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Mate de muñaAndean mint tea

Muña is the minty shrub that grows wild on the slopes around Cusco, Puno and the Sacred Valley, and highland cooks reach for it after a heavy meal of chicharrón or when visitors are struggling with the altitude. Market herb sellers sell it in fresh bunches, and hotels and homes leave it in a flask for anyone coming in from the cold evenings. Steeped simply in hot water, it smells somewhere between spearmint, oregano and pennyroyal, with a cooling, slightly peppery taste and a pale green-gold colour. It is traditionally drunk to settle the stomach. The usual mistake is boiling the leaves hard for a long time, which turns the tea brown and bitter. Pour water just off the boil over the sprigs, cover, and let it steep. It is ready when the cup is pale gold and the aroma rises as soon as you lift the lid. Outside Peru, look for dried muña in Latin shops; failing that, use mostly spearmint with a little fresh oregano. Muña is strong: avoid large amounts in pregnancy, and check with a doctor if you take regular medication. Chef's tip: cover the cup while it steeps so the scented oils stay in the tea.

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TereréIced yerba mate

In Asunción the hottest part of the day stops for tereré: a horn or cup packed with yerba mate, topped up again and again with ice water infused with crushed herbs, and passed round the group through a metal straw. It was recognised by UNESCO as part of Paraguay's cultural heritage, and the herbs (yuyos) change with the season and the drinker's mood. Yerba mate contains caffeine, so it isn't one for small children. The common mistake is pouring water straight into loose yerba, which then clogs the straw; tilt the yerba to one side first. Chef's tip: for tereré ruso, swap the water for cold orange or grapefruit juice.

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Jugo de macaWarm maca drink

Before dawn at markets in Huancayo, Cusco and Lima, juice ladies ladle hot jugo de maca from big pots for workers on their way in: maca root, a turnip relative grown above 4,000 metres in the Junín highlands, simmered with milk, cinnamon and cloves and sweetened with honey or sugar. It tastes malty and toasty, a bit like butterscotch. The common mistake is stirring the powder straight into hot milk, which leaves gritty lumps; whisk it into a little cold milk first. Maca is not usually advised in pregnancy, so ask your doctor first if you are pregnant. Chef's tip: use gelatinised (cooked) maca powder if you can find it; it dissolves smoothly and is gentler on the stomach.

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Refresco de coconaCocona cooler

In Iquitos, Pucallpa and the river towns of Loreto, heat and humidity make a cold refresco part of every lunch, and cocona is one of the favourites sold from plastic jugs at the Belén market. The fruit looks like a fuzzy orange tomato and tastes between tomato, lemon and apricot: very sour, aromatic and juicy. Blended with water and sugar it makes a tangy, golden drink with a light pulp, served with juane or tacacho con cecina. The usual mistake is skipping the fuzz: cocona skin is covered in fine hairs that make the drink scratchy, so rub them off under running water before you start. Blend only briefly, too, so the many seeds do not crack. It is ready when the refresco is opaque orange, sour first and sweet after, with no grit. Outside the Amazon, look for frozen cocona pulp in Latin American shops; naranjilla (lulo) pulp is the closest substitute. Chef's tip: a pinch of salt makes the fruit taste sweeter and fruitier without more sugar.

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Postre MassiniCustard sponge with burnt sugar top

Montevideo's birthday cake of choice since the early twentieth century, the Massini is two thin layers of sponge sandwiching a thick filling of whipped cream folded with egg-yolk custard, crowned with a thin glassy crust of torched yolk and sugar. Bakeries across Uruguay sell it on Sundays. Traditional versions sometimes add a sweet fortified wine to the custard; this one is alcohol-free. The custard is cooked to a safe 71 °C. The common mistake is assembling with warm custard, which melts the cream into a puddle. Chef's tip: if you don't have a blowtorch, put the sugared top under a very hot grill for a minute and watch it closely.

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Jugo surtidoMixed fruit juice

Step up to any juguería in Lima's Mercado de Surquillo or a barrio market at breakfast time and order a surtido: the juicer drops papaya, banana, pineapple and freshly squeezed orange into a tall blender, sometimes a slice of cooked beetroot for colour or a splash of milk, and pours you a big glass with the rest left in the jug for your 'yapa', the free refill. It is thick but still pourable, sweet from ripe fruit with a sharp orange edge, the kind of drink that stands in for breakfast before a long day. The common mistake is adding lots of ice and water, which makes it thin and frothy rather than velvety. Use cold fruit and freshly squeezed orange juice as the liquid. It is ready when it coats the glass and no lumps of banana are left. This version is fruit only; stalls also make it with milk if you prefer. Drink it straight away: papaya and banana go brown and bitter within half an hour. Chef's tip: use very ripe papaya with orange flesh; under-ripe papaya tastes of nothing and gives a faintly bitter aftertaste.

