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Pepas de membrillo

Pepas are the little round cookies with a jewel of quince jam in the middle that Argentine kiosks sell by the bag and grandmothers keep in a tin for the mate round. They are tender and crumbly, not crisp, with just enough sugar that the tart, dark membrillo stands out. Children love pressing the thumbprint and filling it, which makes them a good first baking job, and they keep for a week in an airtight jar. Kiosk versions are often made with margarine; butter tastes far better. Overbaking is the usual problem: take them out while the tops are still pale and only the bottoms are golden, because they firm up as they cool. Chef's tip: use quince paste softened with a spoonful of hot water and pipe it from a small bag; a spoon leaves smears on the dough that burn.

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Cañoncitos de dulce de leche

Look at the tray of facturas in any Argentine panadería and the little cannons are easy to spot: flaky tubes of puff pastry, baked around metal moulds and filled from both ends with dulce de leche, then finished with a snowfall of icing sugar. They come from the Italian cannoncini, but here the filling is almost always dulce de leche. Each bite is crisp, buttery and shattering on the outside with a dense, caramel middle, and they sit on the Sunday table next to medialunas and bolas de fraile. Undercooking is the problem to avoid: pale pastry goes soft as soon as the filling goes in, so bake until it is a deep gold all over. Use all-butter puff pastry, and metal cannoli or cream-horn tubes (or rolls of foil). Chef's tip: wrap the strips without stretching them, overlapping each turn by a third; stretched pastry shrinks in the oven and the tubes split.

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Pastelitos criollos

Every 25 May, when Argentina marks the 1810 revolution, bakeries and school kitchens from Buenos Aires to Tucumán turn out trays of pastelitos: two squares of flaky dough stacked into a star, filled with dulce de membrillo or dulce de batata, fried until the layers fan open and then dipped in syrup. They are eaten warm with mate or hot chocolate, shattering crisp outside and sticky in the middle. Lard is the traditional fat in both the dough and the frying pan; this version uses butter or vegetable shortening for laminating and sunflower oil for frying, so it stays vegetarian. Expect a hard but rewarding job: the dough is folded like a quick puff pastry. Oil that is too hot is the classic error, browning the outside before the inner layers have opened, so keep it around 160 °C. Chef's tip: pinch the four corners of the top square down onto the gaps of the bottom one and press with a wet fingertip, or the star unfolds in the oil and the filling leaks.

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Pasta frola

Pasta frola came to the River Plate with Italian immigrants (it is a cousin of the crostata), and it is now the tart every Argentine kitchen keeps on the counter for afternoon mate. The crust is short and cakey rather than crisp, scented with lemon zest and vanilla, and the filling is dulce de membrillo melted down into a spreadable jam; dulce de batata is the other classic. Bakeries in Buenos Aires sell it by the square and it keeps for days in a tin, getting better on the second day. The lattice strips should be thin and slightly wider apart than you think, so the dark filling shows through. A common slip is to spread the quince paste straight from the block: it will not spread, it tears the base and it turns leathery in the oven, so loosen it first with a little hot water. Chef's tip: chill the lined tin and the cut strips for 15 minutes before baking, so the lattice keeps its shape instead of slumping into the filling.

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Bolas de fraile

Friars' balls, to translate them literally, are a fixture of the Buenos Aires panadería counter among the facturas that porteños buy by the dozen on Sunday morning: soft, round yeast doughnuts, fried golden, rolled in sugar and split or piped with dulce de leche or crema pastelera. Children dive for them first. Inside they are light and fluffy, outside slightly crisp and sweet, and they are at their best within a few hours, with mate or coffee with milk. Oil that is too hot is the mistake: the outsides brown in seconds and the centres stay raw and doughy, so keep it at 170 °C and fry slowly. A thermometer helps a lot. Pastry cream is the other classic filling if you prefer it. Chef's tip: let the shaped balls rise on individual squares of baking paper and slide them into the oil on the paper; they keep their round shape and the paper peels off after a few seconds.

