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Cà phê muốiSalt coffee

A family café in Huế's citadel quarter began topping its coffee with salted cream, and now cà phê muối is served across central Vietnam and in trendy cafés in Saigon and Hanoi. Sip it without stirring: first the cool, faintly salty cream, then sweet condensed milk and strong phin coffee, the salt rounding off the bitterness much like a pinch in caramel. It is good hot or poured over ice. Chef's tip: use only a small pinch of salt per glass; too much and the drink tastes like seawater rather than salted caramel.

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Kunun tsamiya

When the Ramadan fast breaks in Kano and Katsina, gourds of warm kunun tsamiya appear on mats beside dates and kosai: a thin, pourable millet porridge-drink, tart from tamarind (tsamiya), warmed with ginger and cloves and sweetened to taste. It is soothing, slightly sour and very filling, and Hausa mothers also give it at breakfast in the cold harmattan months. The mistake is pouring the millet paste into water that isn't boiling, which leaves it raw-tasting and lumpy; it must go into a rolling boil while you stir. Chef's tip: stop when it just coats the back of a spoon; kunun keeps thickening as it cools and should stay drinkable.

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Trà atisôArtichoke tea

Artichokes arrived in the cool Đà Lạt highlands with French planters, and today the town's markets sell dried artichoke leaves, stems and flower buds for tea along with fresh heads for soup. Local cafés serve it hot on misty mornings and iced in the afternoon, slightly sweet, earthy and pleasantly bitter, and many Vietnamese drink it as a gentle tonic after rich meals. This version brews fresh globe artichokes with their stems; a 30 g bag of dried trà atisô works the same way. Chef's tip: skip the aluminium pan; artichokes react with it and the tea turns grey and metallic.

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Nước rau máPennywort juice

Saigon street carts blend nước rau má to order through the hottest part of the afternoon, pouring the bright green juice into plastic cups over crushed ice for office workers and students. Pennywort (rau má) tastes fresh, grassy and very slightly bitter, and southerners drink it to 'cool the body' in the dry season; some stalls blend in cooked mung beans or a splash of coconut milk to make it richer. Look for bunches of rau má in Vietnamese and South Asian grocers, where it is also sold as gotu kola. Chef's tip: strain twice through a fine cloth and drink it within the hour; left standing, it separates and darkens to a dull khaki.

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Nước sâmCooling herbal drink

Big glass jars of amber nước sâm sit on pavement stalls all over Hồ Chí Minh City, ladled over ice for anyone who has eaten too much fried food or spent too long in the sun. The brew is gently sweet and earthy, with honeyed dried longan, the liquorice note of monk fruit and fresh sugarcane, and Chinese-Vietnamese herbalists sell ready-mixed bags of the dried roots. Make a big pot: it keeps for four days in the fridge. Chef's tip: simmer, never boil hard; a rolling boil pulls bitterness out of the roots and turns the drink cloudy.

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Cà phê trứngEgg coffee

Hanoi's old-quarter cafés, up narrow stairs and in tiny back rooms, serve cà phê trứng in a small cup set in a bowl of hot water so it stays warm while you spoon through the custardy foam into bitter coffee below. The topping is egg yolk whisked with condensed milk until pale and thick, a trick that began when fresh milk was scarce in the 1940s. Because the yolk is not cooked, use pasteurised eggs for pregnant women, young children, older people or anyone with a weakened immune system. Chef's tip: whisk longer than you think; under-beaten yolk tastes eggy and sinks straight into the coffee instead of sitting on top.

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Chanh muốiSalted lime drink

Vietnamese households keep a jar of chanh muối, limes cured in salt until they turn soft and olive-brown, on a sunny shelf for months; on a sweltering day a lime or two is muddled with sugar and topped up with ice water or soda water. The drink is salty, sour and sweet all at once, and grandmothers swear by it for sore throats and after a bout of sun. This recipe makes the jar of cured limes (allow four weeks before the first glass) and then the drink itself. Chef's tip: dry the limes completely after blanching; any water left on the skins lets mould take hold in the jar.

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Wiener MelangeCoffee with milk and foam

In Vienna you never simply order 'a coffee'; you order by name, and the Melange is the one most Viennese ask for. It arrives in a large cup on a small silver tray with a glass of water and often a tiny chocolate, and you may sit over it for an hour with the newspapers at Café Prückel or Hawelka, mid-morning or after lunch. Traditionally it is a mild, longer espresso (a Verlängerter) with roughly equal hot milk and a soft cap of milk foam; it is gentler than a cappuccino and the foam is looser and creamier. Expect a round, nutty, slightly sweet cup with little bitterness. The common mistake is overheating the milk: once it passes about 70 °C it smells cooked and loses its sweetness and the foam turns big-bubbled and dry. Stop when the jug is too hot to hold for more than a second or two. It is ready when the foam sits in a smooth, glossy dome about a finger thick and the coffee shows as a brown ring at the edge. One cup has about the caffeine of a single espresso. Chef's tip: always serve the glass of water alongside, as Vienna does; it is drunk first to clear the palate.

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Cà phê cốt dừa (coconut coffee)

Hanoi takes its coffee seriously, and in the last fifteen years coconut coffee has become one of the city's signatures, sold from Old Quarter cafés, lakeside balconies around Hoàn Kiếm and tiny stools on the pavement. It is a hot-weather drink, at its best on a sticky afternoon between May and September, eaten half with a spoon. Strong Vietnamese robusta drips slowly through an aluminium phin, then is poured over a pale slush of thick coconut cream, sweetened condensed milk and crushed ice, so you get bitter, dark coffee against something rich and cold that tastes like coconut ice cream. The common mistake is blending the slush too long or with too much ice, which leaves it thin and watery, and pouring the coffee in boiling hot so the slush collapses. Blend just until it looks like soft snow, and let the coffee cool for a minute or two. It is ready when the slush holds a spoon upright and the coffee sits in a dark layer on top. Robusta is high in caffeine and this is a strong drink, so it is not for children and one glass is plenty. Chef's tip: chill the coconut cream overnight; cold, thick cream gives a fluffier slush.

