gado, made for dipping. Chef's tip: soak the bamboo skewers for 30 minutes and brush the satay with marinade as it grills — the sugar caramelises into the dark, slightly burnt edges that make satay taste like satay.
In Kuala Lumpur, Hokkien mee means thick yellow noodles braised in a dark, caramel-sweet soy sauce until they turn almost black, a late-night hawker dish that Petaling Street and Jalan Alor stalls still cook over roaring flames long after midnight. The originals carry pork, prawns and crisp lard; ours uses meaty shiitake, tofu puffs that drink up the sauce, cabbage and choy sum, with fried shallots for the crunch the lard would give. It's smoky, salty-sweet and very slurpable. Chef's tip: let the noodles braise until the sauce has thickened and clings to every strand, with only a spoonful left in the wok.
Mamak stalls, the round-the-clock cafés run by Malaysia's Tamil Muslim families, are where friends meet after a football match or a late film, and mee goreng mamak is the plate everyone orders with a glass of pulled tea. It's yellow noodles tossed hard in a wok with tomato sauce, chilli, soy, a pinch of curry powder, soft potato that breaks into the sauce, tofu, egg and bean sprouts, finished with a squeeze of lime. Stalls often add squid or prawns; here the tofu does that job. It's sweet, smoky, tangy and a little messy, as it should be. Chef's tip: get the wok really hot and let the noodles sit untouched for 20 seconds between tosses so they char in spots.
Curry laksa, or curry mee, is the coconut-rich laksa of Kuala Lumpur and the west coast, a hawker breakfast as often as a lunch, ladled from huge pots into bowls of noodles. The broth is a fried spice paste of chillies, lemongrass, galangal and candlenuts loosened with coconut milk, so it's spicy, creamy and fragrant at once. Stalls top it with chicken, cockles or prawns; ours is all vegetable: tofu puffs that soak up the soup like sponges, soft aubergine, long beans, crunchy bean sprouts and mint. Chef's tip: once the coconut milk goes in, keep it at a gentle simmer; a rolling boil splits it and leaves the broth greasy and grainy.
In Cyprus, halloumi and watermelon is the taste of an August afternoon: icy wedges of watermelon eaten alongside salty halloumi, either fresh and squeaky or grilled until golden. Cypriots have eaten the two together for generations, on beaches, village verandas and after a long lunch. Here the halloumi is seared, then tossed with chunks of cold watermelon, mint, red onion and lime. It is a starter, a light lunch or a side for any barbecue. Some halloumi is made with animal rennet, so look for one labelled vegetarian. Chef's tip: don't cook the halloumi until everyone is ready to eat; it turns rubbery as it cools, which is the most common halloumi mistake.
Faloodeh is the summer treat of Shiraz: thin rice noodles frozen in a rosewater syrup to make an icy, crunchy, chewy sorbet, sold in ice-cream shops across the city and in Tehran on hot evenings. Each glass is finished at the counter with a squeeze of fresh lime and, for many, a spoon of sour cherry syrup. It is very different from Indian falooda, which is a creamy milk drink; this one is dairy-free, sharp, floral and refreshing. Chef's tip: scrape the mixture with a fork every 30 minutes while it freezes, so you get snowy crystals rather than a solid block.
Sancocho is the big Sunday soup Colombian families cook outdoors on riverbanks and fincas (country houses), with every region from Antioquia to the Valle having its own version. This vegetarian sancocho keeps the essentials: green plantain broken by hand, cassava, potatoes and corn on the cob simmered in a broth seasoned with spring onion, garlic, cumin and plenty of coriander, until the starches thicken it. Serve each bowl with white rice, avocado and lime on the side. Chef's tip: break the plantain into pieces with your hands rather than cutting it; the rough edges release starch and thicken the broth.
Colombian empanadas are small, crunchy half-moons made with yellow corn dough rather than wheat, sold hot from street stands across Bogotá, Medellín and Cali and eaten with a squeeze of lime and a spoonful of ají. The classic filling mixes potato with hogao and often meat; this version keeps the potato and hogao, seasoned with cumin and coriander, which many families make on its own anyway. They are crisp outside and soft and savoury inside. Chef's tip: roll the dough thin, about 3 mm; thick corn dough stays heavy and absorbs oil.
Zobo is the deep crimson drink sold ice-cold in recycled bottles at Nigerian bus parks, markets and parties, and in Ghana the same drink is called sobolo, often made punchier with extra ginger and grains of selim. Dried hibiscus calyces are boiled with pineapple peel, fresh ginger and cloves, then strained and sweetened, giving a tart, fruity, gently spicy drink. It is drunk fresh and alcohol-free, very cold, especially in the dry heat before the rains. Chef's tip: sweeten the drink once it is strained and still warm, tasting as you go; hibiscus tastes much sharper hot than when it is chilled, so leave it a touch sweeter than you think.
Lahpet thoke is how Myanmar welcomes a guest: a lacquered tray of pickled tea leaves surrounded by fried beans, peanuts, sesame and garlic, offered after meals, at weddings and at monk feasts from Mandalay to Yangon. Mixed into a salad with cabbage, tomato, chilli and lime, it becomes the country's most famous dish: bitter, sour, salty and crunchy at once, with a gentle caffeine lift. Ready-made lahpet sometimes contains fish sauce and the crunchy mix often has dried shrimp, so this version quick-pickles loose green tea at home. Chef's tip: soak the tea in several changes of hot water and squeeze it hard each time; that's what tames the bitterness.
Gin thoke is lahpet thoke's livelier cousin, served on the same lacquered trays at teashops in Yangon and as a palate-wakener after a rich curry lunch. Young ginger is cut into fine threads and pickled in lime and salt so it turns pink and juicy, then tossed with cabbage, tomato, peanuts, fried beans and sesame. Burmese cooks often add fish sauce; salt, lime and a little toasted chickpea flour give the dressing body without it. Chef's tip: use young ginger with thin, pinkish skin if you can find it; mature ginger is fibrous and too fiery to eat in this quantity, so slice it extra thin.
Samosa thoke is pure Yangon street food, born from the city's Indian-Burmese communities: vendors on Mahabandoola Road chop crisp samosas into a bowl with cabbage, onion and mint, ladle over a thin, spiced lentil broth (pe hin ye), and finish it with tamarind, chilli and a squeeze of lime. The samosas soften at the edges while the middle stays crunchy, and the whole bowl is hot, sour and savoury. Use vegan samosas made without ghee. Chef's tip: ladle the broth over at the very last moment and eat straight away; samosa thoke left to sit turns soggy fast.
