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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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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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HuatiaEarth-baked potatoes

After the potato harvest in May and June, families in Puno, Cusco and across the highlands build a huatia in the field: a little dome of dry earth clods heated with dried brush until the clods glow, then knocked down over freshly dug potatoes and oca so they bake slowly underground. Opened an hour later, the potatoes are smoky, floury and so soft their skins split, and the oca turns sweet and tangy. Everyone eats them with their hands, with salt, chilli sauce and fresh cheese. This recipe gives an oven method for home cooks: a lidded pot bedded with coarse salt and herbs, which traps heat and steam much like the earth. If you do try a real huatia outdoors, use a clear patch of ground away from anything that can catch fire and keep water nearby. Don't uncover the pot early to check: the steam escapes and the potatoes turn leathery. Fresh oca is sold in some markets as New Zealand yam; small sweet potatoes will do. Chef's tip: choose potatoes of a similar size so they all finish together, and serve with uchucuta.

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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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Mderbel (tangy aubergine relish)

Where zaalouk is a smoky mash, mderbel keeps its aubergine in soft, silky slices that have been fried first and then stewed down with garlic, sweet paprika, cumin and a sharp splash of vinegar. Old Fez families make it as one of the cooked salads that open a festive meal, and it keeps beautifully for a few days, so it is often made the day before. The flavour is rich from the oil, tangy, a little sweet and deeply garlicky; serve it at room temperature with bread, alongside other salads or next to grilled vegetables. The usual mistake is frying the aubergine in oil that isn't hot enough, so the slices drink it up and turn greasy. Chef's tip: salt the slices and leave them for 20 minutes, then pat them very dry; they drink far less oil and fry to a deep gold.

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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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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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Jben (fresh Moroccan cheese)

On the road into Chefchaouen, women from the Rif villages sit with rounds of jben wrapped in palm leaves, a fresh, soft, lightly salted cheese with a clean, milky tang. Breakfast in the north often means a slab of it drizzled with olive oil, sprinkled with dried thyme or za'atar, with olives, honey and warm bread. Traditionally jben is curdled with animal rennet (sometimes with thistle or fig sap), so check if you buy it; this home version uses vegetarian (microbial) rennet and pasteurised milk, and is drained in the fridge. Hands-on time is about an hour; the curd then needs 1–2 hours to set and 4–6 hours to drain. Keep it chilled and eat it within 4 days. Chef's tip: avoid UHT and ultra-pasteurised milk, which will not set into a firm curd; ordinary pasteurised whole milk works well.

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Batatas al rescoldoEmber-roasted sweet potatoes

Long after the meat comes off, the fire of an Argentine asado still has work to do. Sweet potatoes pushed into the glowing embers (el rescoldo) at the start of the cook come out an hour later with charred, papery skins and flesh that is soft, sticky and almost caramelised, with a smoky edge. They are split open at the table, filled with butter and coarse salt and eaten as a side to the asado or as supper by the fire on a camping trip. Burying them in live flames is the trap: the skin blackens right through while the inside stays hard, so wait for a bed of settled embers and ash. Wrapping them in foil gives softer skins and less risk if you are new to it, and an oven at 200 °C does a fine job indoors. Chef's tip: choose sweet potatoes of the same thickness, around 250 g each, so they cook evenly together.

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Morrones con huevo a la parrillaGrilled peppers with egg and cheese

While the meat rests on the cooler side of the parrilla, many asadores put halved red peppers cut side up over the coals, let them soften and char, then crack an egg into each one with a piece of cheese and a pinch of oregano. The pepper becomes a little dish: sweet, smoky and juicy, with a just-set egg and molten cheese in the middle. It is one of the classic starters at an Argentine asado, eaten with bread before the steak arrives, and it makes a good vegetarian main for anyone who skips the meat. The mistake is cracking the egg into a raw pepper: the egg overcooks before the pepper softens, so grill the shells first. Cook until the white is completely set. Queso cremoso or mozzarella is usually made with animal rennet; pick a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: cover the peppers with a foil tent or a lid once the egg goes in; the trapped heat sets the top of the egg without burning the base.

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Papas a la provenzalFries with garlic and parsley

Bodegones, the old-school Buenos Aires canteens with jamón hanging from the ceiling and waiters in white jackets, serve mountains of papas fritas, and the upgrade everyone orders is "a la provenzal": crisp chips tossed while still sizzling in a mix of finely chopped raw garlic and parsley. The heat of the potatoes takes the edge off the garlic, so it turns fragrant rather than fiery, and the parsley stays bright green. They go with milanesas, grilled steak or a plate of fried eggs. Adding the garlic to the frying oil is the error many make: it burns in seconds and turns bitter; it goes on only after frying. This method fries the chips twice for a crunch that lasts; for an oven version, toss the chips with 3 tbsp oil and roast at 220 °C for 35 minutes, turning once, then dress them the same way. Chef's tip: rinse and dry the cut potatoes very well; surface starch and water are what make chips limp.

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Dulce de lecheMilk caramel

Dulce de leche is Argentina's national sweet, spread on toast at breakfast, sandwiched in alfajores, rolled into panqueques and spooned onto flan. Argentine families traditionally make it by slowly cooking milk and sugar with a vanilla pod and a pinch of bicarbonate of soda, which helps it turn deep brown, until it becomes a thick, glossy caramel cream. It takes about three hours of gentle cooking and regular stirring. Chef's tip: use a wide, heavy pan and keep the heat low; the wider the surface, the faster the milk reduces, and the less it catches on the bottom.

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TacachoMashed roasted green plantain balls

Tacacho is the breakfast of the Peruvian Amazon, from Tarapoto to Iquitos: green plantains roasted over coals, mashed with fat and salt and shaped into balls. There it comes with cecina (smoked pork) and is mashed with lard and crackling; this vegan tacacho uses good oil and a pinch of smoked paprika for the same savoury, smoky depth. The balls are dense, chewy and starchy, crisp at the edges where the plantain charred, and they are eaten hot with a fiery chilli sauce or alongside stews. Use plantains that are fully green and firm. Chef's tip: mash the plantains while they are still very hot; as green plantain cools its starch sets and it won't bind into a smooth ball.

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