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Pine nut tea

Order tea in a Tunis café, especially in the cafés of Sidi Bou Said overlooking the bay, and it often arrives with a spoonful of pale pine nuts bobbing on top. The tea itself is brewed strong and very sweet, green with mint or dark black tea boiled until syrupy, and poured from a height into small glasses so it froths. The nuts soften slightly in the heat and you eat them at the bottom of the glass, buttery against the bitter-sweet tea. It is drunk after meals and through the evening. Chef's tip: toast the pine nuts lightly in a dry pan; just a hint of colour brings out their butteriness without making them sink.

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Citronnade

Café terraces in Tunis serve citronnade in tall glasses on hot afternoons and through Ramadan evenings, and it is nothing like clear lemonade: whole lemons, peel and all, are blended with sugar and water, then strained, giving a cloudy, pale-yellow drink that tastes of the zest as much as the juice. A drop of orange-flower water rounds it off. It should be sharp, sweet and very cold. Use unwaxed lemons with thin skins. Chef's tip: let the cut lemons sit with the sugar for 10 minutes before blending; the sugar draws out the fragrant oils from the peel.

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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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Preserved lemons (l'hamd marked)

No Moroccan pantry is complete without a jar of l'hamd marked, lemons packed in salt and their own juice and left for about a month until the rind softens and takes on a mellow, floral, almost sweet flavour. The rind is what you use: finely chopped into salads, slivered over chicken with olives, added to fish tagines, chermoula and bean dishes. Fez cooks traditionally use small, thin-skinned doqq or beldi lemons, but any unwaxed lemon works. Hands-on work is only 20 minutes; the jar then needs 3–4 weeks in a cool, dark cupboard before it is ready. Chef's tip: press the lemons down hard every day for the first week; as they release juice they shrink, and you can squeeze one more lemon into the jar.

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New York bagels

The New York bagel came with Jewish bakers from Poland to the Lower East Side, and it is still breakfast on the go across the five boroughs, split and spread thickly with cream cheese. The dough is stiff and rested overnight in the fridge, then each ring is boiled before baking, which gives the dense, chewy crumb and the glossy, crackly crust. Chef's tip: test one bagel before boiling them all; if it floats in a bowl of cold water, they are ready.

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Tejuino

On hot afternoons in Guadalajara, vendors ladle tejuino from big clay pots into plastic bags or glasses with ice, a squeeze of lime, a pinch of salt and often a scoop of lime sorbet. It is made from corn masa cooked with piloncillo and left for two or three days to ferment a little, which gives it a tangy, slightly sour taste. The fermentation is light and the drink is sold as non-alcoholic, but a trace of alcohol can form, so keep the fermentation to 2 days and serve it well chilled. Skip the fermenting stage entirely for children: drink it fresh as a sweet atole-style cooler. Chef's tip: taste it each day; take it to the fridge as soon as it tastes pleasantly sour, like a mild yoghurt.

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Salpicón de frutas

Salpicón is what Caleños grab at fruit stands and in the parks of San Antonio when the afternoon heat sets in: a tall cup of tiny, jewel-like cubes of papaya, pineapple, mango, banana and apple, swimming in freshly blended watermelon juice, eaten with a spoon and drunk to the last drop. Some stalls top it up with a fizzy orange or lemon soda; this version keeps it to fresh juice. It is sweet, cool and very refreshing. The mistake people make is cutting the fruit too big; the joy is in tiny cubes you can drink through the juice. Chef's tip: blend and strain the watermelon just before serving and keep everything ice cold; watermelon juice loses its fresh taste within an hour.

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Arepa santandereana

Bakeries and breakfast counters in Bucaramanga and Socorro sell a different kind of arepa from the soft white rounds of Bogotá: yellow, made with corn and cassava and studded with bits of crunchy pork chicharrón, cooked slowly on a griddle until a thick, chewy crust forms. The traditional dough is ground from cooked dry corn, but precooked yellow maize flour with mashed cassava gets you close at home. It is savoury and a little smoky, and goes with eggs and hot chocolate at breakfast or with carne oreada at lunch. Dough that's too dry is the common fault: it cracks around the edges as it cooks, so knead in water until it feels like soft play dough. Chef's tip: cook the arepas slowly over a medium-low heat; the cassava needs time to turn chewy inside while the outside builds a golden crust.