Mohinga is Myanmar's national breakfast, ladled from steaming pots at dawn on street corners from Yangon to Mandalay: thin rice noodles in a thick, golden broth fragrant with lemongrass, ginger and toasted chickpea flour, topped with crisp fritters, lime and chilli. The real thing is built on catfish and fish sauce. This vegetarian version is honestly different: dried shiitake and kombu give savouriness instead of fish, and the body comes from toasted chickpea flour, toasted rice powder and banana stem (or palm heart), so it's lighter and earthier rather than fishy. Chef's tip: toast the chickpea flour and rice until golden and nutty before they go in; they carry most of the flavour.
Ohn no khao swe is the comforting coconut noodle soup that Burmese families serve for weekend lunches and for crowds at donation feasts, especially around Mandalay and Yangon. Wheat noodles sit in a rich, mildly spiced coconut broth thickened with chickpea flour, and everyone adds their own toppings: lime, sliced raw onion, chilli flakes, coriander and crispy fried noodles. It's normally made with chicken; tofu and chickpeas take its place here. Chef's tip: stir the coconut milk in at the end and keep it at a gentle simmer; a hard boil makes the coconut split and turn oily.
Bore baasi is the summer meal of Chhattisgarh's farmers: cooked rice soaked in water, either for a few hours (bore) or overnight (baasi), then eaten from the bowl with its slightly sour water, raw onion, green chilli and a pinch of salt. It is cooling, filling and easy on the stomach in the heat, and in recent years the state has made 1 May, Labour Day, the day to eat it as Bore Baasi Tihar. Many families add a ladle of buttermilk or curd and something fried or roasted on the side. Food safety matters with any cooked rice left standing, so this version cools the rice fast and soaks it in the fridge. Chef's tip: cool and cover the rice within an hour of cooking; rice left warm on the counter is the real risk, not the soaking.
The kathi roll was born on Park Street in Kolkata, where kebabs once came on bamboo sticks (kathi) and were later wrapped in a paratha so office workers could eat them walking. This is the egg-and-paneer roll the stalls on Park Street and Gariahat sell to vegetarians: a flaky, ghee-fried paratha with an egg cooked right onto one side, then rolled round charred paneer, raw onion, green chilli, lime and a squirt of chilli sauce. Chef's tip: wrap the bottom half in paper as soon as it is rolled; the steam softens the paratha just enough to hold together.
Jukut urab turns up on almost every Balinese rice plate and at temple-day feasts: blanched long beans, greens and bean sprouts tossed with freshly grated coconut that has been fried with a little bumbu of shallot, chilli, kencur and lime leaf. It is bright, crunchy and only gently hot, the fresh side dish that balances heavier ones. Many cooks add shrimp paste to the bumbu; this one leaves it out. Chef's tip: toss the vegetables and coconut only just before serving, or the coconut draws out water and the dish turns soggy.
In Khon Kaen, Udon Thani and the rest of Isan, the somtam stall always offers a cucumber version alongside the papaya one, and many locals prefer it on hot afternoons: tam taeng is juicier, cooler and crunchier. Thick batons of cucumber are bruised, not smashed, with garlic, chillies, lime and palm sugar, so they soak up the dressing but keep their snap. Sellers add fermented fish or dried shrimp; this vegan bowl leans on soy and toasted peanuts for depth instead. It is eaten with sticky rice and grilled food, picked up with your fingers. Chef's tip: use firm cucumbers with small seeds and scoop out a watery core, or the salad floods within minutes.
Khao yam is breakfast in the south: in Nakhon Si Thammarat, Pattani and Songkhla, morning stalls set out trays of tightly shredded lemongrass, pomelo, long beans, bean sprouts, makrut lime leaves and toasted coconut, and you build your plate around a mound of rice, often tinted blue with butterfly pea flowers. The dressing is normally budu, a sweet fermented fish sauce from the Malay borderlands. This version makes a vegetarian 'budu' by simmering soy sauce, tamarind, palm sugar, lemongrass and shallot into a dark syrup. The result is crunchy, fragrant, sweet, salty and sour in every mouthful. Chef's tip: shred everything as finely as you can; thin slivers of lemongrass and lime leaf are pleasant, thick ones are woody.
In Hanoi, bún riêu is a mid-morning bowl bought from street sellers who set up on low plastic stools: a tangy red tomato broth with rice vermicelli and soft, floating curds that are normally made from pounded paddy crab. Vegetarian cooks and Buddhist temple kitchens make bún riêu chay instead, folding crumbled tofu, egg and chopped shiitake into the same loose, spongy curds, and seasoning the broth with fermented tofu rather than shrimp paste. It arrives with fried tofu, lime, chilli, shredded water spinach and perilla, so each spoonful is sour, savoury and fresh at once. Chef's tip: let the tomatoes fry in the annatto oil until they collapse into a jammy paste before any stock goes in; that is where the broth gets its colour and depth.
Ketoprak is a Jakarta cart dish, made to order: the seller grinds peanuts, garlic and chilli in a wide stone mortar, loosens them with water and sweet soy, then tips fried tofu, rice cake, rice vermicelli and bean sprouts on top. It is a cousin of gado-gado but simpler, with no egg-and-greens platter, and the raw-garlic sauce is the whole point. Eat it at lunch with plenty of crackers. Chef's tip: grind the garlic with the hot fried peanuts so the garlic mellows slightly; a raw paste made with cold nuts is harsh.
Tahu telur is a night-market favourite in Surabaya, East Java: cubes of tofu are stirred into beaten egg and fried in a small wok so the omelette rises into a thick, crisp-edged tower. It is topped with bean sprouts, cucumber and a dark sauce of peanuts and sweet soy. Sellers in Surabaya stir shrimp paste (petis) into the sauce; this vegetarian version uses a little extra garlic and kecap manis instead. Eat with rice or lontong for a filling supper. Chef's tip: use a small, deep pan so the egg piles up around the tofu instead of spreading thin.
Balado is the Minangkabau way of smothering fried food in a coarse, shiny red chilli sambal, and in West Sumatra the aubergine version is a daily home dish as much as a restaurant one. The aubergine is fried until soft and creamy inside, then folded into a sambal of red chillies, shallots and tomato cooked down until sweet. Serve it at room temperature with rice and fried tofu. Chef's tip: grind the chillies coarsely rather than to a purée; Padang cooks want flecks of skin and seed in a balado.
Matah means raw in Balinese, and this sambal is nothing more than finely sliced shallots, chillies, lemongrass and lime leaf, squeezed with lime and dressed with hot coconut oil. It is the fresh, sharp counterpart to grilled tempeh, tofu, corn fritters and plain rice in warungs across Bali. Village cooks rub in a little toasted shrimp paste; this vegetarian version gets its savoury edge from salt and a touch of sugar. Chef's tip: squeeze the salted shallots with your fingers before adding the oil; they soften and release juice that carries the flavour.
