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TereréIced yerba mate

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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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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Kefir

Kefir is the sour, lightly fizzy fermented milk that families across Russia, Georgia and the North Caucasus drink plain from a glass at breakfast, as an evening snack or alongside a meal, and also use in pancakes and cold soups. It is made by leaving milk with kefir grains, a living culture of yeasts and bacteria, at room temperature for a day until it thickens. Nothing is added: no salt and no sugar. About 0.25 g salt per 250 ml glass, all from the milk itself. Always use pasteurised milk. The usual mistake is leaving it too long, until it separates into curds and whey; check after 18 hours and stop when it is just thick and pourable. Chef's tip: a second ferment of 6 hours in the fridge in a closed bottle makes it smoother and a little fizzier.

1445 minRussianDrinksGluten free
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Berezovy sok (birch sap)

For two or three weeks at the end of March and into April, while there is still snow under the trees and before the buds open, the birches around Moscow, Tver, Vologda and across the north start to run. Families tap a few trees at the dacha and drink the sap straight from the jar: clear, cold, very faintly sweet, tasting of rainwater and fresh wood. Because it spoils within two or three days, villagers bottled the rest with sugar, raisins and lemon zest, letting it ferment slightly into a sparkling drink that kept into early summer; like any ferment it makes a trace of alcohol, well under 1% if drunk young. Only tap with the owner's permission, choose trees thicker than 20 cm, drill one small hole and plug it with a wooden peg afterwards so the tree heals. The common mistake is sealing the bottles tight at warm room temperature, which can make them burst; keep them cool and open the caps daily. The bottled sap is ready when the raisins float, a ring of fine bubbles forms on top and it tastes gently sparkling. Chef's tip: drink the first glass straight from the tree; it is never quite as good again.

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Ivan-chai (fireweed tea)

Long before Chinese tea reached ordinary villages, peasants around Koporye near St Petersburg, and on through Karelia and the Arkhangelsk forests, were rolling and fermenting the leaves of fireweed, the tall pink-flowered plant that floods clearings every July. Ivan-chai is having a revival now, sold in paper bags at markets and drunk at the dacha in the evening from the samovar, because it has no caffeine and will not keep anyone awake. It brews to a clear amber with a soft, slightly fruity, honey-and-dried-apple taste and almost no bitterness. Granular kinds taste deeper, leaf kinds more floral. The common mistake is brewing it for two or three minutes like black tea; it needs a full 10 minutes in a warmed pot to open up, and it never turns bitter if you leave it longer. It is ready when the liquid is a deep golden-amber and smells of honey and dried fruit. It is traditionally drunk as a calming evening tea; if you are pregnant or on regular medication, check with a doctor before drinking it daily. Chef's tip: the same leaves give a second, lighter pot; just top up with fresh hot water and wait another 10 minutes.

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Oblepikha tea (sea buckthorn tea)

Sea buckthorn grows wild along the rivers of Altai and the Baikal shore, and by October its thorny branches are crowded with tiny orange berries. Siberians freeze them by the bucketful, and all winter a glass teapot of oblepikha tea glows on café tables from Irkutsk to Moscow, ordered after skiing or against the dark afternoons. The taste is sharp and tropical, somewhere between passion fruit, pineapple and lemon, with a faint oily richness from the berries, softened by honey and warmed by ginger. The common mistake is pouring boiling water straight onto the honey and berries: it dulls the fruit, makes the honey taste flat and can turn the tea bitter. Let the kettle settle for a couple of minutes first. It is ready when the tea is a cloudy sunset orange, smells of citrus and ginger and the berries have released their juice. Outside Russia, look for frozen sea buckthorn in Eastern European or Nordic shops, or use unsweetened sea buckthorn purée. Chef's tip: crush a big batch of berries with honey, keep it in a jar in the fridge for a week, and spoon it into mugs whenever you want a cup.

