All recipes

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Eierschecke

Eierschecke is Dresden's café cake, cut in squares from a big tray in every Saxon bakery: a thin yeasted base, a thick layer of vanilla quark, and on top the 'Schecke', a wobbly, golden egg-and-butter custard that bakes into a soft, almost soufflé-like crust. It is eaten on Sunday afternoons with strong filter coffee, and Saxons argue about whether raisins belong in the quark. A common mistake is pouring the custard on too thickly or baking too hot, so it puffs and cracks; bake it low and slow. Chef's tip: the cake cuts neatly only when completely cold, so make it the day before.

105 min

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Bratkartoffeln

Bratkartoffeln are the potatoes of every German pub and home kitchen, from Hamburg to Munich: yesterday's boiled potatoes sliced and fried slowly in a heavy pan until the edges are crisp and brown, then tossed with onion. They come with fried eggs, pickled herring, Sülze or a green salad, and many cooks add bacon cubes; this version stays vegetarian with butter, onion and marjoram. The mistake everyone makes is stirring too often and crowding the pan: the slices steam instead of crisping. Chef's tip: use waxy potatoes boiled in their skins the day before; cold, firm slices hold their shape and brown far better than fresh ones.

35 min

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Aguajina

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.

15 min

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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.

80 min

Peruvian Sides

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Teltower Rübchen

Teltower Rübchen are tiny, finger-length turnips grown in the sandy fields of Teltow, just south of Berlin, and harvested in spring and again in autumn. They were once a delicacy at the Prussian court, and Berliners still serve them glazed in butter and caramel as a side for roasts, goose or simply with boiled potatoes. They taste sweeter and more peppery than big turnips, with a hint of radish. Outside Brandenburg, use small white turnips or the base of young navets. A common mistake is peeling them thickly; just scrape off the thin skin. Chef's tip: let the sugar turn pale amber before adding the turnips, so the glaze has a real caramel flavour.

35 min

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Schupfnudeln

Schupfnudeln are thick little potato noodles, rolled between the palms into pointed fingers, that turn up at every Christmas market and village festival in Baden-Württemberg, fried in a huge pan with sauerkraut. At home they are a winter supper on their own or a side for roasts. The dough is the same family as gnocchi, but the noodles are boiled first and then fried until browned on the outside. A common mistake is using freshly boiled hot potatoes and too much flour: they need to be cold and dry, so plan to cook them the day before. Chef's tip: rinse the sauerkraut only if it is very sharp; otherwise its tang is what balances the butter.

60 min

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Franzbrötchen

No Hamburg bakery opens without a tray of Franzbrötchen: flaky, buttery yeast pastry rolled with cinnamon sugar, cut into pieces and pressed down hard in the middle with a wooden spoon handle so the spirals splay out into a squashed butterfly. The sugar caramelises underneath into a sticky, crunchy base. They are breakfast with coffee on the way to work and a Sunday treat at the harbour. The common mistake is letting the butter go soft while laminating: it oozes out and you get bread, not layers. Chef's tip: chill the dough between every fold, and press the shape down firmly before the final rise or it will spring back in the oven.

80 min

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Champús

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.

80 min

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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.

40 min

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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.

40 min

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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.

30 min

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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.

10 min

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Eingelegte Rote Bete

In Hamburg, Bremen and across Schleswig-Holstein a jar of pickled beetroot sits on the table whenever there is Labskaus, herring or a cold meat platter, and many households still make their own each autumn when the beets come in from the fields. Earthy cooked beetroot is sliced and steeped in sweet-sour vinegar with onion, cloves and a little horseradish, turning gently spiced and jewel red. The mistake people often make is peeling or trimming beets before boiling, which lets the colour and flavour bleed into the water. Chef's tip: wear gloves and use a plastic board when slicing, and slice evenly at about 5 mm so every piece pickles at the same rate.

75 min

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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.

150 min

Peruvian Baking

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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.

55 min

Peruvian Baking

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Turrón de Doña Pepa

Every October, the month of the Señor de los Milagros processions in Lima, bakeries and street sellers pile their trays with turrón de Doña Pepa: layers of crumbly anise-flavoured sticks drenched in a dark syrup of chancaca cooked with fruit and spices, topped with a storm of coloured sprinkles. Popular lore credits it to Josefa Marmanillo, a woman from the Cañete valley who is said to have made it in thanks after the procession. It is sticky, crunchy and soft at once, with orange and clove in the syrup. Its downfall is usually runny syrup that soaks the sticks into mush; it needs to reach a thick, threading stage before it goes on. Chancaca is sold as cones or blocks in Latin shops; panela or dark muscovado also work. Some coloured sprinkles contain gelatin, so check the label. Chef's tip: make it a day ahead; the syrup sets and the sticks soften just enough to slice neatly.