Before seven in the morning, women carrying baskets on shoulder poles sell nom banh chok across Cambodia; around Siem Reap there is even a lane of stalls near the temples known for it. Soft, slippery rice noodles are piled into a bowl, ladled with a pale green broth of kroeung and coconut milk, then buried under shredded banana blossom, cucumber, beansprouts, long beans and handfuls of herbs. The market version thickens the broth with pounded fish; here pumpkin and creamy white beans give it the same body. Chef's tip: be generous with the raw vegetables and herbs; the dish is meant to be more garden than noodle, and the cool crunch is what balances the warm broth.
Khao poon is celebration food in Laos, ladled out at weddings, baci ceremonies and big family gatherings, and sold at morning markets in Vientiane by women with huge steaming pots. Fine round rice noodles sit under a spicy, red-tinged broth of coconut milk, lemongrass and galangal, and everyone adds their own shredded cabbage, banana blossom, beansprouts, mint and lime. The usual chicken or fish is swapped for golden fried tofu and bamboo shoots. Chef's tip: fry the red chilli paste in the coconut cream until oil seeps out in red drops on the surface; that's when the colour and heat are fully released.
Khao piak sen is the soup Laotians crave on a cool morning or when they feel unwell, and roadside shops in Vientiane and Luang Prabang sell it from dawn. The noodles are cut by hand from a soft rice and tapioca dough and cooked straight in the broth, so their starch turns the soup thick, slippery and comforting. Instead of the usual chicken stock, this version builds a deep broth from dried shiitake, charred onion and ginger, and finishes it with crisp fried garlic, spring onion and coriander. Chef's tip: dust the cut noodles well with tapioca starch and keep them apart; they stick together into a clump in seconds if left in a pile.
Walk into any soda (small family diner) in San José at lunchtime and the board will offer a casado: one plate where rice and beans are 'married' to salad, sweet plantain and a main. The meatless version is just as common, with a fried egg and a slice of fresh white cheese, plus a little picadillo of chopped vegetables. It's a full, balanced lunch, and every element is simple. Chef's tip: cook the plantain only when it's deeply black-skinned and soft; ripe plantain caramelises to sticky dark edges, green plantain just goes dry.
Llapingachos come from the central highlands of Ecuador, especially Ambato and the markets of Riobamba, where women fry them by the dozen on huge round griddles. The patties are mashed potato coloured with achiote, stuffed with cheese and spring onion, and browned until crisp. A full plate adds peanut sauce, a lime-dressed onion and tomato salad, avocado and a fried egg (the market version also includes chorizo, left out here). Chef's tip: chill the shaped patties for 30 minutes; cold patties hold their shape and get a better crust.
Palusami is at the heart of a Samoan Sunday to'ona'i, the big lunch after church, when the umu (earth oven) is lit and parcels of taro leaves filled with thick coconut cream and onion bake among the hot stones. The leaves melt into something like rich, creamy spinach, and the coconut sets around them. In Fiji similar parcels are called rourou. Many families add corned beef or fish; this is the plain coconut version, served with baked taro or breadfruit. Chef's tip: taro leaves must be cooked thoroughly, as underdone leaves make the throat itch; if you can't get them, use large spinach or silverbeet leaves, which need less time.
Before Hanoi's offices open, pavement pho stalls are already busy, with diners on low plastic stools bent over bowls of rice noodles in a clear, spiced beef broth. The northern style is restrained: brisket and thin slices of raw beef that cook in the bowl, spring onion and a little coriander, with lime and chilli on the side rather than a heap of herbs and sauces. The work is in the broth, simmered slowly from bones with blackened onion and ginger and a small bag of toasted spices. Make it on a weekend; it keeps for three days and the bowls then take ten minutes. Chef's tip: char the onion and ginger until they are properly black in patches, because that smoky sweetness is what makes the broth taste of pho rather than plain beef stock.
In Hanoi some shops sell nothing but chicken pho, and locals often choose it over beef for a gentler breakfast or a late bowl after an evening out. The broth is lighter than the beef version, made in about an hour from a whole bird with a few charred aromatics and only a hint of spice. The northern signature is a tangle of makrut lime leaf, cut as fine as thread, scattered over the hot chicken just before serving. It's a good first pho to make at home, since the timing is forgiving and the chicken poaches in the same pot. Chef's tip: plunge the cooked chicken into iced water for 5 minutes; the skin turns firm and slightly springy, the way Hanoi cooks like it.
Huế, once the seat of Vietnam's emperors, is known for food that is spicier and bolder than in the north or south, and this soup is the city's breakfast. Compared with pho it is louder in every way: the broth smells of lemongrass and fermented shrimp, it glows red with chilli oil, and the noodles are thick and round. Beef shank and slices of pork hock go in every bowl, often with pork roll, and it comes with a plate of mint, banana blossom and bean sprouts. Locals add pig's blood cubes too, which we leave out here. Chef's tip: bruise the lemongrass stalks hard with a rolling pin before they go in, so their oils flood the broth.
Mì Quảng comes from Quảng Nam province, around Hội An and Tam Kỳ, where it's eaten at any hour from roadside stalls and family tables. It sits halfway between soup and salad: wide yellow noodles get only a small ladle of rich, turmeric-coloured broth with braised pork and prawns, then a scatter of peanuts and herbs. A toasted sesame rice cracker is broken over the top for crunch. Every bite should be part noodle, part leaf, part cracker. Chef's tip: pour in just enough broth to come a third of the way up the noodles; any more and it becomes a soup and the crackers go soggy.
You will really only find proper cao lầu in Hội An, the old trading port on Vietnam's central coast, where it's sold in small family eateries and along the riverside at lunch. The noodles are yellowish and unusually chewy, made with lye water that locals traditionally link to the town's ancient Bá Lễ well. They come almost dry, topped with slices of sweet five-spice pork, raw greens and crisp squares of fried dough, with just a spoonful of the pork juices. Because the real noodles are very hard to buy outside Hội An, this home version uses thick udon noodles, which give a similar bouncy chew; it is a substitute, not the original. Chef's tip: rinse the cooked udon in cold water, then dip briefly in hot water just before serving, so they are warm but firm.
Hủ tiếu came to southern Vietnam with Teochew Chinese and Cambodian influences, and in Saigon it's as everyday as pho, sold from street carts at dawn and again late into the night. The broth is light and clear, sweet from pork bones, daikon and dried shrimp, and the bowl is loaded with sliced pork, minced pork, prawns and often quail eggs. Clear, chewy noodles and a spoon of crispy garlic oil set it apart. Many people order it khô, dry, with the noodles tossed in sauce and the soup on the side. Chef's tip: toast the dried squid over a flame before it goes in the pot; it gives the broth a sweet, savoury depth that's hard to place.