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Cocido quemadoBurnt sugar mate drink

Cocido is how Paraguay starts the day: in Asunción, in the villages of Guairá and Itapúa, and in school kitchens, a pot of burnt yerba is brewed and poured into cups with chipa, the cheesy cassava bread, or with a hard galleta. The old way is to drop a glowing piece of charcoal into a pot with yerba and sugar and stir until the sugar burns. On a home stove you caramelise them together in a dry pan instead, which is safer and gives the same smoky, toffee-like taste. The drink is clear amber-brown, with roasted, slightly bitter mate notes over burnt-sugar sweetness; with milk added it becomes cocido con leche, creamy and coffee-coloured. Yerba mate contains caffeine, so treat it like a cup of coffee. The common mistake is letting the sugar go black: it turns acrid and bitter. Pull it off the heat when the caramel is deep amber and the yerba smells toasted, not burnt. It is ready when the liquid is a clear dark amber and tastes of toffee and smoke. Chef's tip: the water will spit fiercely when it hits the hot caramel, so pour it in from the side, at arm's length.

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Mandi'o chyryryFried cassava with onion and egg

Mandi'o chyryry means 'fried cassava' in Guaraní, and it is what rural Paraguayan families make from yesterday's boiled mandi'o: chunks crushed and fried in a big pan with onion until crisp in places, then scrambled with eggs. It comes out for breakfast with cocido or for a quick supper, and costs next to nothing. Use sweet cassava, the kind sold in supermarkets. The mistake is stirring constantly, which turns it to mush; let the cassava sit and brown. Chef's tip: the best chyryry starts with cold, day-old boiled cassava, which fries crisper than freshly boiled.

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Chilcano de piscoPisco and ginger ale highball

When Lima's grey winter finally lifts and summer reaches the beaches south of the city, the chilcano takes over from the pisco sour: lighter, longer and made for an afternoon. Peru even gives it a Semana del Chilcano each January, and it is poured at weekend lunches with chifa or fried fish. This is a highball for adults only: pisco poured over a tall glass of ice with fresh lime and ginger ale, finished with a few drops of bitters. It should taste crisp and fizzy, with the ginger and lime lifting the floral grape notes of the pisco rather than hiding them. The common mistake is using too little ice and warm ginger ale, which gives a sweet, diluted drink that goes flat in minutes. Fill the glass to the top with ice and keep the ginger ale in the fridge until the last second. It is ready when the glass is frosty, the bubbles race up the sides and the bitters drift through the top as a pink haze. Light it may be, but drink responsibly. Chef's tip: try a fruit-infused pisco, made by steeping passion fruit or mandarin peel in the bottle for a few days; Limeños love a chilcano de maracuyá.

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Pisco sour

Lima drinks its pisco sour as the aperitif before a long ceviche lunch, and celebrates it every year on the first Saturday of February; the recipe took shape in the city's bars in the 1920s. It is for adults only and stronger than its pillowy look suggests. Underneath a thick white foam you get sharp Peruvian lime, a clean sweetness and the floral, grapey warmth of quebranta pisco, with the bitters adding a spicy smell to every sip. The texture should be silky, almost creamy, never thin. The classic mistake is squeezing the limes too hard or too early: the oil from the pith turns the drink bitter within half an hour. Halve the limes, press each half gently by hand just before mixing and stop when the juice slows. The egg white is raw, so use pasteurised egg white for anyone pregnant, for babies, older people or anyone unwell, or swap in 30 ml aquafaba. It is ready when the foam stands about 1 cm high and is firm enough to hold the drops of bitters on its surface. Sip one slowly and drink responsibly. Chef's tip: shake once without ice first to whip the egg white, then again with ice; the foam will be twice as thick.

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GánicaPotato and flour crumble

Up in the hills of northern Hungary, in Nógrád and Borsod, potatoes and flour were often all a farmhouse kitchen had in late winter, and gánica made a meal of them. The potatoes are mashed with flour into a heavy dough, then torn apart with two forks into small, uneven crumbs, which are tossed in a pan of onion-scented oil until golden in places. The result is soft and fluffy with crunchy edges, more like a savoury crumble than a dumpling. Eat it as a side with a mushroom stew, or sweet, spooned over with plum jam. The usual slip is under-cooking the flour, which leaves the crumbs pasty; give it the full time over the heat while you beat it. Chef's tip: tear the dough while it is still hot; once it cools it sets into a lump and will not crumble.

