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In April and May, when Ataulfo mangoes from Chiapas and Manila mangoes from Veracruz flood the markets, agua de mango becomes the drink of every comida corrida. It is thick, golden and very fruity, sharpened with lime. Chef's tip: use soft, fully ripe yellow mangoes with wrinkled skin; they need far less sugar and give a smooth, fibre-free drink.
Market stalls in Bangkok's Or Tor Kor and Khlong Toei sell red curry paste by the scoop from brick-red mounds, but a home batch pounded in a granite mortar smells far brighter. This is the base for gaeng phet, choo chee and red duck curry, and a spoonful also lifts fried rice and stir-fried long beans. The paste is coarse, deep red and fiercely aromatic, with lemongrass and galangal up front. Traditionally a teaspoon of kapi (fermented shrimp paste) goes in at the end; this version uses yellow soybean paste instead so it stays vegan. Add 1 tsp roasted shrimp paste in step 8 if you want the classic. Chef's tip: soak the chillies until fully soft and squeeze them dry before pounding; hard, wet chillies are the usual reason a paste stays gritty and watery.
Long before coffee arrived, atole was the morning drink of central and southern Mexico, and in villages of Oaxaca, Puebla and Tlaxcala plain atole blanco is still drunk hot with tamales at breakfast or on cold evenings. Fresh masa is whisked into water and cooked until it thickens to a silky, gently sweet drink with a toasty corn taste. Made with water it is vegan. Chef's tip: strain the masa before cooking, so the atole is smooth with no lumps.
Vines of butterfly pea climb fences in gardens all over Thailand, and cafés from Bangkok to Krabi serve the flowers as an iced drink that changes colour at the table. The tea itself is mild and earthy, blue as ink; stirring in lime juice turns it violet and makes it tangy, which children love to watch. Chef's tip: the common mistake is mixing the lime in beforehand; serve the blue tea and lime separately so the colour change happens in the glass.
Green curry is a central-plains dish, cooked in Bangkok shophouse kitchens and eaten over rice or khanom jeen noodles at lunch. Its paste uses fresh green chillies rather than dried red ones, so it tastes grassy, hot and citrusy, with cumin and white pepper underneath. Thai cooks would add kapi (shrimp paste) at the end; here yellow soybean paste gives the savoury depth so the paste is vegan, and 1 tsp roasted shrimp paste can go back in for the traditional version. Chef's tip: don't add water to get the blender going; a watery paste won't fry in coconut cream and the curry tastes flat. Use a spoonful of oil and patience instead.
In the dry hot season Thai markets from Isan to Bangkok sell bags of this ruby drink tied with a straw, made from the dried calyces of the roselle plant grown in the northeast. It tastes like cranberry with a floral edge, sharply tart and only lightly sweet, with a pinch of salt to lift it. Drink it very cold; it keeps for days in the fridge. Chef's tip: the mistake is boiling the roselle for a long time, which turns it bitter and dull; simmer briefly and then let it steep off the heat.
Old Bangkok coffee shops in Chinatown and Bang Rak still brew oliang through a long cotton sock, using a dark blend of coffee roasted with corn, soybeans, rice and sesame that gives it a toasty, almost cocoa-like flavour. It is served black, heavily sweetened and poured over crushed ice in tall glasses, a mid-morning pick-me-up for market traders. Look for any Thai 'oliang powder' blend in Asian shops, or mix dark coffee with roasted grains as below. It contains caffeine, so it is not one for children. Chef's tip: adding sugar after chilling is the mistake; dissolve it while the coffee is hot, or it stays gritty.
Every Thai garden seems to have a clump of pandan by the tap, and on hot days cooks across the country blitz a handful of leaves into this bright green drink sold at temple fairs and noodle shops. It tastes sweet, grassy and faintly of vanilla and basmati, and is said to cool the body. Fresh leaves give the best colour; frozen ones from Asian shops work well too. Chef's tip: the mistake is serving it unstrained or leaving it for hours; strain it twice through cloth and drink it the same day, as it fades and turns grey.
Thai spa receptions and roadside rice shops both pour this from big glass jars, and in Chiang Mai and Bangkok homes a pot is often simmering on hot afternoons. Bruised lemongrass gives a clean, lemony, slightly grassy taste and pandan a soft vanilla note; lightly sweetened, it is refreshing over ice and soothing warm on a rainy-season evening. Chef's tip: the usual mistake is chopping the lemongrass fine and boiling it hard, which makes it bitter; bash the stalks and simmer gently.
In the cold months, when guavas from Aguascalientes and Michoacán perfume the markets, street vendors in Mexico City ladle atole de guayaba from big steaming pots beside the tamal cart. Ripe guava is blended with milk, strained and thickened with cornflour into a pink, creamy, fragrant drink. It contains dairy. Chef's tip: add the blended guava only once the milk is thickened and off the boil, so the milk doesn't curdle.
