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Chin baung kyawStir-fried roselle leaves

Chin baung, the tart leaf of the roselle plant, is so loved in Myanmar that it is sometimes called the national vegetable, and chin baung kyaw is cooked in homes from Yangon to Mandalay as a sharp, garlicky side for rice and a bowl of light soup. The leaves collapse into a dark, tangy, almost jammy relish with bamboo shoot and chilli. The usual version has dried shrimp or a little fish sauce; this one is vegetarian, using fried shallots and a pinch of salt for savour. It is a side with about 3 g of protein per portion. The common mistake is under-cooking: the leaves should be fried until the liquid has gone and the oil separates, or the sourness tastes raw. If you can't find roselle leaves, use sorrel or spinach with a squeeze of lime. Chef's tip: let the garlic and shallots turn properly golden before the leaves go in; their sweetness balances the sourness.

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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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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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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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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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Mandi'o chyryryFried cassava with onion and egg

Mandi'o chyryry means 'fried cassava' in Guaraní, and it is what rural Paraguayan families make from yesterday's boiled mandi'o: chunks crushed and fried in a big pan with onion until crisp in places, then scrambled with eggs. It comes out for breakfast with cocido or for a quick supper, and costs next to nothing. Use sweet cassava, the kind sold in supermarkets. The mistake is stirring constantly, which turns it to mush; let the cassava sit and brown. Chef's tip: the best chyryry starts with cold, day-old boiled cassava, which fries crisper than freshly boiled.

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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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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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Laphet yayBurmese milk tea

Burmese teashops, from the busy corners of Yangon to small-town Shan State, run on laphet yay: very strong black tea poured over condensed and evaporated milk, and customers order it by sweetness, from "pan pyar" (less sweet) to "cho seint" (extra sweet and creamy). It comes with samusa, palata or a bowl of mohinga. The mistake is weak tea: it must be brewed long and dark so it stands up to all that milk. Chef's tip: pour the finished tea from one jug to another from a height a few times; it cools slightly and gets the frothy top teashops are proud of.

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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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Lahpet yay (Burmese milk tea)

Yangon runs on lahpet yay. From before dawn, crowded teashops set out tiny plastic stools on the pavement, and the tea comes with mohinga, palata or a plate of samusa; people linger again at four in the afternoon to talk. The tea is a dark, very strong brew of cheap black leaf that has been boiled and kept hot in a kettle, mixed in the cup with condensed milk and evaporated milk. Regulars order in code: cho seint is sweet and creamy, kya seint is strong and less sweet, pawsein is the standard. It should be thick, silky, sweet, faintly smoky and bitter underneath. The common mistake is brewing it like ordinary tea: it ends up thin and the condensed milk just tastes of sugar. Boil the leaves hard and then let them stand so the liquor is almost black; the bitterness is needed to stand up to the milk. It is ready when the tea poured from height into the cup has a light froth and the colour of milk chocolate. It is strongly caffeinated, so not one for children or late evenings. Chef's tip: pour the finished tea between two jugs a few times to cool it slightly and give it the teashop froth.

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Pon ye gyiFermented bean sauce

Bagan, among its thousands of temples, is just as known in Myanmar for pon ye gyi, the thick, glossy black bean paste sold in clay pots at Nyaung-U market. Workshops there boil beans, ferment them under cloth, steep them in brine and boil the dark liquid down for hours. At home it is a seasoning rather than a dip: fried with garlic, onion and chilli as pon ye gyi kyaw, it becomes the savoury base for pork or chicken curries and for stir-fried greens, and is eaten with rice and raw vegetables through the hot dry season. The taste is deeply salty, savoury and slightly sweet-bitter, with a soft funk like miso and black bean sauce combined, and a texture like thick molasses. Common mistake: stopping the reduction too soon; a thin brown sauce will not keep and lacks depth, so cook it until it is black, glossy and falls from the spoon in ribbons. Bagan makers use different beans; this home method uses soybeans with a Bacillus-style ferment like thua nao. It is ready when a spoonful sets into a thick gloss on a cold plate. Chef's tip: stir more often near the end, when it can catch.

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Key sir alicha (mild beetroot and potato)

A magenta heap of key sir is the splash of colour on a beyaynetu fasting platter, served in restaurants all over Addis Ababa and at home through Lent. Being an alicha, it is mild rather than fiery: beetroot and potato cook slowly with onion, garlic, ginger and oil until tender and shiny, sweet and earthy with only a little heat from green chilli. It balances the hotter wats and cools the palate between bites of injera. A common mistake is cutting the beetroot too large, so the potato turns to mush before the beet is tender; cut the beet smaller, or give it a ten-minute head start. Chef's tip: cook it a day ahead if you can, because the flavours mellow and the potatoes take on even more colour overnight.

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Spris (layered fruit juice)

Juice houses all over Addis Ababa, with their towers of fruit stacked in the window, are famous for spris: a tall glass of thick purées poured in stripes, usually green avocado, golden mango and orange papaya, with a wedge of lime on the rim. It is closer to a spoonable smoothie than a juice, and people often eat the layers one by one before stirring the rest together. It makes a filling breakfast or an afternoon pick-me-up, and children love the colours. Chef's tip: blend each fruit separately and keep every purée thick enough to hold a spoon; runny purées bleed into each other and the stripes vanish.

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Ye-kosta wat (Swiss chard and potato)

Kosta, Swiss chard, is grown in backyard plots from Bahir Dar to Hawassa, and during the long fasts it is stewed with potatoes into this simple green dish found on almost every vegan beyaynetu. Onion, garlic and ginger soften in oil, potatoes go in first, then the chopped chard stems and leaves, all cooking down together into a soft, juicy stew that is mild, fresh and a little sweet, with a gentle heat from green chilli. Spoon it onto injera beside spicier wats, or eat it with rice. The common mistake is adding the stems and leaves at the same time; the stems need a few minutes longer. Chef's tip: a pinch of turmeric is not traditional in every home but gives the potatoes a warm golden colour against the green.

