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SilvanasCashew meringue sandwich cookies

Dumaguete, the university town on Negros Oriental, made silvanas famous: oval wafers of chewy cashew meringue sandwiched with rich yolk buttercream, coated all over in more buttercream and crumbs, then frozen. Visitors take boxes home in cool bags, and across the Philippines they are a birthday and pasalubong (homecoming gift) treat, eaten straight from the freezer when they are firm, crunchy and creamy at once. They are a cousin of the larger sans rival cake. The meringue needs patience; underbaked wafers go sticky and soft as soon as the buttercream touches them, so bake until they lift cleanly off the paper. Chef's tip: use the yolks left from the meringue for the buttercream, and pour the hot syrup down the side of the bowl, not on the whisk, or it spins into threads.

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Hopia mungoMung bean pastries

Binondo, Manila's old Chinatown, is where Filipinos queue for hopia, flat little pastries with a paper-thin, flaky skin and a dense, sweet filling. Brought over by Hokkien bakers, they are now sold everywhere from provincial bus stations to convenience stores, and a box is a standard pasalubong (gift) after a trip. The classic is hopia mungo, filled with yellow mung bean paste; purple ube is the other favourite, and you can swap 300 g of sweetened ube halaya for the mung beans. Hopia pastry is traditionally made with lard; this version uses vegetable oil and shortening, so it is vegan. Chef's tip: dry the mung bean paste in the pan until a spoonful holds its shape when rolled; a soft paste is the commonest mistake, and it squeezes out of the seams as you flatten the pastries.

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MamonButter chiffon cupcakes

Filipino bakeshops sell mamon by the dozen, each tall, fluffy little cake baked in a fluted tin, brushed with butter and rolled in sugar, sometimes with grated cheese on top. They go into merienda boxes, children's party bags and pasalubong (gifts brought home), and they're best with hot chocolate or coffee. The crumb is a soft, buttery chiffon that squashes and springs back. Taking them out too soon is what makes them shrink and wrinkle as they cool, so wait until the tops spring back fully. Chef's tip: turn the tin upside down as soon as it comes out of the oven, resting the rim on two cups, and cool them that way for 10 minutes; they keep their height.

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Filipino egg pieBaked custard pie

Walk into a neighbourhood panaderya in Manila or Cebu in the afternoon and there is usually a round egg pie on the counter, sold by the slice for merienda. It is a deep, creamy custard of eggs and evaporated milk in a short, buttery crust, and its trademark is the top: some of the egg whites float up during baking and turn into a speckled brown skin. Eat it at room temperature or chilled, with a mug of coffee or a cold soft drink. Baking it too hot is the classic error, since it makes the custard puff, crack and weep. Chef's tip: beat the eggs gently with a fork rather than a whisk, so you don't whip in air; the fewer bubbles, the silkier the custard and the darker the top.

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Sans rivalCashew meringue buttercream cake

Sans rival ('without rival') took its French name in the mid-twentieth century and has become a Filipino celebration cake, most famously from Dumaguete in Negros Oriental, where it is boxed up for visitors. Four or more sheets of chewy-crisp cashew meringue are stacked with rich French buttercream and covered in chopped toasted cashews, then served cold from the fridge in thin slices for fiestas, Christmas and birthdays. There's no flour at all. Adding the butter while the yolk mixture is still warm is the classic disaster; the buttercream turns to soup, so beat until the bowl feels cool to the touch first. Chef's tip: draw rectangles on the baking paper and spread the meringue right to the lines; even layers stack straight and slice cleanly.

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Brazo de MercedesMeringue roll with custard filling

A soft, golden-topped meringue rolled around a thick, sweet custard of egg yolks and condensed milk, brazo de Mercedes ('Mercedes's arm') is a fixture at Filipino parties, handaan feasts and Christmas noche buena. The meringue is marshmallowy inside with a lightly browned skin; the filling is rich and silky, much like yema. It uses up a whole carton of eggs and no flour. A runny custard is the usual letdown; it oozes out when you roll, so cook it until a spoon drawn across the pan leaves a trail that holds. Chef's tip: roll the meringue while it's still warm, using the baking paper to guide it, and don't worry about a few cracks; the icing sugar hides them.

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Am (Filipino rice-water first porridge)

Filipino lolas remember giving babies am, the thick, cloudy liquid that rises to the top as rice boils, ladled off and cooled before the rest of the pot is cooked for the family's lunch. Today it is offered as a thin, smooth first porridge, a few spoonfuls alongside other first foods such as mashed squash or banana, rather than on its own. It tastes mild and slightly sweet. It contains none of the common allergens (milk, egg, gluten, peanut, tree nuts, soya, sesame, fish). Chef's tip: use more water than usual and keep the lid off, so the liquid thickens into a creamy am instead of evaporating away.

