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King kong

Named, the story goes, after the giant ape because of its size when the film reached Peru, the king kong is Lambayeque's proudest sweet: thick, crumbly biscuit layers stacked with manjar blanco, a sticky pineapple jam and a peanut fudge, then cut into heavy slabs. Shops in Lambayeque and Chiclayo sell them by the kilo in boxes, and travellers carry them home as gifts. It is very sweet, buttery and dense, so a slice goes a long way with black coffee. This home version makes the manjar blanco from condensed and evaporated milk to save hours, then turns half of it into the peanut layer. The usual mistake is overbaking the biscuit until it is hard; take it out as soon as the edges are pale gold, as it firms up while it cools. It is a project, so make the fillings first and let them cool. Chef's tip: wrap the finished king kong and leave it overnight before cutting; the layers settle and soften into each other.

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Camu camu

Camu camu are small purple-red berries that grow on bushes along the flooded riverbanks of the Peruvian Amazon, and in Iquitos and Pucallpa they are sold as frozen pulp and blended into a sharp, pink refresco at juice bars and lunch places. The flavour is intensely sour, more than lime, with a faint cherry note, and the berries are famous for containing far more vitamin C than oranges. It is the drink people order with a heavy plate of tacacho or rice. Never boil camu camu or make the juice hours ahead: heat and air quickly fade its colour and much of the vitamin C, so blend it cold and drink it soon. Frozen pulp or freeze-dried powder from health-food and Latin shops are the forms you'll find abroad. Chef's tip: start with half the pulp and add more to taste; it's strong enough that a little goes a long way.

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Chapo

Breakfast stalls in Iquitos and the riverside towns of Loreto pour chapo into glasses from big steaming pots before the heat of the day sets in, and by afternoon the same drink is sold chilled. It is made from plantains left until their skins are black, simmered with cinnamon and cloves until soft, then blended smooth and loosened with milk. The result is thick, naturally sweet and gently spiced, somewhere between a smoothie and a thin custard, and children love it. Some families make it with water only; evaporated milk is the common addition in town. The mistake is using plantains that are still yellow-green: they taste starchy and the drink turns grey and gluey, so wait until the skins are mostly black and the fruit gives when pressed. Serve hot with bread or a tamal, or cold over ice. Chef's tip: strain it through a sieve after blending for a silky drink, and thin it with water if it thickens as it cools.

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Aguajina

Aguaje is the scaly, chestnut-red fruit of the moriche palm that grows in the flooded forests around Iquitos, and its orange flesh ends up in ice lollies, ice cream and, above all, aguajina, the cold drink sold in plastic cups at every corner and in Belén market. The taste is unusual and loved locally: tangy, a little like apricot and carrot, with a rich, slightly oily body. Fresh aguaje must be softened in warm water for an hour before its thin layer of pulp can be scraped off; outside Peru, frozen aguaje pulp from Latin American shops is the realistic choice and gives a good result. A common slip is adding all the sugar before tasting: the pulp's sourness varies from pack to pack, so sweeten at the end. Serve very cold with lunch or on a hot afternoon. Chef's tip: blend the pulp with only part of the water first, so it breaks down fully, then stir in the rest.

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Kispiño

Pressed in a fist so each one carries the marks of the cook's fingers, kispiño are small, dense quinoa cakes from the Puno highlands, steamed and then left to dry so they keep for weeks on journeys, herding trips and pilgrimages. Traditional ones are bound with a little lime water (from cal, the mineral) and fat; this home version uses oil and a pinch of aniseed and sugar, so they're vegan and pleasantly savoury-sweet. They're firm and chewy, a little like a grain cake, and good with hot tea, coca tea or a soup on a cold day. The common mistake is making the dough too wet, so the cakes slump in the steamer; it should feel like damp sand that holds its shape when squeezed. Ground quinoa is quinoa flour; grind your own from rinsed, dried and toasted grain, or buy it ready ground. Chef's tip: toast the ground quinoa in a dry pan first until it smells nutty, which takes away any bitterness.