Lunchtime in the old town of Hội An means cơm gà: small eateries near the river pile plates high with yellow rice and shredded chicken from late morning until it runs out. The rice is fried with garlic and chicken fat, coloured with turmeric and cooked in the poaching stock, so every grain tastes of chicken. On top goes chicken pulled into strips and tossed with sliced onion, Vietnamese coriander, lime and pepper, plus a spoon of chilli sauce and a little pickled papaya. A small bowl of the clear broth comes alongside. Chef's tip: plunge the poached chicken into iced water for 5 minutes; it stops the cooking and keeps the meat juicy and the skin firm.
Saigon's bánh canh cua is a late-afternoon and evening soup, sold from street stalls and small shops where the pots of red-orange broth sit beside trays of crab claws, prawns and quail eggs. The noodles are thick, round and bouncy, made with tapioca or a mix of tapioca and rice flour, and the broth is thickened slightly so it clings to them. Crab meat sautéed with shallots and annatto colours the soup and gives it its sweet, rich taste. Fresh bánh canh noodles are sold chilled in Asian shops; thick udon is a fair stand-in. Chef's tip: stir the crab meat in the annatto oil for only a minute so it stays in big, sweet lumps.
In Cần Thơ and Sóc Trăng, lẩu mắm is the hotpot friends gather round at weekends, and it is at its best in the flood season, when wild greens, water lily stems and yellow sesbania flowers fill the markets. The broth starts from mắm, fish fermented with salt and roasted rice, which is simmered and strained, then softened with coconut water, lemongrass and a little sugar. Everyone cooks their own slices of pork belly, fish, prawns and squid at the table and eats them with rice noodles and whatever vegetables are piled beside the pot. Buy mắm cá linh or mắm cá sặc in jars from a Vietnamese grocer. Chef's tip: add the strained mắm gradually and taste as you go, because jars vary a lot in saltiness.
Up in the Central Highlands, around Kon Tum, Pleiku and Buôn Ma Thuột, roadside grills and village homestays serve this pair: chicken marinated in lemongrass and chilli, grilled slowly over charcoal, and cơm lam, sticky rice cooked inside green bamboo tubes laid in the fire. Splitting the charred bamboo reveals a cylinder of rice wrapped in a thin, fragrant skin of bamboo membrane. Both are eaten with the hands and dipped in salt, pepper and lime or a crushed peanut and sesame salt. Without fresh bamboo, rolling the rice in banana-leaf parcels gives a very similar result. Highland rice wine (rượu cần) is the usual drink, but cold jasmine tea goes just as well and is alcohol-free. Chef's tip: brush on the honey only in the last few minutes of grilling so it glazes without burning.
No Jamaican wedding, nine-night or big Sunday family lunch is complete without a pot of curry goat, often cooked outdoors in a huge pot by whoever has the steadiest hand with the seasoning. It came to the island with Indian indentured workers in the 1800s and became fully Jamaican with scotch bonnet, pimento and thyme. The bone-in pieces are seasoned overnight, browned with the curry powder until it darkens, then simmered for a couple of hours into a rich, brick-yellow gravy with soft potatoes that thicken it. Serve with white rice or rice and peas and a little fried plantain. If you can't find goat, bone-in mutton or lamb shoulder works the same way. Chef's tip: 'burn' the curry first; fry the curry powder in hot oil for a minute until it darkens and smells toasty before the meat goes in, and the gravy will never taste raw or chalky.
Ask a Jamaican what was on the table for weekday dinner growing up and brown stew chicken will be near the top of the list, served at home and at every cookshop from Montego Bay to Spanish Town. The deep colour comes from 'browning': sugar caramelised in hot oil until it is dark, then the seasoned chicken is turned in it so every piece takes on a mahogany coat. Peppers, onion, tomato and thyme simmer down into a sticky, savoury gravy that begs for a pile of white rice, rice and peas or boiled dumplings. Chef's tip: season the chicken the night before and dry each piece well before it goes into the caramel; wet chicken spits violently and won't take on that deep brown colour.
Good Friday in Jamaica means fish, and escovitch fish is the dish families line up for, though you'll also find it any day at the seaside stalls of Hellshire Beach and Port Royal. Whole red snapper (or thick fillets) are seasoned, fried until the skin shatters, then buried under onion, carrot, chocho and peppers that have been briefly warmed in vinegar with pimento and scotch bonnet. The fish soaks up the sharp, hot pickle as it sits, so it is as good at room temperature as it is fresh from the pan. Serve with bammy or festival. Chef's tip: make the pickle while the fish fries and pour it over hot fish; it sinks in better, and a few hours later the flavour is even deeper.
After a swim at Maracas Bay on Trinidad's north coast, the queue at the beach huts is for bake and shark: a puffy fried bread split open around a piece of seasoned, crisp-fried fish, then loaded at a toppings bar with coleslaw, cucumber, pineapple, tamarind sauce, pepper sauce and the bright green chadon beni (culantro) sauce. Shark is the tradition, but many shark species are now overfished and some build up mercury, so this recipe uses a firm, sustainably caught white fish such as hake, pollock, catfish or mahi-mahi; use shark only from a source you trust. Chef's tip: let the bake dough rest for a full 30 minutes; relaxed dough puffs up like a pillow in the hot oil instead of frying flat and tough.
On Tobago, curry crab and dumpling is the dish people travel for, eaten with fingers on Sunday afternoons and sold at the Store Bay food huts near Crown Point, where a plate is half the reason to visit. Blue crabs are cleaned, rubbed with green seasoning, 'burnt' in curry and simmered in coconut milk until the shells turn red and the sauce goes rich, spicy and sweet with crab. Long, flat flour dumplings cook right in the gravy and soak it all up. It's messy, so have bowls for shells and plenty of napkins. Chef's tip: crack the claws lightly before they go in the pot, so the curry can get inside and the meat is easy to pull out at the table.
Along the Malvan coast of Sindhudurg, kombdi vade is what families cook for a festive Sunday or for guests arriving by the morning bus from Mumbai. Kombdi is chicken, simmered in a gravy of roasted coconut and Malvani masala; vade are rice-flour breads fragrant with fennel that puff like balloons in hot oil. You tear the vade, dunk them in the curry and finish with a squeeze of lime and raw onion. Chef's tip: pat the vade on an oiled sheet of plastic or banana leaf rather than rolling them, and slide them into the oil straight away; thin, even discs puff best.
Cafreal came to Goa through Portuguese soldiers from Mozambique and became a fixture of the taverns and beach shacks around Panjim and Margao, where it is served with chips, a lime wedge and a cold drink. Chicken legs soak overnight in a vivid green paste of coriander, green chilli, garlic and warm spices, then fry slowly until the paste clings in dark, tangy patches. Chef's tip: use the coriander stems as well as the leaves; they carry most of the flavour and make the paste greener.