Pink, warm and sweet, atole de fresa is a children's favourite in Mexico City and Irapuato, the strawberry capital of Guanajuato, sold in polystyrene cups alongside tamales for breakfast. Fresh strawberries are blended with milk and thickened with a little masa, which gives a gentle corn flavour under the fruit. It contains dairy. Chef's tip: blend the strawberries raw and add them at the end, so the drink keeps its bright colour.
Brown, cloudy and gloriously tart, agua de tamarindo fills the big glass vitroleros at taquerías and fondas across Mexico, especially in hot Guerrero, Colima and the Yucatán, and it is the drink most people reach for with a plate of tacos de guisado. The pods are peeled, simmered and rubbed through a sieve, so it tastes far fresher than paste or concentrate. Chef's tip: soak the pulp in the hot cooking water before you rub it, which loosens every bit from the seeds.
Pale green and very refreshing, agua de pepino is the cooler sold from market juice stands in Mexico City and Oaxaca when the afternoon heat builds, and families blend a jug for comida on hot days. Cucumber, lime and a few mint leaves give a clean, light taste with very little sugar. Chef's tip: leave some of the peel on the cucumber for colour, but strain the drink so it stays silky.
Thai drink stalls outside schools and markets keep a bottle of red sala syrup next to the condensed milk for this sweet, bubblegum-pink milk, a favourite of children from Bangkok to Hat Yai. Sala is a tangy palm fruit, and the syrup tastes of it lightly, almost like cream soda; any red sala-flavoured syrup from an Asian shop works. Shake it with ice until frothy. Chef's tip: the mistake is too much syrup, which turns it lurid and cloying; start with a tablespoon per glass and add more to taste.
Mexican market juice stalls make agua de melón with the ripest, most fragrant cantaloupes, and many cooks blend in the seeds and the soft pulp around them, which adds a creamy body and a nutty flavour. It's served in tall glasses on hot afternoons from Guanajuato to Veracruz and is a favourite with kids. Chef's tip: smell the stalk end of the melon before you buy it; if it smells sweet, the drink will too.
During the nine nights of posadas from 16 to 24 December, neighbours in central Mexico walk the streets singing for shelter, and the reward at the last door is a cup of steaming ponche ladled from a clay pot. Whole fruits, tejocotes, guavas, apple, prunes, sticks of sugarcane, simmer with hibiscus, cinnamon and piloncillo until the punch is fragrant and amber, and everyone fishes the soft fruit out with a spoon. This recipe is alcohol-free and good for all ages; some adults add a splash of rum to their own cup, but none is used here. Chef's tip: add the guavas late, as they collapse if cooked too long.
When watermelons are piled high in the markets of Jalisco and Sonora in summer, almost every taquería has a jar of bright pink agua de sandía next to the horchata. It needs only ripe watermelon, water, a squeeze of lime and a touch of sugar, and children love it. Chef's tip: a very ripe melon may need no sugar at all, so taste before you sweeten.
Late summer is tuna season across the central highlands, from Hidalgo and the Estado de México down to Puebla's Teotihuacán valley, and that is when the big vitroleros in markets and taquerías turn shocking pink. Agua de tuna is just the cactus fruit blended with water, lime and a little sugar, strained, and poured over ice with lunch. Red tunas give a vivid colour and a taste between watermelon and pear; green ones make a paler, more herbal drink. It should be light and thirst-quenching, never syrupy. The commonest mistake is blending too long: the hard seeds crack and the agua turns gritty and slightly bitter. Pulse briefly, just enough to free the pulp, then strain well. It is ready when the liquid runs smooth through the sieve and tastes clearly of fruit with only a lift of lime. Handle unpeeled tunas with tongs or gloves: even 'cleaned' ones keep tiny glochids. Chef's tip: chill the peeled fruit before blending; cold pulp keeps its colour bright and needs less ice to dilute it.
In the canyons of the Sierra Tarahumara in Chihuahua, Rarámuri runners set off at dawn carrying a pouch of pinole, corn kernels toasted on a clay comal and ground fine, to stir into cold water along the trail. Across northern Mexico it is still a breakfast drink, sweetened with piloncillo and cinnamon and stirred into water or warm milk. This version toasts coarse cornmeal at home for the same nutty, popcorn-like flavour. The common mistake is toasting over a high heat: the outside burns and turns bitter before the inside goes golden. Chef's tip: toast a big batch and keep it in a jar, so a morning cup is just two spoonfuls stirred into water.