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Quinua con manzana

Morning market stalls and street carts from Lima to Huancayo ladle quinua con manzana into glasses alongside emoliente and maca, and many people drink it as breakfast on its own, with a bread roll or a sandwich beside it. Quinoa and chunks of apple are simmered with cinnamon and cloves until the grains burst and the liquid thickens, then sweetened and served warm or cold. Some stalls blend it smooth; others leave the grains and soft apple pieces to spoon up. It is mild, fruity and filling, and children usually like it. The mistake that ruins it is skipping the rinse: quinoa's natural coating, saponin, makes the drink bitter and soapy, so rub it under running water until the foam stops. Chef's tip: add a few drops of lime at the end; it lifts the apple and keeps the drink from tasting flat.

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Emoliente

Before dawn, all over Peru, emolienteros set up their carts with a row of steaming kettles and jars of herbs, and commuters stop for a glass of emoliente on the way to work. It's a hot infusion of toasted barley, flaxseed and herbs, with lime juice and sugar added to order, and it is drunk for comfort and digestion, especially in Lima's damp winter. The flaxseed gives it a slippery, soothing body; the barley a toasty, almost coffee-like note. Street versions use horsetail, alfalfa, boldo and other herbs; this home version keeps it simple, with horsetail as an option (leave it out if you are pregnant or have kidney problems). The usual error is boiling the flax too long, which makes the drink gloopy; add it for the last 10 minutes only. Serve very hot in glasses, with pan con queso or a sandwich. Barley contains gluten. Chef's tip: toast the barley yourself until it is deep brown; it's what gives emoliente its colour and its roasted flavour.

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Champús

When Lima's grey winter sets in, from June to September, champús sellers set up on street corners with big pots of this thick, fruity drink, ladled warm into glasses and eaten as much as drunk. It's made from mote (hulled white corn), simmered with pineapple, quince or apple, soursop, chancaca and warm spices, then thickened lightly with corn flour, so every spoonful has soft fruit and chewy corn in a spiced, molasses-sweet base. It is close in spirit to mazamorra morada but paler and tangier. The mistake people make is adding the thickener straight into the hot pot, where it forms lumps; always slake it in cold water first and pour it in while stirring. Canned or jarred hominy saves hours; frozen soursop (guanábana) pulp is in Latin shops and can be left out. Serve warm in glasses with spoons. Chef's tip: simmer the pineapple peel and core with the spices for the first 20 minutes, then strain them out; they give much of the flavour.

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Turrón de Doña Pepa

Every October, the month of the Señor de los Milagros processions in Lima, bakeries and street sellers pile their trays with turrón de Doña Pepa: layers of crumbly anise-flavoured sticks drenched in a dark syrup of chancaca cooked with fruit and spices, topped with a storm of coloured sprinkles. Popular lore credits it to Josefa Marmanillo, a woman from the Cañete valley who is said to have made it in thanks after the procession. It is sticky, crunchy and soft at once, with orange and clove in the syrup. Its downfall is usually runny syrup that soaks the sticks into mush; it needs to reach a thick, threading stage before it goes on. Chancaca is sold as cones or blocks in Latin shops; panela or dark muscovado also work. Some coloured sprinkles contain gelatin, so check the label. Chef's tip: make it a day ahead; the syrup sets and the sticks soften just enough to slice neatly.

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Hyderabadi Irani chai

Irani chai came to Hyderabad with Persian migrants who opened cafés across the old city, and it is now the city's signature drink, poured at all hours in places around the Charminar, often with Osmania biscuits or a bun maska. Unlike masala chai, it has no spices: strong tea is brewed slowly in a sealed pot (dum), while full-fat milk is simmered separately with a little khoa until thick and creamy. The two are mixed only in the cup, giving a rich, mellow, slightly sweet tea. Chef's tip: seal the tea pot lid with a little dough or foil, as the cafés do, so the brew steeps without losing steam or strength.