Many families in Port Blair and the South Andaman villages trace their roots to Bengal, and their seafood cooking blends that heritage with the coconut palms growing everywhere on the islands. This prawn curry starts like a Bengali malaikari — mustard oil, bay leaf, whole garam masala and onion paste — but leans more heavily on fresh coconut milk, and the prawns come straight from the Junglighat fish market. It is everyday island food, eaten with plain rice and a squeeze of lime. Chef's tip: heat the mustard oil until it just smokes, then let it cool for a minute; that takes off the raw, sharp edge.
Small seaside stalls at Corbyn's Cove and the fish shacks of Havelock fry the morning's catch this way: red snapper, mackerel or pomfret rubbed with a tangy paste of tamarind, chilli and garlic, dusted with rice flour and fried in a heavy pan until the edges blister. On the islands it is lunch with rice and dal, or a beach snack with onion rings and lime. It takes very little time, so cook it just before you eat. Chef's tip: dry the fish well with kitchen paper before the marinade goes on, so the paste sticks and the crust crisps.
Along the waterfront of Ensenada, in Baja California, fish taco stands open mid-morning and are often sold out by early afternoon. Strips of mild white fish go into a light, crackly batter, straight from the fryer into warm corn tortillas, and every customer finishes their own with shredded cabbage, a pour of crema and a squeeze of lime from the bowls on the counter. The batter here uses cold beer, which makes it puff and stay crisp; it contains alcohol, and ice-cold sparkling water gives almost the same lift without it. Chef's tip: keep the batter fridge-cold and mix it only until just combined, so the coating stays thin and shatters instead of turning bready.
In Jalisco and Guerrero, a pot of red pozole means a crowd: it is made for Independence night on 15 September, for Christmas and New Year, and in Guerrero towns every Thursday is 'jueves pozolero'. Big, chewy kernels of hominy and tender pork simmer in a broth coloured with dried guajillo and ancho chillies, and the bowl is finished at the table with crunchy cabbage, radish, onion, lime and a rub of dried oregano between your palms. It tastes even better the next day, so make the whole pot. Chef's tip: strain the chilli purée through a sieve into the pot, so the broth is silky and free of chilli skins.
Ask almost any family in Mexico about Sunday lunch or a cold, rainy afternoon and caldo de res comes up: bone-in beef shank simmered for hours, then filled with big pieces of corn on the cob, carrot, potato, courgette and cabbage, so each bowl is a meal. Fondas from Monterrey to Mexico City sell it at midday with Mexican red rice, warm tortillas and a dish of chopped serrano and onion. The marrow from the shank bones enriches the clear broth. Chef's tip: add the vegetables in stages, the hard ones first, so everything is tender at the same time and nothing turns to mush.
On the long beach of Barra Vieja, just south of Acapulco in Guerrero, whole fish are split open, painted with chilli paste and grilled over wood embers in palapa restaurants with their feet in the sand. One half gets a brick-red adobo of guajillo and ancho, the other a bright green paste of herbs and fresh chilli, so a single fish brings two flavours to share. It is eaten straight off the platter with tortillas, rice, lime and cold drinks. Chef's tip: cook it mostly skin-side down in a hinged fish basket, so the skin protects the flesh and the fish turns without breaking.
From Lamongan to Semarang, Java's soto carts start ladling before the morning commute, and a bowl of soto ayam is how many people begin a working day. The broth is light but bright yellow with fresh turmeric, scented with lemongrass and lime leaf, and poured over slippery glass noodles, shredded chicken, crunchy bean sprouts and half a boiled egg. Squeeze in lime, stir in as much sambal as you dare and eat it with plain rice or rice cakes on the side. In East Java vendors finish it with koya, a sandy powder of prawn crackers and fried garlic that thickens the broth as you eat. Chef's tip: keep the pot at a lazy simmer the whole time; a hard boil turns the golden broth cloudy and greasy.
Before the sun is fully up over Makassar's harbour, coto warungs are already serving dockers and office workers alike from huge clay-coloured pots. This South Sulawesi soup is thick, brown and opaque, its body coming from roasted peanuts ground almost to flour and simmered into a broth made with the cloudy water from rinsing rice. Diced beef (and traditionally offal) sits in a nutty, cumin-and-pepper broth that's eaten with diamond-shaped ketupat rice cakes broken into the bowl, plus lime and a spoon of chilli. Chef's tip: grind the cooled peanuts in short bursts and stop while they're still sandy; a few seconds too long and you get peanut butter that turns the soup claggy.
When a Balinese village gets ready for a temple festival, the men gather the night before to chop, pound and mix sate lilit, while the women prepare the offerings. 'Lilit' means to wrap: instead of threaded chunks, a soft mixture of minced fish, grated coconut and base genep spice paste is moulded around lemongrass stalks or flat bamboo sticks and grilled over coconut-husk embers. The result is tender and lightly springy inside, browned and smoky outside, with the lemongrass perfuming every bite. Eat them hot with rice, sambal matah and a wedge of lime. Chef's tip: knead the mixture firmly until it feels sticky and chill it before shaping, or it will slide off the sticks on the grill.
Makassar's other great beef soup is darker, richer and more coconutty than coto, and locals argue about which is better over late lunches at pallubasa houses near the port. The secret is kelapa sangrai: grated coconut toasted slowly to a deep brown and pounded, which gives the broth a roasted, almost nutty sweetness and a slightly gritty, full body. It's eaten with a mound of plain rice rather than rice cakes, and for the full version you ask for 'alas', a raw egg yolk dropped in the bowl that you stir into the boiling soup until it turns silky. Offal is traditional but optional; tender beef alone is delicious. Chef's tip: the coconut must reach the colour of milk chocolate, not black, because burnt coconut makes the whole pot bitter.
Jakarta's original Betawi community gave the capital this rich, pale-gold soup, and on a Sunday the soto Betawi stalls along the city's side streets are packed with families. Beef brisket (and, for many, tripe) simmers until tender, then goes into a gently spiced broth made creamy with coconut milk and a splash of fresh milk, scented with lemongrass, cinnamon and cloves. Each bowl is loaded with fried potato, raw tomato and spring onion and comes with rice, lime, sambal and bitter-crisp emping crackers. It's comforting and mellow rather than fiery. Chef's tip: for a dairy-free bowl, swap the milk for more coconut milk; the soup will be a little heavier but just as good.
