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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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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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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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Agua de chía con limón

In the markets of Michoacán, especially in Uruapan and Morelia, the glass barrels of agua fresca often include one cloudy, speckled with tiny seeds: agua de chía, limeade with soaked chia seeds that swell into soft little pearls. Chia has been grown in central Mexico since long before the Spanish, and the drink is light, sharp and very refreshing, with a gentle texture from the seeds. It is drunk with lunch or on hot afternoons. Chef's tip: stir the seeds into the water twice in the first ten minutes; otherwise they clump into jelly-like lumps.

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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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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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Jugo de maracuyá

Passion fruit grows easily in the warm valleys of Colombia, and maracuyá juice is the default glass at many lunch tables, from Huila to the coast. It is intensely aromatic and sharp, so it needs plenty of water and sugar, and it is served over ice; a milk version is made too, but the water one is the more refreshing. Street juice stands blend it fresh all day, and it pairs especially well with fried fish, rice and patacones, or any spicy dish. People tend to over-blend it, crushing the black seeds into gritty, bitter bits; just pulse until the pulp lets go of the seeds, then strain. Frozen passion fruit pulp from Latin shops is a good, cheaper option and needs no straining. Chef's tip: scoop the pulp from wrinkled, heavy fruit; the more wrinkled the skin, the sweeter and more fragrant the fruit inside.

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Tascalate

Tascalate is the drink of the Chiapas central valley, sold in Chiapa de Corzo and Tuxtla in tall glasses at markets and given to guests at fiestas. A powder of toasted tortillas, cacao, pine nuts, sugar, cinnamon and a little achiote is whisked into cold water or milk, so it is orange-brown, thick and nutty with a sweet chocolate finish. The powder keeps for weeks, so make a jar. Made with water it is vegan. Chef's tip: toast the tortillas until they snap cleanly; any softness leaves the powder clumpy.

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Barraquito

Order a barraquito in any café in Santa Cruz de Tenerife or La Laguna and it comes in a small glass showing neat stripes: sweet condensed milk at the bottom, then espresso, then foamed milk, perfumed with lemon peel and cinnamon. The bar classic adds a measure of a vanilla-citrus Spanish liqueur between the layers, which makes it contain alcohol; this recipe leaves it optional, and without it the drink is often called a zaperoco or barraquito sin licor. Chef's tip: pour each layer slowly over the back of a spoon, so the layers sit on top of each other instead of mixing.

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Jugo de tomate de árbol

Tomate de árbol, the tree tomato or tamarillo, is everywhere in Andean Colombia: in market piles, in ají and above all in juice. Blended with water and sugar, it makes a tangy, deep orange drink with a flavour between passion fruit, tomato and apricot, and it turns up at lunch counters and family tables with almost every meal. Many people blend it with milk instead of water for a creamier glass; this version keeps it vegan. Blending the fruit with its skin is the most common misstep, as the peel is bitter and astringent; a quick blanch makes it slip off easily. Look for tamarillos in good greengrocers, or frozen pulp in Latin shops. Chef's tip: blend only briefly so you do not crush the small seeds, then strain; it stays bright and clean-tasting.

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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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Café de olla

In ranch kitchens and roadside fondas across central Mexico, coffee is not dripped but boiled in a tall clay pot (olla de barro) with a cone of piloncillo and a stick of soft Mexican cinnamon, then strained into clay mugs. It is sweet, spiced and earthy, and is served with pan dulce at breakfast, on cold evenings, and to visitors on Day of the Dead. A saucepan works fine if you have no olla. Chef's tip: turn the heat off before adding the coffee and let it steep rather than boil, or it turns bitter.

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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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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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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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Torito de cacahuate

Torito is the party drink of the port of Veracruz and the Sotavento, poured at weddings, saints' days and the Tlacotalpan Candelaria fair: a thick, cold, milkshake-like blend of peanuts, condensed and evaporated milk and cinnamon. The traditional version is spiked with aguardiente, the local cane spirit. This recipe is the alcohol-free version, so children can drink it too; adults who want the original add a measure of cane spirit to each glass. It contains peanuts, so check for allergies. Chef's tip: toast the peanuts until just golden before blending; raw ones taste flat and beany.

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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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Pozol de cacao

In the heat of Villahermosa and the Chiapas lowlands, farmers carry a ball of corn dough in a banana leaf and mix it with water in a jícara (a gourd bowl) at midday: that is pozol, a cold, thick, filling drink that has been made since Maya times. The cacao version is the favourite, sold from big clay pots at market stalls with ice, sometimes slightly fermented so it turns pleasantly sour. This home version uses masa harina and cocoa nibs, so it is ready in minutes; leave it to ferment if you want the tang. Chef's tip: stir it every time before pouring, as the corn settles to the bottom fast.

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Tinto

Ask for a tinto anywhere in Colombia and you get a small cup of black coffee, never red wine. Street vendors carry it in thermos flasks through the plazas of Manizales, Pereira and Bogotá, and offices, bus stations and farm kitchens in the coffee region brew pots of it all day. It is light, hot and gently sweet, often made by simmering ground coffee with water and a little panela, then straining it through a cloth bag. The usual error is boiling the coffee hard, which makes it harsh and bitter; let it come to the boil only once. Chef's tip: let the grounds settle for a minute off the heat before straining, so the cup stays clear.

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Jugo de borojó

Borojó is the pride of the Chocó: a heavy brown fruit with a dense, sticky pulp and a sour, almost tamarind-like flavour. In Quibdó it is sold as pulp at the market and blended into thick shakes at juice stalls, and it carries a folk reputation as a restorative, sometimes jokingly called juice of love. Blended with cold milk and sugar it becomes creamy, tangy and filling, more a small meal than a drink. Outside Colombia, look for frozen borojó pulp in Latin American shops; there is no real substitute, though a mix of tamarind paste and banana gives a rough idea. Using too much pulp is easy to do, and the shake turns into a paste that will not go through a straw, so start with the amount below and thicken to taste. Chef's tip: blend the pulp with a little milk first to loosen it, then add the rest; borojó is so dense it can stall a blender.

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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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Chocolate egg cream

The egg cream contains neither egg nor cream: it is the old soda-fountain drink of Brooklyn and the Lower East Side, made of cold milk, chocolate syrup and a hard jet of seltzer that whips up a tall white foam. It was sold for pennies at candy stores and corner luncheonettes, and New Yorkers still argue about the right order to pour. Chef's tip: everything, glass included, must be ice-cold, or the foam collapses.

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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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Avena colombiana

Bakeries all over Colombia keep a fridge of avena in plastic cups, ready to pair with a warm pandebono, buñuelo or almojábana. It is a thick, sweet oat drink cooked in milk with cinnamon and cloves, then blended smooth and chilled until it is creamy and spoonable, somewhere between a milkshake and rice pudding. Children drink it after school, and it is a common mid-morning snack with something baked. Home versions are less sweet and more spiced than shop ones. The thing to watch is texture: if you skip blending or straining, you end up with slimy flecks of oats, so blend thoroughly once it is cooked. It thickens a lot as it chills, so loosen it with cold milk before serving. Chef's tip: toast the oats in the dry pan for 2 minutes first; it gives a nutty, biscuity flavour.

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