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Telba (roasted flaxseed drink)

Flax grows across the highlands of Gojjam, and on Wednesdays, Fridays and through Lent its toasted seeds become telba, a creamy, nutty drink that fills you up when animal food is off the menu. The seeds are dry-roasted until they pop, ground fine, then whisked with water and strained, giving a pale brown drink with a faint toasted-sesame flavour and a slightly silky body. It is also taken as a gentle remedy for an upset stomach. Families often sweeten it with honey; sugar keeps it fully vegan. Don't roast the flaxseed too far: over-roasted seeds turn the drink bitter. Chef's tip: grind only what you need that day, because ground flax goes stale and bitter within days; whole roasted seeds keep for weeks in a jar.

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Gomen kitfo (Gurage minced collards with spiced butter)

Meskel in the Gurage highlands is the year's great feast, and next to the beef kitfo on the table there is always gomen kitfo, the meat-free 'kitfo' of greens. Collards are boiled until tender, squeezed hard and chopped so finely they become almost a paste, then worked with warm niter kibbeh, mitmita and a little korerima. The result is dark green, silky and rich, with a sharp chilli kick and a deep, slightly bitter leafy flavour. It is eaten with kocho and a heap of fresh ayib, and is also made on its own on non-fasting days. The usual mistake is leaving water in the greens, which makes it soggy and dilutes the butter; wring them out in a clean cloth. Chef's tip: chop with a heavy knife, rocking it again and again, rather than blending; a blender turns it into a purée and loses the fine, almost-minced texture.

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Atmit (warm barley gruel with spiced butter and honey)

When a baby is born in an Amhara household, visiting women bring or cook atmit for the new mother, and the same soft, sippable gruel is made for anyone recovering from illness. Roasted barley flour (or oat flour) is whisked into water and simmered until it thickens to the texture of a thin custard, then enriched with a spoon of niter kibbeh, honey and a pinch of korerima. It tastes nutty, sweet and buttery, and is drunk warm from a cup rather than eaten with a spoon. Some homes add a little milk for extra richness. A common mistake is tipping the flour straight into hot water, which makes lumps; slake it in cold water first. Chef's tip: keep it thinner than you think; atmit thickens as it cools, and it should still pour easily from the cup.

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Kuti (Harari coffee-leaf tea)

Harar sits in old coffee country, and its households drink not only the beans but the leaves: kuti is made by toasting dried coffee leaves and brewing them into a light, amber tea. It tastes soft and grassy with a hint of roasted coffee and far less caffeine than a cup of buna, so it is sipped through the afternoon, during long chats and after the fast is broken in Ramadan. Many Harari homes add milk and sugar; leave the milk out or use a plant milk to keep it vegan. Dried coffee leaves are sold as coffee leaf tea by some coffee and tea merchants. Do not swap in cascara, which is the dried coffee cherry husk and makes a different, fruitier drink. Chef's tip: toast the leaves only until they darken a shade and smell like toasted hay; overdone, they taste of ash.

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Ayib be gomen (fresh cheese with spiced collards)

Gurage cooks bring ayib be gomen to the table beside kitfo, and it is just as welcome on its own with kocho or injera on an ordinary non-fasting day. Soft, mild ayib is mixed with collards that have been boiled and chopped fine, then dressed with warm niter kibbeh, garlic and mitmita, so the creamy cheese cools the chilli and the greens add an earthy bite. Ayib is an acid-set cheese made by gently heating soured milk or buttermilk (or milk with lemon juice) until curds form, so it needs no rennet and suits vegetarians. Ricotta or well-drained cottage cheese are close substitutes; if you use a bought cottage cheese, check the label for vegetarian rennet. Do not heat the cheese in the pan, or it turns rubbery and weeps; fold it in off the heat. Chef's tip: squeeze the cooked greens until they are almost dry so the dish stays fluffy rather than watery.

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Moringa leaf stew (Konso shiferaw)

On the stone terraces of Konso, moringa trees grow beside almost every house, and their young leaves are picked daily for a simple green stew eaten with sorghum dumplings or injera. The leaves are stripped from their stems and simmered with onion, garlic, a little green chilli and oil until soft, giving a deep green, slightly peppery dish that tastes a little like spinach crossed with watercress. It is plain, nourishing and naturally vegan, so it fits any fasting day. Fresh or frozen moringa leaves are sold in many Indian and Asian grocers; if you cannot find them, use spinach with a squeeze of lemon. Leaving the stems in is the usual mistake; they stay woody, so strip the leaves off. Chef's tip: add the leaves in handfuls and stop cooking as soon as they are tender, so they keep their colour and their gentle bitterness does not deepen.

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Godere (taro with spiced butter and mitmita)

Through the wet south of Ethiopia, from Wolaita to Sidama, taro (godere) grows in garden plots, and boiled and buttered it is the snack that comes out with the coffee pot or the side dish at harvest gatherings. The corms are boiled until creamy, cut into chunks and tossed in warm niter kibbeh with mitmita and salt, so they turn glossy, soft and nutty with a chilli edge. They are eaten with the fingers or alongside kitfo, ayib and greens. Raw taro must never be eaten: it contains irritant crystals that only proper cooking breaks down, and the raw sap can itch, so wear gloves to peel and boil it until fully tender. Chef's tip: boil the taro in its skin for a firmer, less slimy texture, then peel while still warm.

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