Night markets and seaside stalls from Port Dickson to Kuantan announce ikan bakar by smell long before you see the charcoal: whole fish or stingray wings smeared with red sambal, laid on banana leaf and grilled until the leaf blackens and the paste caramelises onto the flesh. The leaf keeps the fish moist and lends a faint tea-like smokiness, while the sambal brings shrimp-paste depth, tamarind sourness and steady heat. It is eaten with the fingers, with plain rice, cucumber and a sharp dip called air asam made from tamarind, chillies and shallots. Chef's tip: score the fish right down to the bone so the sambal seeps into the cuts and the thickest part cooks at the same pace as the tail.
Hinava is the dish Kadazandusun families set out at Kaamatan, Sabah's harvest festival in May, and on weekend tables in Kota Kinabalu and Penampang. Strips of raw mackerel are soaked in sour lime juice, then tossed with sliced shallots, ginger, red chilli and grated seed of bambangan, a wild mango, which adds a musky tang. The result is sharp, clean and crunchy, with firm, pearly fish. Eat it as a starter or alongside rice and grilled meat. Chef's tip: slice the fish very thinly and evenly so the lime firms each strip the same way, and season with salt only at the end.
On Mahachai Road near Bangkok's Golden Mount, pad thai cooks work charcoal-fired woks late into the night, and their style is the model here: chewy rice sticks tossed with a dark, sweet-sour tamarind sauce, scrambled egg, cubes of firm tofu, sweet preserved radish, garlic chives and plump fresh prawns. It should taste tangy first, then sweet and salty, never like ketchup. Everyone finishes their own plate at the table with crushed peanuts, chilli flakes, a squeeze of lime and a handful of raw bean sprouts and chives for crunch, and children usually love it with the chilli left off. Chef's tip: make the tamarind sauce a day ahead; it keeps for a week in the fridge and the noodles then take ten minutes.
Everything on this central Thai plate is arranged in little heaps around a mound of rice tossed with garlic and fermented shrimp paste: sticky caramelised pork (moo wan), threads of sour green mango, shallots, chillies, sliced long beans, crisp dried shrimp and ribbons of thin omelette. You mix a bit of each into every spoonful, so salty, sweet, sour and hot arrive together. It's a favourite at Bangkok's curry-and-rice shops and a clever way to use up yesterday's rice at home; lime wedges and cucumber cool it down. Chef's tip: use day-old jasmine rice straight from the fridge, because freshly cooked rice clumps and smears the shrimp paste instead of coating each grain.
Breakfast stalls from Chiang Rai to Mae Sai ladle this tangy red broth over soft rice noodles from dawn until it sells out, usually before noon. The soup is light but full-flavoured: pork ribs give body, cherry tomatoes give a fresh sourness, and dried cotton-tree flowers (dok ngiao) add a faint floral, earthy chew. Each diner finishes their bowl at the table with bean sprouts, shredded cabbage, crispy garlic and lime. Cubes of cooked pig's blood are traditional; they are optional here and left out by default. Chef's tip: blanch the ribs and throw that first water away, so the finished broth stays clear and clean-tasting.
Strung in little round links and grilled at night markets from Khon Kaen to Udon Thani, these garlicky sausages are tangy from fermentation, with soft rice grains in a juicy pork filling. Vendors serve them with fresh ginger slices, bird's eye chillies, raw cabbage and roasted peanuts, and every bite is a mix of sour, salty, hot and crunchy. Traditionally they are left at room temperature for two or three days to sour; that is a real food-safety risk at home without controlled cultures and curing salts, so this version cures in the fridge instead. Expect a milder tang than street-stall sai krok; a squeeze of lime at the table makes up the difference. Chef's tip: use day-old cooked rice that went into the fridge quickly; freshly cooked warm rice turns the filling mushy and keeps it in the danger zone.
As the sun goes down on Galle Face Green in Colombo, carts line the seafront selling isso vadai: crunchy lentil fritters with a whole prawn pressed into the top of each one. Families buy them in paper bags with sliced onion and a squeeze of lime while the kids fly kites. At home they make a great teatime snack or a starter for guests, and they're best eaten within minutes of frying. Chef's tip: soak the split peas but don't grind them too smoothly; a coarse, slightly grainy batter is what gives the fritters their crunch.
Chargha is a Lahore speciality, sold from the busy food streets of Lakshmi Chowk and the old city, where whole birds are coated in a red, tangy masala, steamed in big pots and then dropped into hot oil to order. It is the centrepiece of wedding dinners and Saturday-night family outings, and makes an impressive home dinner for guests. Steaming keeps the meat moist and cooked through before frying gives it a crisp, spicy skin. Serve it with naan, raita, salad and a squeeze of lime. Chef's tip: slash the chicken deeply to the bone so the masala and steam reach the thickest parts.
Karachi's barbecue streets, from Burns Road to Boat Basin, are famous for chicken tikka cooked on the bone: whole legs and breast quarters soaked in a red, sharp yogurt-chilli marinade and grilled over charcoal until charred at the edges. It's late-night food after a wedding or a cricket match, eaten with paratha, raita and onion rings. This home version uses the oven grill and a quick smoke at the end for that barbecue taste. Chef's tip: let the marinade sit overnight; chicken on the bone needs time for the flavour to reach the middle.
Dharan, in Nepal's eastern hills, is famous for its 'sekuwa corner', a lane of smoky grills where families and friends gather in the evening for spiced goat, chicken and pork skewers fresh off the fire. The meat is marinated in a dry-ish paste of garlic, ginger, cumin, chilli and timur (Nepali Sichuan pepper), with a little mustard oil, then grilled until charred at the edges. It is the classic picnic and party food, eaten with puffed rice, a tomato-sesame achar and sliced onion. This recipe uses lamb or mutton shoulder in place of goat. Chef's tip: soak wooden skewers for 30 minutes and leave a little space between the pieces so the heat reaches all sides.
This is a pork dish. In Cuba a whole pig is roasted for Nochebuena, Christmas Eve, and for big family parties, often in a pit in the yard; at home in Miami or Havana the same flavour comes from a pork shoulder soaked overnight in mojo, the sour-orange, garlic and oregano marinade. The meat roasts slowly until it pulls apart, and the skin turns to crackling. Serve it with moros y cristianos, yuca con mojo and a squeeze of lime. A common mistake is leaving the shoulder in the marinade on the kitchen counter: it must always marinate in the fridge. Chef's tip: if you can't find sour (Seville) oranges, mix two parts orange juice with one part lime juice for the same sharp edge.
Kuy teav is what Phnom Penh eats for breakfast: before 8 am the city's street stalls and markets are busy with people bent over bowls of it. It is a pork soup: a clear, slightly sweet broth simmered from pork bones with dried squid or shrimp and charred onion is poured over rice noodles, sliced pork, minced pork and prawns, and everyone finishes their bowl with lime, chilli, bean sprouts and fried garlic. Chef's tip: never boil the broth hard; keep it barely trembling so it stays crystal clear.