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EnsaymadaSweet cheese brioche

Filipino bakeries took the coiled Mallorcan ensaïmada and made it richer and softer: an egg-yolk brioche rolled with butter into a snail, baked pale gold, then spread with more butter, dusted with sugar and heaped with finely grated cheese. Boxes of them are carried to Christmas visits and town fiestas, and a single one with hot tsokolate makes a proper merienda. The salty cheese against the sweet crumb is the whole point. Chef's tip: the dough must be sticky and soft when you knead it; adding flour until it is easy to handle gives you dry, bready buns instead of feather-light ones.

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TsokolateThick hot chocolate

Discs of pure roasted cacao called tablea, pressed by hand in Batangas and Cebu, melt into the thick, slightly gritty tsokolate that Filipinos drink on Christmas mornings with puto bumbong or bibingka. It is whisked in a tall pot with a wooden batidor rolled between the palms until it foams, and it tastes deep, bitter-sweet and earthy rather than milky. A little milk softens it; many families drink it with water only. Chef's tip: keep the heat low once the tablea melts; boiling cacao hard makes it scorch and taste burnt.

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Spanish breadSweet buttery bread rolls

Despite the name, nobody in Spain would recognise these: they belong to the neighbourhood panaderya, sold warm from glass cases at dawn and again at four o'clock alongside pandesal. A soft milk dough is rolled around a paste of butter, sugar and breadcrumbs, then coated in more crumbs before baking, so the filling melts into a sticky, caramel-like ribbon. Dunk one in coffee for merienda. Chef's tip: roll the dough thin before adding the filling; thick dough swallows the butter paste and you lose that gooey centre.

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Sago't gulamanTapioca and jelly drink

Tall plastic cups of sago't gulaman are what Manila drinks on hot afternoons, ladled from a big drum at street corners and sold next to fried snacks. Chewy tapioca pearls and cubes of firm agar jelly float in cold water sweetened with a dark, almost caramelised brown-sugar syrup scented with pandan. Kids slurp it through a wide straw; adults buy it with every plate of banana cue. Chef's tip: cook the syrup until it smells of caramel but stop before it smokes; pale syrup tastes only of sugar, burnt syrup tastes bitter.

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SalabatHot ginger tea

Salabat is the Filipino early-morning cup, simmered in homes from Luzon to Mindanao when the weather turns cool or a sore throat threatens, and drunk with bibingka and puto bumbong outside churches during the Christmas dawn masses. It is just ginger, water and dark sugar, but the ginger has to be bashed to release its heat. The mistake is slicing the ginger thinly and boiling briefly; you get a pale, weak tea. Crush it and simmer it properly. Chef's tip: leave the skin on young ginger, scrub it well and smash it with the flat of a cleaver, which gives a stronger, rounder heat.

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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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Ají amarillo pasteYellow chilli paste

In Lima's markets ají amarillo is sold fresh all year, and most Peruvian cooks keep a tub of this paste in the fridge the way others keep tomato purée: it is the golden base of causa limeña, ají de gallina, papa a la huancaína, chupe and the sauce for tiraditos. The chillies are seeded, de-veined and blanched in three changes of water, which tames the heat and the raw grassiness, then peeled and blended with oil into a thick, silky, saffron-orange paste. It tastes fruity and sunny, almost like apricot and passion fruit, with a rounded, medium heat. Abroad, buy whole frozen ají amarillo from Latin grocers; dried ají mirasol, soaked, gives a darker, earthier paste. Common mistake: skipping the peeling; the thin skins leave papery flecks and a bitter edge. It is ready when it is completely smooth and holds a soft peak like thick hummus. This is a low-acid paste: keep it in the fridge for a week or freeze it, never on the shelf. Chef's tip: freeze it in an ice-cube tray; one cube is about a tablespoon, just right for a pot of ají de gallina.