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Pan dulce

No Argentine Christmas Eve table is complete without a pan dulce, set out at midnight with turrón, nuts and a cold cider for the adults. The bread is the River Plate take on Genoese pandolce and Milanese panettone: a tall, buttery yeast dough scented with orange blossom and lemon, packed with candied fruit, raisins and walnuts. The crumb is closer and moister than panettone, and it keeps for a week wrapped in a cloth. Allow a long day, as the dough has a sponge and two rises. Some bakers soak the fruit in rum or sweet wine; here it is soaked in orange juice, so the bread is alcohol-free. People often add the fruit at the start of kneading, which shreds the gluten and gives a heavy, sunken loaf; work it in only once the dough is silky. Chef's tip: bake it in a tall paper mould or a 16 cm tin lined with a collar of baking paper, and turn it upside down onto a rack for the first 20 minutes of cooling so the top does not sink.

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Rosca de Pascua

Argentine Easter Sunday breakfast centres on the rosca de Pascua, a ring of soft, orange-scented brioche-like dough laid with stripes of pastry cream, candied cherries and pearl sugar, with whole boiled eggs pressed into the dough as a symbol of new life. Bakeries in every barrio stack them in the window from Holy Thursday, and families share it with coffee or mate after the Easter egg hunt. The crumb is fluffy and pale yellow, and the custard bakes into soft, golden ridges. Because the eggs bake for 30 minutes on top of their boiling, they are fully cooked; many people keep them for decoration and peel them later. The mistake to avoid is piping the pastry cream too thick, which slides off as the ring rises; thin lines give neat ridges. Chef's tip: cook the custard until it is very thick and chill it before piping, and brush the ring with egg before (not after) the cream goes on.

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Torta rogel

Birthdays in Buenos Aires are where the rogel shows off: eight or more wafer-thin, crackling discs of egg-yolk pastry, each spread with thick dulce de leche, stacked high and finished with a cloud of glossy Italian meringue browned with a blowtorch. Confiterías sell it by the slice, and it is a cake of contrasts, crisp and chewy, very sweet against the faintly salty pastry. It is laborious rather than difficult, and it slices best after a few hours' rest, when the dulce de leche has softened the layers just slightly. Use thick dulce de leche repostero (bakers' style); the runny kind for spreading on toast makes the tower slide. Rolling the discs too thick is the classic mistake: they should be so thin you can almost see the worktop through them, or the cake becomes heavy and hard to cut. Chef's tip: prick every disc all over with a fork before baking, or it puffs into a dome and won't stack flat.

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Estofado de llama

Llama herds have grazed the Puna of Jujuy for thousands of years, and in Purmamarca, Tilcara and Humahuaca restaurants now proudly serve their meat to visitors, most often as a slow estofado. The meat is very lean, dark red and mild, a little like venison, and it is braised with onion, red pepper, tomato, cumin, ají molido and a sprig of muña or oregano until tender, then served with Andean potatoes, quinoa or rice. Outside the Andes, llama is sold by a few specialist game and alpaca farms; lean venison or beef topside are the closest substitutes. Treat it like beef and braise it until fork-tender. Because the meat has almost no fat, the common mistake is cooking it at a rolling boil, which makes it dry and stringy: keep the heat low and the lid on. Chef's tip: dust the meat lightly with a little cornflour before browning; it protects the lean pieces and thickens the sauce without making it heavy.

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Cordero al asador

Southern Patagonia raises sheep on vast estancias, and when the shearing ends or a fiesta comes round in Santa Cruz or Chubut, a whole lamb goes on the asador: an iron cross pushed into the ground beside a fire of lenga or ñire wood. Lambs fed on wild steppe grasses taste clean and faintly herbal, so the seasoning is only salt and a brine to baste, and the result is crackling skin over meat that falls into juicy strands. Serve with chimichurri, a simple salad and bread. Order a whole lamb of 10–12 kg dressed weight from a butcher. Rushing it with a big flame near the meat is the commonest error; the heat must be steady and gentle. Chef's tip: give it about three hours with the ribs to the fire and only the last hour or so skin side, then check the thickest part of the leg reads at least 63 °C (Patagonian cooks take it to about 70 °C, cooked through).

