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Chuño

On the Altiplano around Lake Titicaca, in June and July when the nights drop to -10 °C and the days are bright and dry, Aymara and Quechua families spread small, bitter potatoes on the grass to make chuño, a technique far older than the Inca. The potatoes freeze at night and thaw in the sun for several days, then are trodden barefoot to squeeze out the water and rub off the skins, and dried for a couple of weeks more. The result is light, wrinkled, grey-black chuño negro that keeps for years; soaked in running stream water instead, the same potatoes become white tunta. Rehydrated and boiled, chuño is firm, slightly chewy and spongy, with an earthy, faintly mineral, almost fermented taste; it goes into chairo soup, into chuño phuti, or beside grilled meat with spicy llajwa. Skipping the long soak is the big mistake: it stays bitter and gritty, so soak it for at least 12 hours, changing the water. Dried chuño is ready when it is rock hard, very light and rattles in a bag. Chef's tip: without Andean frosts, a freezer and a low oven make a fair version; the method is below.

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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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Postre MassiniCustard sponge with burnt sugar top

Montevideo's birthday cake of choice since the early twentieth century, the Massini is two thin layers of sponge sandwiching a thick filling of whipped cream folded with egg-yolk custard, crowned with a thin glassy crust of torched yolk and sugar. Bakeries across Uruguay sell it on Sundays. Traditional versions sometimes add a sweet fortified wine to the custard; this one is alcohol-free. The custard is cooked to a safe 71 °C. The common mistake is assembling with warm custard, which melts the cream into a puddle. Chef's tip: if you don't have a blowtorch, put the sugared top under a very hot grill for a minute and watch it closely.

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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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SomóCold spiced corn drink

Somó is how Santa Cruz cools down: big tubs of chilled, sweet, cinnamon-scented corn water sold in markets and at the door of lowland homes, with soft kernels of white corn floating in every glass to be eaten with a spoon. It is a simple drink, but it needs time, because the dried corn must soak and then simmer until each kernel bursts open. People often serve it before the kernels have fully opened, and then they are hard and chalky. Chef's tip: add a strip of orange peel with the spices for a fresher note, as some cruceño grandmothers do.

100 minAndeanDrinksVeganGluten free
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Refresco de linazaFlaxseed and pineapple drink

In La Paz, Cochabamba and Sucre the refresqueras at the market stalls ladle linaza from big glass jars alongside mocochinchi and somó, and at home it is a standard jug in the fridge for the midday almuerzo. Flaxseed is simmered with pineapple peel, cinnamon and cloves until the water turns faintly silky, then strained, sweetened and chilled. It is pale gold, smooth and almost slippery on the tongue, tasting of pineapple and spice, with lime to wake it up. It is traditionally drunk to cool down and to settle the stomach. The common mistake is simmering too long or leaving the seeds in as it cools: the liquid turns into a thick, slimy gel. Strain it while still hot, as soon as a spoon dipped in comes out lightly coated, like thin syrup. It is ready when it pours freely but feels smooth, and tastes sweet, spiced and fresh. Using the peel and core of a pineapple is the thrifty Bolivian way and gives more flavour than the flesh. Chef's tip: if it thickens too much in the fridge, whisk in cold water a little at a time until it pours easily again.

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MorochoCracked white corn drink

Morocho is what Quiteños drink on a chilly evening at a market stall, often with a crisp empanada de morocho alongside: cracked white corn simmered for an hour with milk, cinnamon and cloves until it turns into a thick, creamy drink you half sip, half spoon, studded with plump raisins. It tastes like a gently spiced rice pudding made with corn. The usual mistake is adding the milk too early and not stirring, so it catches and scorches on the bottom of the pan. Chef's tip: soak the corn overnight; it cooks faster and more evenly and turns properly creamy.

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MocochinchiDried peach and cinnamon drink

Walk through any Bolivian plaza on a warm afternoon and someone will be selling mocochinchi from a big glass jar: a cool, amber drink of sun-dried peaches simmered with cinnamon and cloves, served with a whole wrinkled peach at the bottom of the glass to eat at the end. It is the classic drink with lunch from Cochabamba to Tarija. People often skip the overnight soak, and then the peaches stay leathery and the drink tastes thin. Chef's tip: rub the soaked peaches between your hands under water to clean off dust and loosen the skins, which also releases more flavour.

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Masaco de plátanoPounded plantain with cheese

Breakfast in Santa Cruz and the Bolivian lowlands often means a mound of masaco with a cup of strong coffee: green plantain fried and then pounded with butter and grated cheese into a dense, savoury mash. Many cruceños mix in shredded dried beef; this vegetarian version uses only cheese, which is how plenty of families make it too. Bolivian lowland cheese is usually set with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian Cheddar-style cheese if that matters to you. The usual mistake is frying the plantain until crisp: it must stay soft inside or it won't mash. Chef's tip: pound the plantain while it is still very hot; once it cools it turns hard and rubbery.

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Horchata lojanaHerbal flower infusion

In Loja and the valleys of Vilcabamba and Malacatos, horchata has nothing to do with rice: it is a pink herbal infusion of anything up to twenty garden plants, drunk hot at breakfast and after lunch, or cold from the fridge on warm afternoons. Markets sell the herbs in bundles: cedrón, hierbaluisa, toronjil, mint, chamomile, mallow, and the red-leaved escancel and ataco (red amaranth) that give the colour. It tastes lemony, floral and faintly silky, and turns from ruby to bright pink the moment lemon juice goes in. The common mistake is boiling all the herbs hard, which makes it bitter and grassy; only the tough flaxseed and lemongrass simmer, and the soft leaves steep off the heat. It is ready when the liquid is deep red-pink and smells of lemon and flowers. Abroad, Latin shops sell dried mixes; dried hibiscus gives the colour if you lack amaranth. It is traditionally drunk to settle the stomach; if you are pregnant or on medication, check with a doctor before drinking it daily. Chef's tip: add lemon at the table, glass by glass, to watch the colour change.

