161 recipes that use shallot, with photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Kangkung goreng, takes 10 minutes. It is most often cooked with garlic, sugar and turmeric.
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Green bean casserole was invented in a test kitchen in the 1950s and spread across the Midwest via church cookbooks; today it is on most American Thanksgiving tables. This version skips the tins: fresh beans in a homemade mushroom cream sauce, topped with crisp shallots you fry yourself. Chef's tip: blanch the beans only until bright green and still squeaky, because they cook again in the oven.
In the cave restaurants of Göreme and Avanos, testi kebabı arrives as a sealed clay jug, glowing from the oven, which the waiter cracks open at the table with a sharp tap of a knife. Inside is beef or lamb stewed with tomatoes, peppers, garlic and onion until tender in its own rich juices. A lidded casserole works perfectly at home, and you can still seal the lid with dough for the drama. Serve with plain rice pilaf. Common mistake: adding a lot of water; the vegetables give off plenty and the sealed pot should braise, not boil. Chef's tip: brown the meat in two batches first for a deeper, savoury sauce.
Steak frites is the backbone of the Parisian bistro and brasserie menu, ordered at a zinc-topped table at lunchtime with a green salad and a dab of Dijon. A thick entrecôte or bavette is seared hard in a very hot pan, rested, then topped with a melting coin of shallot and parsley butter, while chips cooked twice come out crisp outside and fluffy within. In France the steak is usually served rare (saignant) or medium-rare (à point); because this is a whole-muscle cut, the inside can safely be pink as long as the outside is well seared, but cook it to your taste using the guide in the steps. Chef's tip: take the steak out of the fridge 30 minutes before cooking and salt it just before it goes in the pan, for an even, crusty sear.
This is the famous dish of the monastery of San Benito at Alcántara, near the Portuguese border. The story goes that French troops looted the library in 1807, and its recipe for partridges stuffed with liver and truffle, marinated for days in port, ended up in French cookbooks, which is why Escoffier listed it. Today it is a dish for autumn hunting-season dinners in Extremadura. Our home version uses chicken livers, mushrooms and an overnight marinade. The dish uses port; for an alcohol-free version, use red grape juice with 1 tbsp of red wine vinegar. Chef's tip: a few slices of black truffle in the stuffing make it truly special, but well-browned mushrooms are a fine everyday substitute.
Cotriade is the Breton answer to bouillabaisse, plainer and kinder on the purse, made in the ports of the south coast from Concarneau to Quiberon with whatever the boats could not sell. Chunks of several fish, both firm and oily, are poached with potatoes and onions in a thyme-scented broth, then served in two parts: the broth poured over toasted bread, and the fish and potatoes moistened with a sharp mustardy vinaigrette. The contrast of the soft, buttery broth and the bright dressing is the whole point. Serve it with good bread and salted butter. Chef's tip: add the firm fish first and the delicate ones last, so nothing falls to pieces in the pot.
In the Gironde, the spring run of lampreys up the Garonne and Dordogne is celebrated in Sainte-Terre and the villages of the Entre-deux-Mers, where the fish is stewed slowly in red wine with masses of leeks. Lamprey is rare, seasonal and protected in many places, so this is a practical version made with eel (or firm monkfish), which gives the same rich, dark, glossy stew; traditionally the sauce is thickened with the lamprey's own blood, and here a little roux and a square of dark chocolate do that job. It tastes deep and winey, with sweet melting leeks. The dish uses red wine; the ingredient note gives an alcohol-free version. Serve with garlic croutons or boiled potatoes. Chef's tip: ask the fishmonger to skin and cut the eel, and keep it cold until the moment it goes into the sauce.
Garganelli come from the farmhouses between Imola and Lugo in Romagna, where egg-pasta squares are rolled around a thin stick on a little comb called a pettine, leaving ridged quills with a seam down one side. Their ridges grip sauce well, and the classic spring dressing is sweet peas in cream; the trattoria version adds prosciutto, which this one leaves out, with a little shallot and Parmigiano instead. The dish is silky and mild, a Sunday-lunch first course. Chef's tip: a clean gnocchi board and a pencil-thin wooden dowel make perfectly good garganelli if you don't own a pettine.