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Matambre a la pizza

Weekend asados around Buenos Aires usually end with a show-off dish from the grill, and matambre a la pizza is the one that makes children cheer: a whole sheet of matambre (the thin flank cut that sits under the skin) cooked slowly until tender, flipped, then spread with tomato sauce, oregano and mozzarella and left on the grill until the cheese bubbles. Parrillas in the suburbs sell it cut into squares. Many cooks first simmer the meat in milk, which keeps the lean cut juicy and soft; that is the method here, finished under a hot grill or in the oven if you have no barbecue. Matambre is eaten well done and tender rather than pink. The usual mistake is grilling it straight away like a steak, which leaves it leathery: slow cooking first is what makes it tender. Chef's tip: score the membrane on the fatty side in a criss-cross before cooking, so the sheet stays flat instead of curling up when it hits the heat.

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Tamales norteños

Families in Salta and Jujuy make tamales by the hundred, usually for the national holidays or for the winter fiestas in the Quebrada, with everyone at the table spreading dough onto husks, spooning in filling and tying parcels. The northern Argentine tamal is different from the Mexican one: the dough is made from finely ground white or yellow maize cooked with squash and beef fat, and the filling is a red, peppery mix of beef (traditionally from the head or charqui, dried beef) with onion, ají molido and cumin. Each parcel is folded and tied with a strip of husk into a little bundle, then boiled. Expect a long, hard afternoon, but they freeze well. Look for dried corn husks and fine maize flour in Latin American shops; masa harina also works. The filling must reach 71 °C, as for any mince, before it goes into the husks. Dough that is too dry is the usual mistake and cracks as it cooks; it should feel like soft polenta. Chef's tip: soak the husks in hot water for 30 minutes so they fold without splitting.

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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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Seco de chabelo

Piura's picanterías, near the dry northern border, serve this rough, savoury mash at lunch: green plantains, roasted or boiled and pounded, mixed with fried strips of carne seca (salted dried beef) and a quick sofrito of onion, tomato and ají amarillo. It is dense, salty and smoky, with the plantain's starchy sweetness, and is eaten with salsa criolla and fried ripe plantain or chifles (plantain crisps). The legend says it was invented for a soldier called Chabelo in the War of the Pacific. Use carne seca or cecina from Latin shops, or unseasoned beef jerky. Pounding the plantains smooth is the classic mistake: chabelo should be lumpy and rustic. Chef's tip: soak the dried beef in warm water for 30 minutes and taste a piece; if it's still very salty, change the water and soak again.

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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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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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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.

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Chinchulines

No proper Sunday asado in Buenos Aires province or the interior is complete without a round of achuras, and chinchulines are the boldest of them: beef small intestine, coiled on the grill and cooked slowly until the outside crackles like pork scratchings and the inside stays soft and rich with its own fat. Pass them round on a board with lemon and bread as a starter while the bigger cuts cook. Buy them already cleaned from a butcher or a Latin American meat counter, and rinse them again well at home. The usual mistake is too much heat: the outside burns long before the inside cooks. Offal must be cooked right through, with no soft, raw-looking parts. Chef's tip: simmer them briefly before grilling; it cleans them further, shortens the time on the coals and gives you a much more even crunch.

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Bizcochitos de grasa

A paper bag of bizcochitos de grasa sits next to the mate gourd in kitchens, offices and roadside service stations across Argentina, from Buenos Aires to the Andes. These little rounds, a couple of bites each, are layered with beef fat, so they flake and crumble, salty and plain enough to eat by the dozen with bitter mate in the afternoon. The fat is rendered beef fat (grasa vacuna), so they are not vegetarian; ask your butcher for dripping or render suet yourself. A dough worked too warm is the mistake that robs them of their layers; the fat melts into it instead of staying in sheets. Chef's tip: chill the dough for 10 minutes between folds whenever it starts to feel greasy, and prick each round right through so it puffs in flakes rather than domes.