120 min

Peruvian Baking

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Zwiebelkuchen

When the grape harvest starts in Baden and the Württemberg vineyards in September, bakeries pull out trays of Zwiebelkuchen: a thin yeast base piled with slowly softened onions under a sour-cream and egg custard, sprinkled with caraway. It is traditionally eaten warm with Neuer Wein or Federweißer, the young, still-fermenting wine; that is alcoholic, so pour cloudy fresh grape juice or apple juice instead, which tastes just as right. Many bakers add bacon; this version is vegetarian. A common mistake is rushing the onions on a high heat: they need 25 minutes on low until soft and sweet but still pale. Chef's tip: cool the onions before adding the custard, or the eggs start setting in the bowl.

70 min

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Rosinenstuten

Rosinenstuten is the soft, slightly sweet raisin loaf that Westphalian and Rhineland families buy for Sunday breakfast and for christenings, where a giant one was once the traditional gift. It is baked in a long tin, sliced thick and spread with good butter, sometimes with a layer of cheese on top, which sounds odd and works beautifully. The crumb is fine and fluffy and the crust soft and shiny. A common mistake is adding dry raisins straight to the dough; they burn on the crust and steal moisture. Chef's tip: soak the raisins in hot water for 15 minutes, pat them dry and knead them in only at the very end, gently, so the dough stays light.

190 min

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Zwetschgendatschi

When the late-summer Zwetschgen (small, oval damson-type plums) arrive at the markets of Augsburg and Munich, every Bavarian and Swabian kitchen bakes a Datschi on the biggest tray it owns. A thin, soft yeast dough is covered edge to edge with plum halves stood upright in tight, overlapping rows, so the juices run and caramelise as it bakes. It is eaten in the afternoon, cut in squares, with a big spoon of whipped cream. A common mistake is using large round plums, which flood the dough with juice and leave it soggy; the firm, oval Zwetschgen hold their shape. Chef's tip: scatter a thin layer of fine breadcrumbs or ground almonds over the dough before the plums go on to catch the juice.

115 min

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Silesian Streuselkuchen

Streuselkuchen came west with families from Silesia, where a tray of it was baked for every wedding and church fair, and it is now sold in every German bakery. The point is the crumble: big, buttery, vanilla-scented lumps sitting almost as thick as the soft yeast base underneath. It is served plain with coffee in the afternoon, often a day old, when the streusel has gone crisp and the base slightly chewy. A common mistake is rubbing the streusel to fine sand; it should be squeezed into clumps the size of hazelnuts. Chef's tip: use cold, cubed butter and chill the finished streusel for 20 minutes before scattering it, so the lumps keep their shape in the oven.

120 min

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Brezenknödel

Brezenknödel are what thrifty Munich kitchens make from yesterday's pretzels: the cubes soak in warm milk with egg, onion and parsley, then are shaped into dumplings with a faintly salty, malty crust flavour running through them. They are served on Sundays in place of bread dumplings, alongside a creamy mushroom sauce or a pile of red cabbage, and leftovers are sliced and fried the next morning. The big mistake is adding too much milk: the mixture should hold when squeezed, not drip. Chef's tip: pick off most of the coarse salt before cubing the pretzels, otherwise the dumplings end up far too salty.

50 min

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Thüringer Klöße

In Thuringia, Sunday lunch without Klöße hardly counts: big, pale, springy dumplings made from two-thirds raw grated potato and one-third hot cooked potato paste, each hiding a few butter-fried croutons in the middle. They come to the table beside roasts with lots of gravy, red cabbage or a mushroom sauce, and the texture is unique, smooth, slightly chewy and very good at soaking up sauce. A common mistake is letting the water boil once the dumplings are in, which makes them fall apart; they should only just tremble. Chef's tip: work fast once the raw potato is pressed, because it greys as it meets the air.

75 min

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Leipziger Lerche

Leipziger Lerchen began as real roast larks stuffed with herbs, sold in Leipzig until the King of Saxony banned songbird hunting in 1876. The city's bakers answered with a pastry that kept the name: a shortcrust tartlet filled with almond-marzipan cream, a cherry or jam hidden in the middle like the bird's heart, and two crossed strips of pastry on top like the string that tied it. Today you find them in every Leipzig café, especially at the Christmas market. A common mistake is overfilling the cases, so the filling bubbles over and the cross sinks. Chef's tip: chill the lined tins for 15 minutes before filling so the pastry keeps sharp edges.

65 min