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Lekváros buktaPlum jam yeast buns

Grandmothers across Hungary bake a tray of bukta on a Sunday afternoon, and school bakeries sell them for the walk home: soft, milky yeast buns, each folded around a spoon of thick plum butter and baked so close together that they rise into one another. Pulled apart, the sides stay tender and pale while the tops shine golden, and the dark, tart plum filling balances the sweet dough. Serve them warm with a glass of cold milk or cocoa. The usual slip is using runny jam, which bubbles out and burns on the tray; it must be a thick lekvár that holds its shape on a spoon. Chef's tip: brush each bun with melted butter before it goes into the tin, so the buns rise together but still pull apart neatly.

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Kakaós csigaCocoa yeast snails

Walk into any Hungarian bakery at seven in the morning and the window will hold trays of kakaós csiga, cocoa snails, glossy on top and dark-striped inside. Children eat them on the way to school with a carton of chocolate milk, and office workers grab one with a coffee. The dough is soft and milky, rolled up with butter, cocoa and sugar so the swirl turns fudgy and slightly sticky; a brush of syrup after baking keeps them shiny and moist for a day. Where most people go wrong is spreading the filling on too-warm dough, which tears; let the risen dough rest for a few minutes after rolling. Chef's tip: roll the dough up from the long side quite tightly and cut with dental floss or a very sharp knife, so the snails keep their round shape.

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Pozsonyi kifliWalnut or poppy seed crescents

These little crescents take their name from Pozsony, the Hungarian name for Bratislava, where bakers made them famous in the nineteenth century, and today they fill Christmas cookie tins across Hungary alongside bejgli. A short, buttery yeast dough is wrapped around a walnut or poppy seed filling, then glazed first with yolk and then with white, which gives the shiny, crackled, marbled top that marks a good batch. They are rich but not too sweet: eat them with coffee or tea through the holidays. Where most people go wrong is letting the dough rise in a warm spot; this is a cold dough, and if it gets warm the butter melts and the kifli split open. Chef's tip: let the yolk glaze dry fully before the white goes on, or you will not get the crackle.

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PrószaCornmeal cake with sour cream

Before wheat was common in the Őrség and Göcsej, the wooded border country of western Hungary, cornmeal was the everyday flour, and prósza was what came out of the bread oven on baking day. It is a moist, golden cornbread cake, made rich and tender with sour cream, sweet but not sugary, with a crumbly crust. Families in the region eat it warm for breakfast or afternoon coffee, either plain, spread with plum jam, or baked with a layer of sweet túró and sour cream on top, as here. Túró is normally made without rennet, but check the label. The usual slip is using coarse polenta, which stays gritty; choose fine cornmeal, and let the batter rest so it softens. Chef's tip: scald the cornmeal with the hot milk first; it swells and gives a much softer crumb.

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Rákóczi túrósCheesecake with meringue lattice

Look along the counter of any Budapest cukrászda and you will see Rákóczi túrós: a slab of shortcrust under a creamy, lemony túró filling, crossed with a lattice of golden meringue and dotted with apricot jam in the gaps. It was invented by the pastry chef János Rákóczi in the 1930s and won a prize at the Paris World Fair, and it has been a Hungarian favourite ever since. The textures make it: crisp pastry, soft cheese, and meringue that is crunchy on top and marshmallowy underneath. Túró is usually set without rennet, but check the label. The usual slip is piping the meringue onto a filling that is still wobbly, so the lattice sinks; bake the filling until just set first. Chef's tip: press the túró through a sieve for a silky filling with no grainy bits.

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Rigó JancsiChocolate mousse cake

This tall cube of chocolate sponge, thick chocolate cream and a glossy dark top carries the name of a Hungarian Roma violinist whose scandalous romance with a Belgian princess made headlines around 1900; Budapest confectioners named a cake after him and it has stayed in every cukrászda since. The cream is the star: a ganache whipped with cream until it is like a dense, cool mousse, with no setting agent needed. A thin layer of apricot jam on the base adds a sharp note. Some bakers add a splash of rum to the cream; this version is alcohol-free. A common mistake is whipping the chocolate cream before it is fully cold, so it never thickens; chill it for at least 2 hours, better overnight. Chef's tip: cut the glazed top layer into squares before you set it on the cream, and the finished cake slices cleanly.