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Jigarthanda

Jigarthanda means 'cool heart', and on a hot evening in Madurai crowds queue around the carts near the Meenakshi temple for a tall glass of it. It's layered rather than blended: a spoonful of soaked almond gum (badam pisin), a glug of nannari (Indian sarsaparilla) syrup, chilled milk reduced until creamy and lightly caramel-coloured, then a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. The result is cold, floral, wobbly and rich all at once. This home version uses shop-bought vanilla ice cream; check that yours is eggless and gelatine-free. Chef's tip: let the reduced milk chill overnight; cold, thick milk is what makes it taste like the street version rather than flavoured milk.

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Filter coffee

In Tamil Nadu the day starts with filter coffee: a strong decoction dripped slowly through a two-tier steel filter, mixed with plenty of hot, boiled milk and sugar, and frothed by pouring it from a height between a steel tumbler and its little bowl, the davara. It's served at every Chennai and Kumbakonam 'hotel' and in nearly every home, and it's thick, sweet and slightly bitter from the chicory in the coffee powder. Chef's tip: press the coffee only lightly in the filter and pour the water in slowly; packed too tight, it drips for an hour, and too loose, the decoction is thin.

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Darjeeling first flush tea

Darjeeling's first flush is picked in March and April on estates clinging to the hills above the town, and in Darjeeling's tea rooms it is served plain: pale gold, flowery and slightly astringent, with a 'muscatel' note in the later second flush. It is the opposite of a strong breakfast tea, so it is never boiled, stewed or given milk. Hill families drink it from morning till dusk, and it is a souvenir every visitor buys from Chowrasta. Chef's tip: use water just off the boil (about 90°C) and time the brew; overheated or overbrewed first flush turns bitter and loses its scent.

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Lal sah

In Assam, the home of half of India's tea, the everyday cup is lal sah, 'red tea': strong CTC or orthodox Assam leaf brewed briefly, poured off, sweetened and drunk black. It is what tea-garden workers, Guwahati office-goers and grandmothers drink from morning till evening, often with a slice of lemon, a crushed piece of ginger or, in upper Assam, a bay leaf. Its colour is a deep, clear red and its taste is malty and brisk, never stewed. Chef's tip: take the pan off the heat before adding the leaves; boiling them makes the tea harsh and cloudy.

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Chajá

Chajá was created in 1927 at a bakery in Paysandú, a city on the Uruguay River, and named after a local bird whose feathers look as fluffy as its crumbly meringue coat. Today it's Uruguay's birthday and celebration cake: layers of light sponge soaked in peach syrup, filled with whipped cream, peaches and dulce de leche, then covered in crushed meringue. It's sweet, soft and crunchy at once, best on the day it's assembled. Chef's tip: soak the sponge but not too much; it should feel moist, not wet, or the layers slide.

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Kahwa

Kahwa is the warming green tea of Kashmir, traditionally brewed in a brass samovar and poured for guests on cold winter days. Green tea leaves are infused with saffron, green cardamom and cinnamon, sweetened lightly and served with slivered almonds in each cup. It's golden, fragrant and soothing, and is drunk after heavy meals to help digestion. Chef's tip: never boil the tea leaves; simmer the spices first, then let the tea steep off the heat for just 2 minutes or it turns bitter.

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Kashmiri girda

Every neighbourhood in Srinagar has a kandur, a baker working at a pit oven, and before sunrise people queue there for girda: round breads about the size of a side plate, pressed all over with fingertips so the crust sets in ridges and hollows. The outside is lightly crisp, the crumb soft and slightly chewy, and the bread is torn and dunked into salty pink noon chai or spread with butter. A home oven with a heavy tray heated until very hot gets close to the kandur. Chef's tip: wrap the breads in a clean cloth as they come out; the trapped steam keeps the crust tender rather than hard.