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GuayusaHolly leaf infusion

In Kichwa villages along the Napo river around Tena, families rise before dawn, gather around the fire and share a pot of guayusa: an infusion of the large leaves of an Amazon holly tree, passed round while people talk over dreams and plan the day. It tastes smooth, grassy and faintly sweet, with none of the bitterness of black tea, and it carries a steady lift of caffeine, so it is not one for young children or late evenings. Dried guayusa is sold loose in health-food and tea shops. A common mistake is treating it like delicate green tea and steeping it for just a minute; it needs a gentle simmer to draw out its flavour. Chef's tip: add a strip of lemongrass or a slice of ginger for a fragrant twist, and sweeten, if at all, with a little panela.

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Guaguas de panSweet bread babies

Guagua means baby in Kichwa, and in late October Quito's bakeries line their windows with these swaddled bread figures, each with a sugar-iced face and blanket, made to eat with colada morada for the Day of the Dead on 2 November. The bread is soft, buttery and lightly sweet, often hiding a strip of guava paste, and children love decorating them. The common mistake is shaping thin heads and arms, which brown and dry long before the body is baked; keep the shapes plump. Chef's tip: let the shaped figures rise fully before baking, so they puff into round, friendly babies rather than cracking at the seams.

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Colada moradaPurple corn and berry drink

Every year in the days before 2 November, the Día de los Difuntos, Quito's kitchens and bakeries fill with the smell of colada morada: a warm, spoon-thick drink of purple corn flour cooked with blackberries, blueberries, pineapple and a bundle of fragrant herbs and spices. It is deep violet, sweet-tart and full of chopped fruit, and it is always served with guaguas de pan, the bread babies, often shared with family at the cemetery. The most common mistake is stirring the corn flour straight into hot liquid, which makes lumps: whisk it into cold water first. Chef's tip: lemon verbena and lemongrass give the authentic perfume; if you can find naranjilla or a few orange leaves, add them to the spice pot too.

100 minAndeanDrinksVeganGluten free
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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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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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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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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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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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Moroccan spiced coffee

In many Moroccan homes, coffee is bought ready-mixed from the roaster with a spoonful of 'attria', a warm blend of ground spices such as cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cardamom, black pepper and toasted sesame, that gives it a rounded, gently peppery aroma. It is brewed in a pan or a pot and sipped black and sweet, or with a splash of milk, after lunch, with pastries for guests, or on cold mornings. The spices soften the bitterness and make the whole kitchen smell wonderful. This home version mixes the spices into ordinary ground coffee. Chef's tip: keep the coffee at a bare simmer and never let it boil hard; vigorous boiling, the usual mistake, extracts bitterness from both coffee and spices.

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Nous-nous (half-half coffee)

Sit down at a café terrace in Casablanca, Rabat or Marrakech and order a 'nous-nous' (from 'nus', half) and you will get a small glass of half espresso, half steamed milk, often layered so the coffee floats in a dark band over the pale milk with a cap of foam. It is the default morning and afternoon coffee for many Moroccans, sipped slowly while watching the street, usually with a sugar lump or two on the saucer. It is smaller and stronger than a latte and milkier than a macchiato. A moka pot works fine at home if you have no espresso machine. Chef's tip: heat the milk only to 60–65 °C, hot to the touch but not scalding; boiled milk loses its sweetness and the foam collapses, a common mistake.

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Moroccan almond milk (sharbat louz)

At Moroccan weddings and engagement parties, silver trays of tall glasses filled with sharbat louz are passed among the guests: chilled milk blended smooth with blanched almonds, sugar and a perfume of orange-flower water. It is also a favourite summer drink at home and is often offered to break the fast in Ramadan. The taste is creamy, delicate and nutty, a world away from carton almond milk, since it is real dairy milk enriched with almonds. Serve it very cold, on its own or with sweets. A common mistake is skipping the straining, which leaves a gritty drink instead of a smooth, silky one. Chef's tip: blend the almonds with the sugar and a little milk first, into a fine paste, before adding the rest; that way it ends up silky rather than gritty. Not for anyone with a nut allergy.

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Meskouta (Moroccan orange cake)

Every Moroccan home cook seems to have a meskouta recipe, the light, fluffy sponge that is baked in a ring tin and set out for afternoon tea, unexpected guests or a children's snack. This one is flavoured with fresh orange juice and zest; many families make a yogurt version instead, using the yogurt pot to measure everything, and that variation is in the steps. The crumb is airy and moist, not too sweet, and it pairs perfectly with mint tea or a glass of milk. No mixer is strictly needed, but it helps. Chef's tip: beat the eggs and sugar for a full 5 minutes until pale and tripled in volume; under-whipped eggs, the usual mistake, make a dense, flat meskouta.

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Krachel (aniseed and sesame brioche buns)

Moroccan bakeries pile their windows with krachel, round, glossy buns of enriched dough perfumed with aniseed, toasted sesame and orange-flower water, and families bake them at home for breakfast, for guests and for feast days. They are soft and pillowy, lightly sweet, with a distinctive liquorice-like scent from the anise and a nutty crunch of sesame on top. Eat them warm with butter and jam, dipped into milky coffee, or with mint tea in the afternoon. The dough needs two rises, about 1 1/2 hours in all. Don't rush the rise: under-proved krachel bake dense and tight instead of soft and fluffy. Chef's tip: lightly toast the aniseed and sesame in a dry pan before adding them to the dough; it doubles their fragrance.

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