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TarhonyaToasted egg barley

Tiny pebbles of dried egg pasta, tarhonya is one of the oldest Hungarian staples, once dried on cloths in the sun by farm women on the Great Plain and stored for the winter. It is toasted in fat until golden, then simmered in water like a pilaf until each grain is plump but separate. Hungarians serve it as the side for paprika stews, and in a vegetarian kitchen it is perfect next to lecsó or a mushroom paprikás. The flavour is nutty and savoury, with a light warmth from the paprika. A common mistake is stirring it during the simmer, which breaks the grains and makes it sticky; once the water is in, cover it and leave it alone. Chef's tip: toast it slowly and evenly to the colour of hazelnuts; that toasting is where all the flavour comes from.

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Túrós táskaSweet cheese puff pastry pockets

Every Hungarian bakery chain and village shop has a túrós táska in the case, a flaky square folded corner to corner over a fat cushion of sweet curd cheese. The filling is fresh túró beaten with egg yolk, vanilla, lemon zest and raisins, and it bakes soft and slightly tangy inside crisp, buttery puff pastry. It is a mid-morning snack with coffee, or breakfast on the go. Túró is usually made without animal rennet, but check the label if that matters to you. The usual slip is a runny filling that leaks onto the tray, so press the túró through a sieve and add a spoon of semolina to bind it. Chef's tip: chill the filled pockets for 10 minutes before baking; the cold pastry puffs higher and the corners stay folded.

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Zalai dödölleFried potato dumplings

Zala county, in the green hills of south-west Hungary, is so proud of dödölle that villages hold festivals for it. Potatoes are boiled, mashed with flour into a stiff dough right in their pot, then scooped into little lumps with a spoon dipped in hot fat and fried with plenty of onion until crisp and brown on the outside and soft inside. The old way is to fry them in lard; this version uses oil, so it is vegan, though a knob of butter is lovely if you eat dairy. Eat them as a side, or as a main with sauerkraut, cucumber salad or a mushroom stew. A common mistake is drying the dough out with too much flour, which makes heavy, gluey lumps; it should be thick but still a little sticky. Chef's tip: dip the spoon in the hot oil before every scoop, and the dödölle slide off smooth.

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ZserbóWalnut and apricot layered pastry

At Christmas and at every family name day, a Hungarian grandmother cuts zserbó into neat diamonds: three layers of walnut and apricot jam between four thin sheets of rich yeast pastry, crowned with dark chocolate. It was created at the Gerbeaud café on Vörösmarty tér in Budapest, and the name is simply the café's French name spelled the Hungarian way. The pastry bakes short and tender, the jam stays sharp and fruity, and the chocolate adds a firm, glossy snap. A common mistake is rolling the sheets unevenly, so the slices come out lopsided; weigh the dough into four equal parts and roll each to the size of the tin on baking paper. It tastes even better the next day, once the jam has soaked in. Chef's tip: use a tart apricot jam and stir a squeeze of lemon into it if it seems very sweet.

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FlódniFour-layer poppy seed and fruit pastry

Four stripes of filling, black poppy seed, golden apple, nutty walnut and dark plum jam, stacked between thin sheets of shortcrust: that is flódni, the Hungarian-Jewish pastry of Budapest's old Jewish quarter around Kazinczy and Dob streets. Jewish families bake it for Purim and Hanukkah, and the bakeries of the seventh district sell it by the slab all year. Each cut slice should be moist, dense and not too sweet, best with a glass of tea or black coffee. Many families make the dough with a little sweet white wine and use margarine so it can follow a meat meal; this version keeps it alcohol-free with grape juice, and you can swap the butter for a firm baking margarine to make it dairy-free. The usual slip is rolling the sheets too thick, so the pastry swamps the fillings; each one should be barely 3 mm. Chef's tip: bake it a day ahead and slice it cold with a hot, wet knife, because the layers settle overnight and cut cleanly.

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ChampúsMote corn and pineapple drink

When Lima's grey winter sets in, from June to September, champús sellers set up on street corners with big pots of this thick, fruity drink, ladled warm into glasses and eaten as much as drunk. It's made from mote (hulled white corn), simmered with pineapple, quince or apple, soursop, chancaca and warm spices, then thickened lightly with corn flour, so every spoonful has soft fruit and chewy corn in a spiced, molasses-sweet base. It is close in spirit to mazamorra morada but paler and tangier. The mistake people make is adding the thickener straight into the hot pot, where it forms lumps; always slake it in cold water first and pour it in while stirring. Canned or jarred hominy saves hours; frozen soursop (guanábana) pulp is in Latin shops and can be left out. Serve warm in glasses with spoons. Chef's tip: simmer the pineapple peel and core with the spices for the first 20 minutes, then strain them out; they give much of the flavour.

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AguajinaAguaje palm fruit drink

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

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