From December to February the farms around Treviso, in the Veneto, harvest radicchio tardivo, the late red chicory with long, curled, wine-coloured leaves, and towns across the province hold festivals in its honour. Cooked into a risotto, it softens and turns from crimson to a deep purple-brown, and its bitterness mellows into something sweet and nutty against the creamy rice. Local cooks splash in red wine, which adds depth and colour; for an alcohol-free risotto use an extra ladle of stock and a teaspoon of red wine vinegar. Chef's tip: keep back a handful of raw strips to scatter on top for crunch and colour.
Schlutzkrapfen come from the farmhouse kitchens of South Tyrol, around Bressanone and the Val Pusteria, and are a fixture of autumn menus once the first snow dusts the Dolomites. A firm dough of rye and wheat flour wraps a soft filling of spinach and fresh quark, folded into half-moons and served in foaming brown butter with chives and cheese. The rye gives them an earthy, slightly sour bite that sets them apart from Italian ravioli further south. Chef's tip: roll the dough thinner than you think and keep the unused part covered, as rye dough dries out quickly.
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.
Kangkung grows in wet ditches and paddy edges right across Malaysia, and every zi char stall and kopitiam kitchen has a pile waiting for the wok. Ordered beside rice and a curry at lunch, or as one of several shared plates at night, it arrives glossy, hollow stems still crunchy, leaves just collapsed. Hawkers often fry it with belacan; this version gets its savoury punch from garlic, shallots, red chilli and a spoon of fermented soybean paste (tauco) instead. It's done in under five minutes. Chef's tip: dry the washed greens thoroughly in a salad spinner, because wet leaves cool the wok and steam instead of sizzle.
Every warung and night stall from Medan to Makassar has its own nasi goreng, but the starting point is always yesterday's rice, a pounded paste of shallot, garlic and chilli, and a glug of kecap manis that turns the grains glossy and caramel-brown. Indonesians eat it for breakfast as readily as for a late supper, crowned with a fried egg and served with cucumber, tomato and a heap of crackers. This vegetarian version keeps all the smoky-sweet depth without the usual shrimp paste. Chef's tip: get the wok properly hot and add the kecap manis down the side of the pan, not onto the rice, so it sizzles and caramelises before you toss it through.
Nasi kerabu comes from Kelantan on the north-east coast, and in Kota Bharu it is a breakfast and lunch staple, sold in the morning markets in mounds of startlingly blue rice. The colour comes from butterfly pea flowers. Around the rice sit 'ulam', raw herbs and vegetables sliced as fine as thread: lime leaves, lemongrass, long beans, bean sprouts, cucumber, mint and basil, with nutty toasted coconut on top. Kelantanese stalls dress it with budu, a fermented fish sauce, so this version uses a sharp tamarind, lime and chilli dressing instead. It's light, crunchy and full of perfume. Chef's tip: slice the herbs as thinly as you can with a sharp knife; the finer the shreds, the more they scent every mouthful of rice.
Ask any Malaysian cook what lives in the fridge door and the answer is usually a jar of sambal tumis. 'Tumis' means to sauté, and the paste of soaked dried chillies, shallots, garlic and spices is fried slowly in plenty of oil until it turns dark and jammy. From Johor to Kedah it goes on nasi lemak, gets stirred through fried rice and noodles, and is spooned beside eggs, tofu or roti. Most versions lean on belacan (shrimp paste); here a little toasted nori brings back that savoury, faintly sea-like depth. Chef's tip: make a double batch; covered with a film of its own oil it keeps for two weeks in the fridge and months in the freezer.