Across the Dominican Republic, from Santo Domingo office canteens to family kitchens in Santiago, the midday meal is la bandera, named after the flag: white rice, red beans stewed with squash, and braised chicken. It is eaten almost every weekday, often with a green salad and fried plantain. Dominican cooks start the chicken by caramelising sugar in the oil, which gives the sauce its deep brown colour, and they prize the concón, the crisp layer of rice at the bottom of the pot. The mistake to avoid is letting the sugar go past dark amber; burnt sugar makes the whole stew bitter. Chef's tip: marinate the chicken with lime, garlic and oregano the night before; it takes on far more flavour than a quick 30 minutes.
Griot is Haiti's party food: it is piled on platters at weddings, first communions and Saturday-night fritay stalls in Port-au-Prince, always with pikliz, a crunchy, very hot pickle of cabbage, carrot and Scotch bonnet. Chunks of pork shoulder soak up a green epis marinade of sour orange, herbs and garlic, simmer until tender and then fry until the outside turns dark and crisp. This is a pork dish. Serve it with fried plantain (bannann peze) and rice with beans. The mistake that ruins the crust is frying the pork straight from the pot while still wet; it spits and steams instead of browning, so drain and dry the pieces first. Chef's tip: make the pikliz at least a day ahead; after a night in the fridge the heat softens and spreads through the vinegar.
In St Lucia green bananas are called figs, and green fig and saltfish is the national dish: a Saturday lunch in Castries homes and the plate served everywhere on Jounen Kwéyòl, the island's Creole Day in October. The bananas are boiled until tender and mild, a little like potato, and served with salt cod sautéed with onion, sweet pepper, tomato, thyme and hot pepper. Add sliced avocado or cucumber on the side. The most common mistake is not soaking the saltfish long enough, which leaves the whole plate far too salty; taste a flake before you cook it. Chef's tip: rub oil on your hands (or wear gloves) before peeling the green bananas; the sap stains skin black.
Ceebu jën, "rice and fish" in Wolof, is the dish Saint-Louis claims as its own and the whole of Senegal cooks for the big Friday or Sunday lunch, served on one wide platter that the family eats from together. Thick fish steaks are stuffed with a green paste of parsley, garlic and chilli, browned, then simmered in a deep tomato broth with whole cassava, carrot, cabbage and aubergine; the broken rice then soaks up that same broth until it turns orange and fragrant. The prized part is the xoon, the crust that forms at the bottom of the pot, which is shared out at the end. The usual mistake is leaving the fish in the pot while the rice cooks, so it falls apart; lift it out with the vegetables and keep it warm. Chef's tip: rinse the broken rice three times and steam it briefly before it goes into the broth, so the grains stay separate instead of turning to porridge.
Domoda is the stew that most families in the Gambia, from Banjul to the riverside villages upcountry, cook several times a week. Beef is browned and simmered with tomato and onion, then smooth peanut butter is stirred in until the sauce turns thick, glossy and rich, with pumpkin and sweet potato melting into it. It is spooned over white rice with a squeeze of lime, and a scotch bonnet floats in the pot for whoever likes it hot. The mistake to avoid is adding the peanut butter too early and leaving it unstirred, as it catches and burns on the bottom; add it once the beef is nearly tender and stir often. Chef's tip: whisk the peanut butter with a ladle of hot broth before it goes in, so it melts smoothly instead of forming lumps.
On the roadside grills of Douala and Yaoundé, women split tilapia or mackerel, smear them with a green paste of ginger, garlic, onion and herbs, and grill them over charcoal while people wait with a cold drink; it is late-evening food, eaten with fried plantain, bobolo (cassava sticks) or miondo and a fiery tomato pepper sauce. At home a very hot grill or a barbecue does the job. The mistake is turning the fish too early, so it sticks and breaks: wait until the skin is crisp and releases. Chef's tip: oil the fish and the grill bars, not just one of them.
Shaiyah means "seared" and is what Khartoum families cook when guests drop in or for Eid breakfast after the sacrifice: small pieces of lamb thrown into a very hot pan with onion, garlic and green chilli and cooked fast until browned and sizzling. It is eaten with kisra flatbread or bread, a salad of tomato and onion, and a squeeze of lime. The mistake is crowding the pan, which stews the lamb grey instead of searing it; cook in two batches if needed. Chef's tip: use lamb with a little fat on it, such as shoulder or leg steaks, so it stays juicy over the high heat.
Kajaik is a stew from the Nile towns of northern Sudan, where fish from the river is salted and sun-dried to keep through the year; it is cooked with plenty of onion, tomato and a spoonful of peanut butter and eaten with aseeda (thick porridge) or kisra. The flavour is deep and savoury, a little like a rich fish curry without the heat. The mistake is not soaking the dried fish long enough, which makes the stew far too salty and the fish tough; soak it overnight and change the water twice. Chef's tip: if you can't find dried Nile fish, salted dried cod (bacalao) works well.
Suqaar is the quick beef dish found everywhere from Mogadishu tea shops to Somali cafés in Minneapolis and London: small cubes of beef or lamb browned with onion, peppers and garlic, seasoned with xawaash, the house spice mix of cumin, coriander, cardamom, cinnamon and turmeric. Somalis eat it for breakfast with canjeero (spongy flatbread) or for lunch with rice or pasta. The mistake is cutting the beef in big chunks, which go chewy; cut it into small 1–2 cm cubes so it cooks fast and stays tender. Chef's tip: add a squeeze of lime and a handful of coriander just before serving.
Mshikaki are the beef skewers grilled at night markets in Dar es Salaam, Zanzibar's Forodhani Gardens and every Tanzanian roadside barbecue, sold hot with chips, pili pili sauce and a wedge of lime. Small chunks of beef are marinated in lime, ginger, garlic, chilli and curry powder, which tenderises them, then grilled quickly over charcoal. The mistake is marinating with raw papaya or too much lime for too long, which turns the meat mushy; 2–6 hours is plenty. Chef's tip: soak wooden skewers in water for 30 minutes so they don't burn.
Maputo's waterfront restaurants and the beach shacks of Inhambane and Vilanculos are famous for their prawns: big shell-on prawns split down the back, painted with a sauce of piri-piri chilli, garlic, lime and butter and grilled over coals until the shells blister. You eat them with your fingers, sucking the sauce off the shells, with bread or chips. The mistake is overcooking, which turns them rubbery; they need only 2–3 minutes a side. Chef's tip: split the prawns through the shell and remove the dark vein, so the sauce gets right into the flesh.