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Cazuela de cabrito

Up in the Calchaquí valleys of Salta, where goats graze between the vineyards and the cardón cactus, cabrito ends up in a heavy clay cazuela on Sunday or feast days. The meat simmers with onion, red pepper, cumin and ají molido until it slides off the bone, and the potatoes and thick rounds of corn on the cob drink up a brick-red, gently spiced broth. Bring it to the table in the pot with bread or a simple tomato and onion salad. Kid goat can be ordered from halal butchers and some farm shops; lamb shoulder works too. People often boil it hard to save time, which squeezes the lean meat dry and stringy; it wants the barest simmer. Chef's tip: brown the pieces in two or three batches so they colour properly instead of stewing in their own juices; that browning is where most of the flavour comes from.

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Tortitas negras

Black cakes, the name means, though only their tops are dark: tortitas negras are flat, round, flaky buns covered with a thick crust of dark brown sugar that melts in the oven and sets crunchy and toffee-like. They are among the cheapest and most popular facturas in Buenos Aires bakeries, eaten from a paper bag at breakfast or as a merienda with mate, and everyone fights over the sugary edges. The dough is a lightly laminated yeast dough, between bread and puff pastry. Bakeries often use lard or margarine; this version uses butter and stays vegetarian. Being stingy with the sugar is the classic misstep: a thin layer just melts into the dough and disappears, so pile it on thickly and press it down. Chef's tip: brush the rounds with water, not egg, before adding the sugar; the water melts the sugar into a crisp, crackling shell.

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Mollejas a la parrilla

Order an asado in any Argentine parrilla and the mollejas arrive early, before the big cuts, crusty and golden outside, soft and almost custardy within, with nothing but lemon. They are the thymus glands of young cattle, mild in flavour and rich in texture, and parrilleros treat them as a treat for the guests who hang around the grill. Ask a butcher for veal sweetbreads (heart sweetbreads are the plumpest) and cook them the day you buy them. Grilling them hot and fast is the common mistake: the outside chars while the centre stays raw and rubbery. As offal, they must be cooked right through, to at least 71 °C in the middle. Chef's tip: a brief blanch firms them, makes the membrane easy to peel and means the grill only has to crisp them.

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Patay

Long before sugar reached the dry northwest, the pods of the algarrobo tree were the region's sweetness, and patay is the oldest way of keeping them: the pods are ground, the flour is moistened and pressed into a cake that dries into something dense, fudgy and naturally sweet, with notes of cocoa, coffee and caramel. In Santiago del Estero you still buy it in round slabs at markets and roadside stalls, to eat with mate or to crumble into milk. Harina de algarroba comes from the South American Prosopis tree; look for it in health-food shops or online, and mesquite flour is the same family and works well. Mediterranean carob flour is different and tastes more bitter. Too much water is the way most first attempts go wrong: the cake should be pressed from a damp, crumbly mix, not a batter, or it bakes up gummy. Chef's tip: sieve the flour twice; algarroba flour clumps, and lumps stay as hard grains.

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Bife a caballo

On the chalkboard of any neighbourhood bodegón in Buenos Aires you will find bife a caballo, steak "on horseback": a thick bife de chorizo (sirloin) or rump seared hard in a hot pan, crowned with two fried eggs whose yolks run into the meat juices, and served with a pile of chips. It is the plate for hungry taxi drivers at lunch and for anyone recovering from a long night. Cook the steak to your taste; Argentines usually ask for it jugoso (medium rare, about 55 °C in the centre) or a punto (medium, about 60 °C). Use eggs fried until the whites are fully set, and cook the yolks firm for anyone vulnerable. Crowding a pan that isn't hot enough is the classic mistake, which stews the steak grey, so let the pan smoke first. Chef's tip: rest the steak while you fry the eggs in the same pan; the beef juices in the fat give the whites crisp, savoury edges.

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