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Nước sấu (sấu fruit drink)

When Hanoi's tamarind-like sấu trees drop their small green fruit in May and June, street vendors start selling glasses of nước sấu: a few candied fruits, a ladle of ginger syrup, cold water and crushed ice. Families make big jars to last until the season ends in August. It is sipped with a spoon so you can bite into the crunchy-soft fruit at the bottom. It tastes sour and sweet at once, with a clean ginger warmth and a flavour a little like green mango and plum. Traditional cooks soak the peeled fruit in limewater to keep it crisp; a salt soak works well at home. The common mistake is skipping the blanch and slow syrup: raw fruit stays acrid and the syrup clouds. Blanch the fruit briefly, then cook it gently in sugar until it turns translucent yellow-green and the syrup is clear and glossy. Store it in a sterilised jar in the fridge for up to 2 months with a clean spoon; discard if it fizzes, smells fermented or shows mould. Fresh sấu is rare abroad; look for frozen sấu in Vietnamese shops, or use firm green ambarella. Chef's tip: slash each fruit a few times so the syrup soaks all the way in.

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Trà sen (lotus tea)

Every June and July, before sunrise, boats slip between the pink lotus on Hanoi's West Lake to gather flowers for trà sen. The finest lotus tea is made by stripping the tiny white rice-like anthers from hundreds of blooms and layering them with green tea, a labour that makes it one of Vietnam's most expensive gifts, kept for Tết. Families do a simpler version at home: a spoon of Thái Nguyên green tea is tucked into the heart of a fresh flower in the evening, the petals closed and tied, and by morning the leaves have taken on a sweet, creamy, slightly vanilla-like perfume. It is brewed in a small clay pot and drunk in tiny cups in the early morning. The common mistake is brewing with boiling water, which flattens the lotus scent and makes the green tea bitter. Rinse the leaves quickly and brew at 80–85 °C. It is ready when the cup is pale gold and the steam smells of flowers before tea. No fresh lotus? Buy ready-made lotus-scented tea from Vietnamese shops and start at the brewing step. Chef's tip: pick a bud that is just about to open; a fully open bloom has already lost its scent.

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Trà chanhIced lime tea

On warm evenings the pavement beside St Joseph's Cathedral in Hanoi fills with rows of tiny plastic stools, and nearly everyone is holding a tall glass of trà chanh, cheap green tea poured over ice with a squeeze of lime and plenty of sugar, sipped with a saucer of sunflower seeds while the city's scooters roar past. It is sharp, sweet and very refreshing. Chef's tip: brew the tea in water just off the boil, around 80 °C; boiling water makes green tea bitter.

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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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IruFermented locust beans

In Yoruba towns from Ibadan to Ogbomoso, iru is the smell of a good stew: a spoonful of the dark, fermented locust beans melted into efo riro, ofada ayamase, gbegiri and ewedu changes the whole pot. Making it is women's work passed down over generations, done in the dry season when the yellow pods of the African locust bean tree (igba) ripen. The seeds are boiled for hours, rubbed free of their black hulls, boiled again and wrapped warm in leaves for two or three days, when a sticky bacterial ferment covers them. Iru woro is left whole; iru pete is mashed. Expect a powerful ammonia-and-cheese smell, a soft, sticky texture and a deep savoury, almost meaty taste once cooked. Common mistake: fermenting too cool; below 30 °C the beans go sour and grey instead of developing the rich, sticky coat. Keep them in a warm oven with only the light on, or in a cooler box with a hot-water bottle. It is ready when the beans are dark brown, sticky and covered in fine white threads. Chef's tip: dried locust beans are sold at West African shops; fermented soybeans make a fair substitute.

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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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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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EinspännerBlack coffee with whipped cream

The Einspänner is named after the one-horse carriages of old Vienna: coachmen waiting outside in winter supposedly liked their coffee under a lid of cream that kept it hot and stopped it slopping. Today it is served in a handled glass at classic coffee houses, a strong black mocha (a double espresso or Großer Brauner without milk) topped with a thick layer of cold, lightly sweetened whipped cream and a pinch of icing sugar. You do not stir it: you sip the hot, bitter coffee through the cold, sweet cream, so each mouthful is two temperatures and two textures. It is an afternoon or late-morning coffee, often with a slice of Sachertorte. The common mistake is runny cream that sinks and turns the drink into a milky latte; whip it until it just holds a peak and spoon it on gently so it floats. It is ready when the cream stands at least 2 cm above the coffee and slowly sinks at the edges. It is strong: a double shot of caffeine in one glass. Chef's tip: pour the coffee in first and wait ten seconds before adding the cream, so the crema settles and helps support the cap.

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Usi (Urhobo starch swallow)

Bright yellow-orange and wobbly, usi, often just called starch, is the pride of Urhobo cooking in Delta State, and in Warri and Ughelli it is the only proper partner for banga (palm-nut) soup or owo soup. It is made from cassava starch cooked with water and a little palm oil, stirred hard over a low heat until it turns from a chalky white paste into a translucent, glossy, elastic mass. It tastes very mild; it is a vehicle for rich soups, and its smooth stretch is the point. Look for cassava starch (wet or dried) in African shops. Banga and owo soup are usually made with fish, so serve usi with a meat-free banga for a vegan meal. Chef's tip: keep the heat low and never stop stirring; a high flame is the mistake that scorches the bottom and leaves raw, white lumps.

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