Nyama choma, "roasted meat" in Swahili, is the centre of every weekend gathering in Kenya: at roadside joints on the edge of Nairobi you choose your goat ribs or beef by the kilo, it is grilled slowly over charcoal, chopped on a wooden board and brought to the table with salt, kachumbari (tomato and onion salad) and ugali. The meat is meant to be firm and chewy, smoky and simply salted. The mistake is grilling over fierce flames; the outside chars before the inside is tender, so keep it over glowing coals and turn it often. Chef's tip: leg of goat or lamb on the bone is easiest at home; rub it with salt and a little lemon only.
Mchuzi wa samaki is cooked in homes all along the Swahili coast, from Mombasa and Lamu to Stone Town in Zanzibar, where the spice trade left cumin, cardamom and turmeric in every kitchen. Firm fish simmers briefly in a sauce of tomato, onion and coconut milk soured with tamarind, and it is eaten with plain rice or chapati. The mistake is stirring once the fish is in, which breaks it up; shake the pan gently instead. Chef's tip: rub the fish with turmeric, lime and salt for 15 minutes first, which firms it and seasons it all the way through.
Kuku paka is a Mombasa and Lamu speciality with Indian roots, cooked for weddings and Eid along the Kenyan coast: chicken is marinated in ginger, garlic and chilli, charred over charcoal or under a grill, then simmered in a smooth coconut sauce with turmeric and lime. The grilling gives the sauce its smoky note. The mistake is adding thick coconut milk too early and boiling it hard, so it splits; simmer gently. Chef's tip: add halved boiled potatoes or boiled eggs to the sauce, as many coast families do, to stretch it for more people.
On the shores of Lake Victoria at Kisumu's Dunga beach and in the fish kiosks of Kampala and Mwanza, tilapia comes straight from the boats, is scored, rubbed with salt, garlic and lemon and deep-fried whole until the skin is crackling. It is served with a block of ugali, sukuma wiki (braised kale) and kachumbari, and eaten with your hands, pulling the sweet flesh off the bone. The mistake is frying a wet fish in oil that isn't hot enough, which makes it greasy and stick; dry it well and wait for 180 °C. Chef's tip: dust the fish lightly with cornflour just before frying for an extra-crisp skin.
Frango à zambeziana comes from Quelimane and the Zambezia province of central Mozambique, where coconut palms line the coast: chicken is marinated in coconut milk, lime, garlic and piri-piri chilli, then grilled over coals and basted with the marinade, boiled down into a sauce. It is served with rice or xima (maize porridge) at weekend lunches. The mistake is basting with raw marinade right up to the end; boil it first so it is safe and turns into a creamy sauce. Chef's tip: spatchcock the chicken or use pieces so it grills evenly.
Kari koko zourit, octopus in coconut curry, is the dish most Seychellois would name as their national favourite, cooked on Mahé and Praslin when the fishermen bring octopus in from the reef. The octopus is simmered until tender, then cooked in a sauce of coconut milk, curry powder, garlic, ginger, cinnamon and a little aubergine. It is served with rice and a green papaya chutney. The mistake is cooking the octopus too briefly or at a fast boil, which makes it rubbery; it needs a long, gentle simmer. Chef's tip: frozen and thawed octopus is often more tender than fresh, because freezing breaks down the fibres.
Pom is Suriname's celebration dish, baked for birthdays and holidays in Paramaribo and by the Surinamese community in the Netherlands: a layer of grated pomtajer root (a type of taro) mixed with citrus juice, then a layer of chicken stewed with onion, tomato, nutmeg and pickled peppers, then more pomtajer, baked until the top is golden. It is usually eaten on a roll as a "broodje pom". The mistake is skipping the citrus: pomtajer must be mixed with orange or lime juice, which gives the dish its fragrance. Chef's tip: frozen grated pomtajer from Surinamese or Caribbean shops saves the hard grating; if you can't find it, use grated taro or a mix of taro and potato.
Hudut is the heart of Garifuna cooking on the Caribbean coast of Honduras, in towns such as Trujillo and La Ceiba, and in Belize and Guatemala's Livingston: whole fish or fish steaks simmered in a coconut broth (sere) with garlic, onion and herbs, served with a pounded mash of green and ripe plantains (fufu) that is dipped into the soup. The mistake is mashing only green plantain, which is heavy; a mix of green and a few ripe ones gives a slightly sweet, smooth mash. Chef's tip: fry the fish briefly before it goes into the broth so it holds its shape.
Encebollado is the morning soup of Guayaquil and the Ecuadorian coast, sold from street carts and small cevicherías from dawn and famous as a cure after a late night: tuna poached in a broth of tomato, cumin and chilli, with soft chunks of yuca, topped with a heap of lime-pickled red onion and coriander, and eaten with banana chips (chifles) and popcorn. The mistake is boiling the tuna until it goes dry; poach it gently and add it back at the end. Chef's tip: pickle the onion at least 20 minutes ahead so it turns pink and loses its sharpness.
Vigorón was born in the 1910s in the colonial city of Granada, Nicaragua, where it is still sold from stalls around the Parque Central, wrapped in banana leaf: boiled yuca topped with crisp pork crackling (chicharrón) and a tangy cabbage and tomato salad. This dish contains pork. It is street food, eaten at any hour with your fingers. The mistake is serving dry yuca; boil it until tender and slightly split, then keep it in its warm water until serving. Chef's tip: make the cabbage salad an hour ahead so the vinegar softens it.
Unlike Peru's raw-fish ceviche, the ceviche of Ecuador's coast, from Manta to Esmeraldas, is usually made with prawns that are briefly cooked first, then soaked in a juicy, soupy mix of lime, orange, tomato, red onion and coriander. It is served in a glass bowl with its juice, alongside popcorn, plantain chips and sometimes a dash of ketchup and mustard, as people do at Guayaquil's cevicherías. Because the prawns are cooked, it is a safer choice than raw-fish ceviche, but keep it cold and eat it the same day. The mistake is overcooking the prawns so they turn rubbery: one minute in the boiling water is enough. Chef's tip: save the prawn cooking water and add a few spoonfuls to the juice; it gives the ceviche its sweetness.
Kokoda (said "ko-kon-da") is Fiji's answer to ceviche, made in villages on Viti Levu and served at Suva's restaurants and family feasts in a half coconut shell: cubes of white fish soaked in lime juice until they turn white, then mixed with fresh coconut cream, onion, tomato, chilli and a little cucumber. Lime "cooks" the look of the fish but does not kill bacteria or parasites like heat does, so this is written as a safer version: use only very fresh fish that has been frozen first (sold as sashimi or sushi grade), keep everything cold and eat it within 2 hours. Raw or lime-cured fish is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system; for them, use the lightly poached option in the steps. The mistake is leaving the fish in lime too long, which turns it chalky; 15–20 minutes is enough. Chef's tip: drain off the lime juice before adding the coconut cream so the dish stays creamy, not sour.