142 minIndianBaking
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Punjabi lassi

In Amritsar and on the highways across Punjab, lassi comes in a tall steel or brass glass, churned so thick a spoon nearly stands up in it, with a raft of malai (clotted cream) floating on top. It is a summer drink, but Punjabis drink it all year with a stuffed paratha breakfast or after a heavy lunch. This is the plain sweet kind, with no fruit, so the tang of good full-fat yogurt is the whole point. Chef's tip: chill the yogurt, milk and glasses beforehand; cold lassi stays thicker.

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Indori shikanji

Anyone who orders shikanji in Indore expecting lemonade gets a surprise: here it is a spoonably thick drink of slow-reduced milk, saffron and cardamom, with a gentle tang from thick yogurt and plenty of chopped dry fruit. It is a late-night treat at Sarafa and Chhappan Dukan, poured from steel jugs into glasses after a round of savoury snacks. Think of it as somewhere between a lassi and a cold rabri. Chef's tip: the milk must be completely cold before the yogurt goes in, or the drink splits into grainy curds.

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Sattu sharbat

On scorching May afternoons in Patna, handcarts with steel pots and heaps of lemons sell sattu sharbat by the glass: roasted gram flour whisked into cold water with black salt, roasted cumin, lemon and a bit of raw onion and chilli. It is filling enough to stand in for lunch and is the drink rickshaw pullers and farm workers swear by to beat the loo, the hot summer wind. It tastes savoury, nutty and sharp all at once. Chef's tip: whisk the sattu into a little water first to a smooth paste, then dilute it; tipping it straight into a full glass leaves dry lumps.

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Sol kadhi

Sol kadhi is the pale pink drink served at the end of every meal along the Konkan coast, from Malvan to Ratnagiri. Fresh coconut milk is mixed with the deep purple soaking water of kokum, a sour fruit that grows in the coastal hills, and seasoned with a little garlic, green chilli and salt. It's cool, tangy and gently creamy, and it soothes the stomach after a spicy Malvani thali. Drink it from a small glass or pour it over rice as the last course. Chef's tip: make it with fresh coconut if you can; the milk you squeeze yourself is lighter and sweeter than tinned and gives the classic blush-pink colour.

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Goan poi

Every morning in Goan villages the poder, the local baker, cycles from house to house honking a horn, his basket full of warm bread. Poi is the one Goans miss most when they leave home: a flat, round, wholewheat-and-white-flour bread dusted with wheat bran, baked in a very hot wood oven so it puffs into a hollow pocket. It's torn open for chorizo pao in Goa, but just as good stuffed with spicy chickpea ros, dipped in a vegetable xacuti, or eaten with butter and tea. Traditionally the dough was raised with palm toddy; at home, yeast does the job. Chef's tip: preheat a heavy baking tray in the oven for at least 20 minutes; the shock of hot metal is what makes the poi puff.

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Osmania biscuits

Osmania biscuits are named after the last Nizam of Hyderabad, and they have been baked in the city's Irani bakeries for generations: round, crumbly, melt-in-the-mouth butter biscuits that are gently sweet with a distinct salty edge and a hint of cardamom. In old-city cafés, men linger over a plate of them and a cup of Irani chai in the early morning or after the evening prayers, dunking each one until it is just about to collapse. Chef's tip: chill the dough before cutting and baking; it keeps the biscuits round and thick instead of spreading thin.

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Chicha morada

Chicha morada is Peru's favourite soft drink, served by the jug in every restaurant in Lima and drunk across the country with lunch. Andean purple corn is simmered with pineapple peel, apple, cinnamon and cloves, then sweetened and sharpened with lime to make a dark ruby drink that tastes of berries, spice and gentle tannin, a little like a spiced cranberry juice. It has no alcohol, unlike the fermented chicha de jora of the Andes. Dried purple corn (maíz morado) comes from Latin shops; purple corn powder works too. Chef's tip: add the sugar and lime only once the drink has cooled; lime added to the hot liquid turns it bitter.

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