Quinotto is quinoa cooked like a risotto, a dish from the new Andean cooking of Cusco and Lima that marries Italian technique with the grain of the high Andes. Quinoa is toasted with onion and garlic, simmered in stock with white wine, then finished with mushrooms, butter, cream and grated cheese until creamy and loose. It has a pleasant pop and nutty flavour that rice never has, and a gentle warmth from ají amarillo. Serve it as a main with a green salad. Use a hard cheese made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: quinoa has little starch, so the creaminess comes at the end; stir in the butter, cheese and cream off the heat and serve straight away while it still flows.
Vatha kuzhambu is what a Tamil kitchen cooks when the vegetable basket is empty: tamarind, sambar powder and a handful of sun-dried sundakkai or manathakkali berries fried crisp in sesame oil. It simmers down to a glossy, almost black gravy that is sour, a little bitter, hot and faintly sweet, and it keeps for days, so it travels in tiffin carriers and turns up at Brahmin home lunches all over Thanjavur and Chennai. Mix a spoonful into hot rice with a little sesame oil, and eat it with a plain poriyal or appalam to calm the heat. Chef's tip: fry the dried berries in the oil first and lift them out the moment they puff and darken; added at the end they stay crisp and bitter-nutty instead of turning leathery.
All over Malaysia, nasi lemak is what people grab before work: a pyramid of banana leaf or brown paper from a roadside stall, opened at a desk or on a car bonnet, with fragrant rice steamed in coconut milk, a dab of sticky red sambal, crunchy peanuts and cool cucumber. Stalls usually add fried anchovies and boiled egg; our meat-free plate keeps the morning ritual but swaps the anchovies for thin batons of tempeh fried until they shatter, and the sambal is cooked without belacan, so the depth comes from slow-fried chillies, tamarind and palm sugar. Eat it for breakfast, brunch or a lazy supper. Chef's tip: give the sambal the full time on a low flame; it is ready only when a shiny red oil floats free around the edge.
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.
Bisi bele bath means 'hot lentil rice' in Kannada, and it's Karnataka's great comfort dish, served in temples, weddings and Bengaluru tiffin rooms. Rice and toor dal are cooked soft with vegetables, then simmered with tamarind, jaggery and a freshly roasted spice powder of lentils, coriander seed, chilli, cinnamon and coconut until it's thick, glossy and spoonable. A generous ghee tempering with cashews and curry leaves goes over the top. Eat it piping hot with crisp potato chips or boondi raita. Chef's tip: make it looser than you think; it thickens fast as it stands, and the right texture is soft and flowing, like a thick porridge.
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.
Every table in Manado, North Sulawesi, has a bowl of dabu-dabu: diced tomato, shallot and red chilli with calamansi juice and lemon basil, sometimes dressed with hot oil. It is spooned over grilled food, fried tofu and the pumpkin porridge tinutuan, and its cool juiciness makes very hot chilli easier to take. Unlike Bali's sambal matah, it is built on tomato and stays chunky and wet. Chef's tip: salt the tomatoes and leave them 5 minutes before mixing, so they release juice that becomes the dressing.
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.
Kappa puzhukku is the cassava dish of central Kerala, eaten in homes around Kottayam and Thrissur, and also served at the start of the Thiruvathira festival. Cassava is boiled twice, roughly mashed with coconut crushed with green chilli, shallots and garlic, then finished with a coconut-oil tempering. It's soft and starchy, with crunchy coconut and a lot of chilli heat, filling enough to be a meal with a fiery chammanthi or a ladle of moru curry. Chef's tip: when you peel the cassava, pull out the woody string that runs down the middle; it never softens.
In Chettinad, kuzhi paniyaram is what happens to the last of the idli and dosa batter: it's mixed with shallots, chilli and curry leaves and cooked in a cast-iron pan full of round hollows until each ball is crisp and golden outside and soft as idli inside. Karaikudi households make them for evening tiffin and they're sold hot from street griddles in Madurai. Eat them straight from the pan with coconut chutney or a red tomato-onion kara chutney. Chef's tip: use batter that's a day or two old and slightly sour; it gives lighter, puffier paniyarams than fresh batter.
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