Chipotles are ripe jalapeños smoked slowly over wood until leathery; in Puebla and Veracruz the reddish, plump mora type is the everyday one, and the tan, leathery meco is prized for its deeper smoke. Simmered in a sweet-sour adobo of tomato, onion, garlic, vinegar and piloncillo, they become the soft, glossy chillies that go into tinga poblana, albóndigas en chipotle, bean soups and a quick chipotle mayonnaise. Homemade, they are smokier and less sugary than the tinned kind, with sauce that is brick red, tangy and thick enough to coat a spoon. Common mistake: toasting the dried chillies too long; a few seconds a side is enough, because scorched chillies make the whole jar bitter. This is a low-acid chilli preserve, so it is kept in the fridge or freezer, never canned in a water bath. It is ready when the chipotles are plump and soft enough to crush with a spoon and the adobo has reduced to a glossy sauce. Chef's tip: blend one or two chillies with their sauce and freeze it in an ice-cube tray, so you can add a single cube to a pot.
In Guadalajara and markets across central Mexico, tepacheros sell this drink from big clay jars, ladled over ice into bags with a straw on hot afternoons. It is the thrifty drink of the house: the peel and core left after eating a pineapple are fermented for two or three days with piloncillo, cinnamon and cloves until the liquid turns golden, faintly fizzy and pleasantly sour, like a spiced pineapple cider. Wild yeasts from the peel do the work, so it makes a trace of alcohol, well under 1% when drunk young; the longer it sits, the sourer and more alcoholic it gets. The common mistake is leaving it too long in a warm kitchen, when it turns vinegary and cloudy; in hot weather check after 36 hours. It is ready when it has a layer of fine bubbles, smells sweet-sour and fruity, and tastes tart rather than syrupy. White, flat foam can be skimmed; fuzzy, coloured mould, a slimy texture or a rotten smell mean throw it away. Keep it in the fridge 3–5 days, and if you bottle it for fizz, burp the bottles daily so pressure cannot build. Chef's tip: use an organic pineapple and do not scrub the peel, as the yeasts live on its skin.
When the big, mottled chilacayote squashes ripen at the end of the rains, cooks in Oaxaca's valleys and the Mixteca of Puebla turn them into a drink you eat with a spoon. The flesh is cooked with dark piloncillo and cinnamon until it falls into translucent threads, then cooled and loosened with water; in Oaxaca it is ladled out of clay jars at fairs, weddings and the Day of the Dead, often with a little pineapple. It tastes like cinnamon-scented panela, with soft, slightly crunchy strands that slide up the straw. The usual mistake is boiling it to mush; overcooked flesh goes cloudy and the strands disappear. Simmer gently and stop when the threads separate easily with a fork but still have a little bite. It is ready when the syrup is amber and the strands look glassy. Chilacayote is hard to find outside Mexico; spaghetti squash is the best substitute and gives the same threads. Keeps 3 days in the fridge. Chef's tip: grate a little orange zest into the pot in the last minute to brighten the piloncillo.
Ask for a drink in a Guadalajara cantina or a family patio in the town of Tequila and you are more likely to get a paloma than a margarita. It is the easy Sunday drink of Jalisco, poured alongside birria, tortas ahogadas and plates of peanuts with chilli, and like every cocktail here it is for adults only. A paloma is tall, cold and fizzy: bitter-sweet grapefruit, a sharp hit of lime, the earthy agave of the tequila and a pinch of salt that makes the citrus pop. The common mistake is pouring the soda in hard and stirring like mad, which knocks out the bubbles and leaves a flat, sweet drink. Build it over plenty of ice, pour the soda down the side of the glass and lift once with a spoon. It is ready when the glass is beaded with cold, the salt rim is still crisp and the drink is still fizzing loudly. Keep a glass of water alongside and drink responsibly. If you cannot find Mexican grapefruit soda, use fresh pink grapefruit juice topped up with soda water and a little sugar syrup. Chef's tip: add a tiny pinch of salt to the drink itself, not just the rim; it softens the bitterness of the grapefruit.
Several towns along Mexico's northern border, from Tijuana and Ensenada to Ciudad Juárez, claim the margarita as their own, born in the 1930s and 40s when visitors crossed over for tequila and tacos. Today it is the Friday-evening drink of norteño restaurants and family parties, poured beside carne asada and guacamole. This version is for adults only and it is simple: good 100% agave blanco tequila, fresh lime and orange liqueur. It should be bright and tart first, then gently sweet, with the salt on the rim making the lime taste even sharper. The usual mistake is reaching for bottled lime juice or ready-made sour mix, which gives a flat, sugary drink with a chemical bite. Squeeze limes just before shaking. A second slip is salting the whole rim inside and out; salt only the outside of half the rim so each sip is your choice. It is ready when the shaker is too cold to hold comfortably and a thin layer of ice crystals floats on top. Enjoy one slowly and drink responsibly. Chef's tip: use coarse sea salt mixed with a little grated lime zest for the rim; it sticks better and smells of lime.
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