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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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Ras el hanout

Ras el hanout means 'head of the shop', and every spice seller in the Marrakech souk will tell you theirs is the best: a warm, complex mix of a dozen or more spices that they grind to their own formula. This home version balances earthy cumin and coriander with sweet cinnamon, ginger and turmeric, the perfume of cardamom and dried rosebuds, and the heat of black pepper. Rub it on vegetables before roasting, stir a teaspoon into tagines, lentils or couscous broth, or season chickpeas and roast pumpkin with it. Toasting the whole spices first takes 5 minutes and makes a real difference. Chef's tip: make small batches and store the blend in a sealed jar away from light; it is at its best for about 3 months.

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Arepas boyacenses

Roadside stalls on the highway from Bogotá to Tunja sell these golden, puffed discs straight off the griddle. Unlike the plain arepas of Antioquia, the boyacense mixes yellow corn with wheat flour, butter and a little sugar, and it hides a layer of fresh cheese that melts as it cooks, so each bite is sweet, salty and buttery at once. Eat them warm with coffee, hot chocolate or a cup of aguapanela. Queso campesino or cuajada is traditionally set with animal rennet; choose a vegetarian mozzarella or other microbial-rennet fresh cheese. The trap is cooking them on a high heat: the sugar browns fast and the middle stays raw and doughy. Chef's tip: keep the griddle at low-medium and give them time; a slow cook gives a thin crisp crust and lets the cheese melt fully.

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Arepa paisa

Antioquia eats arepas the way other places eat bread: a thin, pale disc of white corn sits beside the eggs at breakfast, the bandeja paisa at lunch and the hot chocolate at night. The paisa arepa is deliberately plain, with no salt, cheese or butter in the dough, so it frames whatever comes with it; locals spread it with butter or a slice of quesito at the table. It is chewy and soft inside with a toasted, freckled skin. Traditionally it is made from boiled, ground pilado corn; precooked white corn meal (masarepa) makes an excellent home version. The mistake is a dry dough: the edges crack and the arepas turn hard. Chef's tip: knead in warm water until the dough feels like soft play dough, and rest it 5 minutes before shaping.

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Smen (salted, herbed butter)

Atlas households once kept jars of smen for months, even years, until the salted butter developed a pungent, almost blue-cheese aroma; a spoonful stirred into couscous, harira or a chicken tagine gives a depth nothing else can. Long ageing at room temperature is risky at home, so this is a safer fridge version: pasteurised unsalted butter is simmered with dried za'atar or oregano, strained, salted and then matured in the fridge for 2–4 weeks, which gives a mellow, nutty, faintly tangy smen rather than the fiercely strong old kind. For the real long-aged flavour, buy smen from a reputable shop. Use it a teaspoon at a time; it is meant as a seasoning, not a cooking fat. The mistake to avoid is leaving any milk solids or water in the butter, as that is what turns it rancid or mouldy rather than pleasantly aged. Chef's tip: strain it through muslin until perfectly clear; any milky bits left in the jar are what turn butter rancid.

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Pane carasau

Shepherds in Barbagia, the mountainous heart of Sardinia, took stacks of pane carasau with them for weeks on the high pastures, because this dry, glass-thin flatbread never goes stale. Each disc is baked until it balloons, split in two while hot, then baked again until crisp and golden; Italians call it carta da musica, music paper, for how thin and crackly it is. Sardinians eat it with olive oil and salt as a snack, break it into soups and layer it into pane frattau. Making it at home takes patience and a very hot oven. Chef's tip: split each puffed disc the moment it comes out of the oven; once it cools, the two layers fuse together.

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Agua de fresa cremosa

In Hidalgo, the pulque country north of Mexico City, the pulquerías serve curados: pulque blended with fruit, and the strawberry one is pink, thick and creamy. Home cooks and taquerías make this alcohol-free cousin for the whole family, a strawberry agua fresca blended with evaporated milk, so it is like a light milkshake that you drink with tacos on a hot afternoon. It contains no pulque or alcohol. Chef's tip: use the ripest, darkest strawberries you can find; pale ones give a thin, sour drink.

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Bollos preñaos

At every Asturian romería, the summer pilgrim fairs held in meadows from Llanes to Cangas del Narcea, stalls sell bollos preñaos by the dozen, warm from the oven, to eat with cider on the grass. The name means "pregnant buns": each soft roll carries a chorizo inside, and its paprika fat seeps into the crumb as it bakes. This contains pork (chorizo). Chef's tip: use semi-cured chorizo sausages that are already safe to eat; raw fresh chorizo may not cook through inside the dough.

