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Mate de muña

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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Jugo de maca

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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Chilcano de pisco

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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Mandi'o chyryry

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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Refresco de cocona

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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Jugo surtido

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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Tarta de zapallitos

In Buenos Aires every rotisería sells tartas by the slice, and at home a tarta de zapallitos is baked on Sunday evening so that a wedge can go into the vianda (packed lunch) for school and work all week. Zapallitos are round green courgettes; ordinary courgettes work just as well. The common mistake is adding the courgette raw, which floods the pastry; sauté it until the liquid has cooked away. Argentine queso rallado and many hard cheeses are made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian hard cheese. Chef's tip: bake the tart on a preheated baking tray so the base crisps before the filling soaks in.

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Cocido quemado

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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Tereré

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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Postre Massini

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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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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Lemon verbena tea (louiza)

After a big dinner or before bed, many Moroccan households swap green mint tea for a pot of louiza, lemon verbena, whose long, narrow leaves give a pale golden infusion that smells of lemon sherbet and has no caffeine. The fresh herb is sold in bunches alongside mint and absinthe at market herb stalls, and dried leaves keep all year. Drink it plain, lightly sweetened, or brewed with a few mint sprigs. It is soothing, clean-tasting and fragrant. Chef's tip: pour boiling water over the leaves and let them steep off the heat for 5 minutes; boiling the leaves in the pot, a common mistake, turns the tea grassy and bitter.

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King kong

Named, the story goes, after the giant ape because of its size when the film reached Peru, the king kong is Lambayeque's proudest sweet: thick, crumbly biscuit layers stacked with manjar blanco, a sticky pineapple jam and a peanut fudge, then cut into heavy slabs. Shops in Lambayeque and Chiclayo sell them by the kilo in boxes, and travellers carry them home as gifts. It is very sweet, buttery and dense, so a slice goes a long way with black coffee. This home version makes the manjar blanco from condensed and evaporated milk to save hours, then turns half of it into the peanut layer. The usual mistake is overbaking the biscuit until it is hard; take it out as soon as the edges are pale gold, as it firms up while it cools. It is a project, so make the fillings first and let them cool. Chef's tip: wrap the finished king kong and leave it overnight before cutting; the layers settle and soften into each other.

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Camu camu

Camu camu are small purple-red berries that grow on bushes along the flooded riverbanks of the Peruvian Amazon, and in Iquitos and Pucallpa they are sold as frozen pulp and blended into a sharp, pink refresco at juice bars and lunch places. The flavour is intensely sour, more than lime, with a faint cherry note, and the berries are famous for containing far more vitamin C than oranges. It is the drink people order with a heavy plate of tacacho or rice. Never boil camu camu or make the juice hours ahead: heat and air quickly fade its colour and much of the vitamin C, so blend it cold and drink it soon. Frozen pulp or freeze-dried powder from health-food and Latin shops are the forms you'll find abroad. Chef's tip: start with half the pulp and add more to taste; it's strong enough that a little goes a long way.

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Kispiño

Pressed in a fist so each one carries the marks of the cook's fingers, kispiño are small, dense quinoa cakes from the Puno highlands, steamed and then left to dry so they keep for weeks on journeys, herding trips and pilgrimages. Traditional ones are bound with a little lime water (from cal, the mineral) and fat; this home version uses oil and a pinch of aniseed and sugar, so they're vegan and pleasantly savoury-sweet. They're firm and chewy, a little like a grain cake, and good with hot tea, coca tea or a soup on a cold day. The common mistake is making the dough too wet, so the cakes slump in the steamer; it should feel like damp sand that holds its shape when squeezed. Ground quinoa is quinoa flour; grind your own from rinsed, dried and toasted grain, or buy it ready ground. Chef's tip: toast the ground quinoa in a dry pan first until it smells nutty, which takes away any bitterness.

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Meskouta (Moroccan orange cake)

Every Moroccan home cook seems to have a meskouta recipe, the light, fluffy sponge that is baked in a ring tin and set out for afternoon tea, unexpected guests or a children's snack. This one is flavoured with fresh orange juice and zest; many families make a yogurt version instead, using the yogurt pot to measure everything, and that variation is in the steps. The crumb is airy and moist, not too sweet, and it pairs perfectly with mint tea or a glass of milk. No mixer is strictly needed, but it helps. Chef's tip: beat the eggs and sugar for a full 5 minutes until pale and tripled in volume; under-whipped eggs, the usual mistake, make a dense, flat meskouta.

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Huatia

After the potato harvest in May and June, families in Puno, Cusco and across the highlands build a huatia in the field: a little dome of dry earth clods heated with dried brush until the clods glow, then knocked down over freshly dug potatoes and oca so they bake slowly underground. Opened an hour later, the potatoes are smoky, floury and so soft their skins split, and the oca turns sweet and tangy. Everyone eats them with their hands, with salt, chilli sauce and fresh cheese. This recipe gives an oven method for home cooks: a lidded pot bedded with coarse salt and herbs, which traps heat and steam much like the earth. If you do try a real huatia outdoors, use a clear patch of ground away from anything that can catch fire and keep water nearby. Don't uncover the pot early to check: the steam escapes and the potatoes turn leathery. Fresh oca is sold in some markets as New Zealand yam; small sweet potatoes will do. Chef's tip: choose potatoes of a similar size so they all finish together, and serve with uchucuta.