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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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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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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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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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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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Calamansi juice

Every Filipino household seems to have a calamansi bush or a bag of the little green fruit in the fridge, from Manila condos to farmhouses in Mindoro, the island that grows most of them. At lunch in the dry season the juice comes out iced in a big pitcher; in the rainy months, when everyone has a cough, a lola stirs the same juice into hot water with a little sugar or honey and hands it over at bedtime. It tastes like a lime crossed with a mandarin: sharp, floral and slightly bitter at the edges, with a pale green-gold colour. The usual mistake is squeezing the fruit hard and letting the seeds and pith fall in, which turns the juice bitter within minutes; halve each fruit across, squeeze gently over a small strainer and stop before the peel folds. It is ready when the sugar has fully dissolved, the juice tastes bright rather than harsh and a cold glass fogs on the outside. Chef's tip: dissolve the sugar in a little warm water first, as it never melts properly in iced juice.

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Melon juice (cantaloupe drink)

Afternoon merienda across the Philippines means something cold from a plastic cooler at the school gate, a jeepney stop or a carinderia: sago't gulaman, buko juice or this melon drink, with ribbons of orange cantaloupe suspended in sweet water. Vendors scrape the melon with a special spiral shredder, a kayod ng melon, so you get thin strands to chew through a fat straw. It tastes fresh, sweet and gently musky, more refreshing than a smoothie because the water stays clear and light; some stalls add evaporated milk, but the plain version is the classic. The common mistake is using a melon that is not fully ripe, which gives pale, crunchy strands and a flat drink; choose one that smells sweet at the stem end and gives slightly when pressed there. Shred straight into the jug so the juice from the melon is not lost. It is ready when the strands are soft and floating, the water has turned faintly orange and it tastes of melon rather than plain syrup. Chef's tip: a box grater's coarse side or a fork scraped along the flesh both work if you don't own a melon shredder.

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Sinamak

Iloilo is the home of La Paz batchoy and chicken inasal, and on every table there sits a tall bottle of sinamak, cane or coconut vinegar crowded with chillies, garlic and ginger. Visayan families keep a bottle going all year, and the dip turns up with grilled pork belly, crisp lechon kawali, fried fish and longganisa at breakfast. After a few days of steeping it is clean and sour, hot from siling labuyo, warm with ginger and peppery, with a faint sweetness from the cane vinegar. Common mistake: making a huge bottle and leaving it in a warm kitchen for months; fresh garlic and ginger are low-acid, so use full-strength vinegar, keep it in the fridge and make a fresh batch every couple of months. Toasting the garlic is not traditional and is not needed. It is ready when the vinegar has turned faintly golden and smells strongly of chilli and garlic, usually after 3 days. Chef's tip: bruise the chillies with the flat of a knife instead of slicing them; the heat comes out slowly and the vinegar stays clear. Cider vinegar can stand in for cane or coconut vinegar.

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Kapeng barakoStrong Liberica coffee

In Lipa and the hill towns of Batangas, mornings start with kapeng barako boiled in a dented aluminium kaldero and poured into enamel mugs, often next to pandesal, a slab of tapang Taal or a plate of suman. Barako is Liberica, a large-beaned coffee that grows on tall trees around Mount Malarayat, and the word itself means a strong, rough-mannered man. The cup is heavy and earthy with notes of jackfruit, dark chocolate and smoke, and it is sweetened with sticky muscovado from Negros or Antique, never with white sugar. It carries plenty of caffeine, so go easy if you are sensitive and keep it away from children. The usual mistake is keeping the pot at a rolling boil once the coffee is in: the grounds stew and the drink turns sour and harsh. Bring the water to the boil, then take it off the heat before adding the coffee. The brew is ready when the crust of grounds sinks after the splash of cold water and the liquid underneath is a clear, deep mahogany. Chef's tip: grind it coarse, like raw sugar, so it settles cleanly in the pot.

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TahoWarm tofu with syrup and sago

Before eight in the morning in any Philippine barangay you hear the call "Tahooo!" as the magtataho walks past with two aluminium buckets balanced on a shoulder pole: one holds warm, wobbly silken tofu, the other dark arnibal syrup and sago. He scoops paper-thin layers of tofu into a plastic cup with a flat ladle, pours syrup over and adds the pearls, and children eat it standing at the gate with a spoon or slurp it through a wide straw. The taste is caramel and soy milk; the texture is custard-soft tofu against chewy pearls. Baguio has its own pink strawberry version. The common mistake is cooking the sago in too little water or not stirring at the start, so the pearls glue into a lump; use plenty of boiling water and stir for the first two minutes. The sago is ready when the pearls are translucent with only a tiny white dot left in the centre, and the arnibal is right when it coats a spoon like thin maple syrup. Chef's tip: steam the tofu in its box or bowl rather than boiling it, so it stays in one silky piece. Small sago pearls are a choking risk for babies and toddlers, so serve them only to older children.

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