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Fouées

In the troglodyte restaurants carved into the tufa cliffs near Saumur and Tours, bakers slap small rounds of bread dough onto the floor of a wood-fired oven, and in a minute they puff up like balloons. Fouées (also called fouaces) are split while still steaming and filled at the table, and a fouée evening is a favourite outing for families and groups in the Loire. Rillettes are the classic filling, but butter, fresh goat's cheese and garlicky white mogette beans are just as traditional, and those are what we use here. At home, a very hot oven and a preheated tray do the job. Chef's tip: roll the rounds evenly thin, about 4 mm; uneven dough puffs only on one side.

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Şalgam

Order an Adana kebab in its home city and a tall glass of şalgam arrives with it, deep purple, salty, sour and often fiery. It is made by fermenting black carrots with a little bulgur and salt for a week or more, and the sharpness clears the palate between bites of lamb and grilled onion. Street carts in Adana sell it by the glass in summer. This home version skips the separate bulgur-sour-dough stage the big producers use. Use non-iodised salt: iodised salt can stall the ferment. Chef's tip: taste from day 5; when it is sour enough to make you blink, strain and chill it, because it keeps fermenting at room temperature.

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Selkirk bannock

The Selkirk bannock is a round, glossy fruit bread from the Border town of Selkirk, first baked in the 1850s and famously eaten by Queen Victoria at Abbotsford. Unlike a plain oat bannock it is a rich yeast dough that is mostly sultanas, sliced and buttered with afternoon tea. Chef's tip: work the sultanas in only after the dough has risen once, or they tear the gluten and the loaf won't lift.

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Salted butter caramel

Salted butter caramel was made famous by a confectioner in Quiberon in the 1970s, and now every crêperie from Rennes to Brest pours it over sweet crêpes, and every Breton cupboard has a jar for ice cream, apples or simply a spoon. Brittany kept the habit of salted butter long after the rest of France, so the salt is part of the flavour, not a trend. The caramel is cooked dark, loosened with hot cream and finished with butter flecked with sea salt. It keeps for two weeks in the fridge. Chef's tip: warm the cream before adding it; cold cream makes the caramel seize into hard lumps and spit furiously.

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Cajeta de Celaya

Celaya, in the Bajío of Guanajuato, has made cajeta for centuries, once packing it into little wooden boxes (cajetes) that gave it its name. It is caramel cooked from goat's milk, so it is looser and has a gentle tang compared with the cow's-milk dulce de leche of Argentina. Mexicans spread it on crêpes and churros, pour it over ice cream, sandwich it between obleas (wafers) and turn it into glorias. A splash of rum-flavoured 'envinada' cajeta exists, but this one is plain and alcohol-free. Chef's tip: use a pan at least three times the volume of the milk; it foams high when the bicarbonate goes in.

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Bollo limpio

Before most of Barranquilla has opened its shutters, the bollo sellers are out with baskets of husk-wrapped corn logs. Bollo limpio is the plainest of them: white corn, soaked, cooked, ground and kneaded with nothing but salt, then tied in husks and boiled until firm. The result is dense and slightly springy, with a clean, sweet corn taste and a faint grassiness from the husks. It is torn open at breakfast and eaten with a slab of salty cheese and a spoon of suero costeño, or alongside fried fish and stews at lunch; this version itself is vegan. Plan ahead: the dried corn needs soaking overnight. If the dough is too dry, the bollos crack and turn crumbly, so knead in water until it feels like soft modelling clay. Chef's tip: if you cannot grind dried corn, 1 kg of ready-made unflavoured white corn masa from a Latin shop gives a close result; skip straight to the kneading.

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Mazamorra antioqueña

Paisas finish lunch with a glass of mazamorra the way others take dessert: soft, swollen kernels of hulled white corn in their own starchy cooking liquid, topped up with cold milk and eaten with a piece of panela or guava paste to nibble between sips. In Medellín it is sold from carts as well as made in big pots at home for the week, and it is mild, milky and quietly filling. Look for dried hulled white corn (maíz pilado or peto) in Latin American shops. Soak it overnight first. A common mistake is serving it before the corn is fully soft; the kernels should split open and be tender to the bite. Chef's tip: save the thick cooking liquid; it gives the drink its silky body, and the corn keeps in it for 4 days in the fridge.

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Chocolate de agua

Walk down Calle Mina in Oaxaca City and the air smells of cacao, cinnamon and almonds, roasted and ground into chocolate in front of you at the mills. Most Oaxacans drink it made with water, not milk, so the taste of the cacao comes through clean and slightly bitter, with a thick head of foam raised with a wooden molinillo. It is drunk for breakfast with pan de yema and at every wedding and Day of the Dead altar. The tablets already hold sugar and cinnamon; we give a version with dark chocolate too. Chef's tip: the foam is the point, so whisk hard just before pouring and serve in wide cups.

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