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Mderbel (tangy aubergine relish)

Where zaalouk is a smoky mash, mderbel keeps its aubergine in soft, silky slices that have been fried first and then stewed down with garlic, sweet paprika, cumin and a sharp splash of vinegar. Old Fez families make it as one of the cooked salads that open a festive meal, and it keeps beautifully for a few days, so it is often made the day before. The flavour is rich from the oil, tangy, a little sweet and deeply garlicky; serve it at room temperature with bread, alongside other salads or next to grilled vegetables. The usual mistake is frying the aubergine in oil that isn't hot enough, so the slices drink it up and turn greasy. Chef's tip: salt the slices and leave them for 20 minutes, then pat them very dry; they drink far less oil and fry to a deep gold.

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Panaché (Moroccan mixed fruit milkshake)

Juice bars from Tangier to Agadir list a 'panaché' on the board, which in Morocco means a thick milkshake blended from whatever mix of fruit is in season, most often banana, apple, avocado and orange, served in a tall glass and sometimes topped with chopped dried fruit and nuts. Avocado is used as a sweet fruit here, and it makes the drink extra creamy. It is a favourite after school, as a quick breakfast or after an afternoon in the medina. Make it just before drinking: the orange juice can make the milk turn slightly grainy and the avocado darkens if it stands, which is the usual mistake. Chef's tip: use a ripe, soft avocado and a banana with brown freckles for natural sweetness, so you need very little sugar.

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Emoliente

Before dawn, all over Peru, emolienteros set up their carts with a row of steaming kettles and jars of herbs, and commuters stop for a glass of emoliente on the way to work. It's a hot infusion of toasted barley, flaxseed and herbs, with lime juice and sugar added to order, and it is drunk for comfort and digestion, especially in Lima's damp winter. The flaxseed gives it a slippery, soothing body; the barley a toasty, almost coffee-like note. Street versions use horsetail, alfalfa, boldo and other herbs; this home version keeps it simple, with horsetail as an option (leave it out if you are pregnant or have kidney problems). The usual error is boiling the flax too long, which makes the drink gloopy; add it for the last 10 minutes only. Serve very hot in glasses, with pan con queso or a sandwich. Barley contains gluten. Chef's tip: toast the barley yourself until it is deep brown; it's what gives emoliente its colour and its roasted flavour.

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Quinua con manzana

Morning market stalls and street carts from Lima to Huancayo ladle quinua con manzana into glasses alongside emoliente and maca, and many people drink it as breakfast on its own, with a bread roll or a sandwich beside it. Quinoa and chunks of apple are simmered with cinnamon and cloves until the grains burst and the liquid thickens, then sweetened and served warm or cold. Some stalls blend it smooth; others leave the grains and soft apple pieces to spoon up. It is mild, fruity and filling, and children usually like it. The mistake that ruins it is skipping the rinse: quinoa's natural coating, saponin, makes the drink bitter and soapy, so rub it under running water until the foam stops. Chef's tip: add a few drops of lime at the end; it lifts the apple and keeps the drink from tasting flat.

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Chapo

Breakfast stalls in Iquitos and the riverside towns of Loreto pour chapo into glasses from big steaming pots before the heat of the day sets in, and by afternoon the same drink is sold chilled. It is made from plantains left until their skins are black, simmered with cinnamon and cloves until soft, then blended smooth and loosened with milk. The result is thick, naturally sweet and gently spiced, somewhere between a smoothie and a thin custard, and children love it. Some families make it with water only; evaporated milk is the common addition in town. The mistake is using plantains that are still yellow-green: they taste starchy and the drink turns grey and gluey, so wait until the skins are mostly black and the fruit gives when pressed. Serve hot with bread or a tamal, or cold over ice. Chef's tip: strain it through a sieve after blending for a silky drink, and thin it with water if it thickens as it cools.

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Fekkas (twice-baked almond biscuits)

Before Eid and during Ramadan, Moroccan kitchens fill with the scent of fekkas: logs of a soft, eggy dough studded with almonds, raisins, aniseed and sesame are baked, cooled, sliced thin and baked again until dry, golden and very crunchy. They are offered to guests on trays with ghriba and other biscuits and dunked into mint tea or milky coffee, and they keep for weeks in a tin, so they are perfect to make ahead. The flavour is gently sweet, with liquorice notes from the anise and a little lemon. Avoid slicing the logs while they are still hot from the first bake; they crumble. Let them firm up first. Chef's tip: let the baked logs cool completely, ideally overnight, before slicing; warm logs crumble under the knife.

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Sfenj (Moroccan doughnut rings)

Early in the morning, in medina lanes from Fez to Casablanca, the sfenji pulls handfuls of sticky dough from a bowl, pokes a hole through each with his thumb and drops the rings into a big pan of oil, where they puff into crisp, golden, irregular doughnuts with a chewy, airy inside. Customers carry them away threaded on a strip of palm leaf, to eat hot with mint tea or coffee, plain, dusted with sugar or dipped in honey. The dough is just flour, yeast, salt and water, and deliberately very wet; that is what gives the open, holey crumb. Allow about 1 1/2 hours for it to rise. Where sfenj go wrong is a dough that is too stiff; it should be sticky and slack, or the rings come out bready instead of open and chewy. Chef's tip: keep a bowl of water beside you and wet your hands before every piece, so the sticky dough slides off your fingers instead of clinging to them.

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