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Cocido quemadoBurnt sugar mate drink

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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Kissel

Kissel is the drink of Russian childhoods: a glass of silky, ruby-red berry juice, just thick enough to coat the tongue, poured warm at kindergarten lunch or cold in summer from a jug on the dacha veranda. It is also the old Maslenitsa and wake-table drink, and frozen berries make it possible all year. The flavour is sweet-sharp and fresh, the texture smooth and slightly jelly-like. A common mistake is adding the starch mixture to boiling liquid and letting it bubble for minutes; bring it just back to a simmer, then take it off, or it thins out again and can turn gluey. More starch makes a spoonable dessert kissel. Chef's tip: lay cling film or sprinkle a little sugar on the surface as it cools to stop a skin forming.

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Mors

Northern Russia picks cranberries and lingonberries from the bogs in autumn, and many of them end up as mors, a tart, crimson drink served from a jug at family dinners and offered in cafes and canteens from Arkhangelsk to Siberia. Unlike kissel it is thin and refreshing, made by pressing out the raw berry juice, cooking the skins in water and then combining the two so the fresh vitamin-rich juice is never boiled. Honey goes in last, once the liquid has cooled a little, to keep its flavour. Where most people go wrong is boiling the pressed juice along with the pulp; keep it aside until the end. Honey is not for babies under one year old. Chef's tip: serve it cold with ice in summer or warmed gently in winter; it is good both ways.

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Salted saffron milk caps

Northern Russians rank ryzhiki, the orange saffron milk caps of the pine woods, above almost every other mushroom, and salted ones from around Arkhangelsk once travelled to the tsar's table. Salted, they keep their bright colour, turn firm and juicy with a clean, resinous taste, and are served with thin onion rings, sunflower oil and hot boiled potatoes; for non-vegans a spoon of sour cream is classic. Old cellars dry-salted them raw for months; this safer fridge version blanches the caps briefly and keeps them in a measured brine in the fridge, ready in about a week. Only use mushrooms identified by an experienced forager or bought from a trusted seller. Where most people go wrong is guessing the salt; too little lets spoilage start, so weigh it. Chef's tip: the caps bruise green where handled, which is normal, so don't worry when the edges darken.

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Mochenaya brusnikaSoaked lingonberries

In Siberian and northern villages a barrel of lingonberries standing in water was the winter larder, ladled out to sit beside roast game or meat, a plate of potatoes and mushrooms, or a bowl of porridge. The tart ruby berries keep thanks to their own natural acidity and only a light syrup; after a few weeks they turn faintly fizzy, sweet-sour and refreshing, and the pink liquid is drunk cold as a drink. This is a fridge version: cooled spiced syrup is poured over clean berries in a jar, which then waits three to four weeks before opening. A common mistake is pouring the syrup on hot, which cooks the berries so they burst and turn dull. Chef's tip: frozen lingonberries work well too, and an apple cut in wedges and tucked into the jar soaks up the flavour and is a treat of its own.

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SbitenHot honey and spice drink

Long before tea reached Russia, street sellers wrapped in shawls carried copper urns of sbiten through winter markets, pouring steaming glasses of spiced honey water for traders and coachmen. It comes back every Maslenitsa at fairs in Moscow and Suzdal, drunk beside blini. The taste is warming and sweet, with the bite of ginger, a bitter edge of bay and clove, and a resinous note from St John's wort or mint. Where most people go wrong is boiling the honey hard, which dulls its perfume; simmer the spices first and dissolve the honey off the boil. Honey should not be given to babies under one year old. Chef's tip: make the spiced base ahead and keep it in the fridge, then reheat a glass at a time and finish with a squeeze of lemon.

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EmolienteBarley and flaxseed herbal drink

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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ChapoPlantain and milk drink

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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Quinua con manzanaQuinoa and apple drink

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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Camu camuCamu camu berry juice

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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AguajinaAguaje palm fruit drink

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.

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ChampúsMote corn and pineapple drink

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.

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