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TopfengolatschenSweet quark puff pastry squares

A Topfengolatsche is what Viennese office workers grab from the bakery on the way in, and what grandparents order with a Melange in a coffee house on a Sunday afternoon. The corners of a puff pastry square are folded over a lemony, vanilla-scented filling of Topfen (Austrian quark) with plump raisins, and the top gets a thin white glaze. It is flaky, light and not too sweet. Raisins are sometimes soaked in rum; warm water or orange juice works just as well, and the recipe below is alcohol-free. Wet quark is the classic problem, because it turns the filling runny and it leaks out in the oven. Chef's tip: hang the quark in a sieve lined with a clean cloth for an hour, or squeeze it, until it is as thick as soft cream cheese.

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Kärntner ReindlingCinnamon raisin yeast cake

Carinthia's Easter loaf takes its name from the Reindl, the round, deep pan it is baked in, and in southern Austria no Easter basket goes to church without one. Inside the golden yeast crust is a spiral of butter, cinnamon sugar and plump raisins, so every slice shows a dark swirl. Locals eat it two ways: sweet with coffee on Easter morning, or alongside the savoury Easter platter with horseradish. Many bakers soak the raisins in rum overnight; warm water or tea works just as well and keeps it alcohol-free. A dry, crumbly Reindling usually means too much flour went in during kneading, so keep the dough soft and only lightly floured. Chef's tip: butter the pan well and dust it with sugar, which caramelises into a thin crunchy shell.

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Bánh bông lan (Vietnamese sponge cake)

Bánh bông lan is the soft, golden sponge sold in every Vietnamese bakery, eaten with coffee or as an after-school snack, and it is also the cake under the cream and fruit at most children's birthdays from Hanoi to Saigon. Made with oil instead of butter, it stays moist and springy for days and is free of milk. It contains egg and gluten. Chef's tip: whisk the whites in a spotlessly clean bowl; a trace of yolk or grease stops them rising.

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Nước rau máPennywort juice

Saigon street carts blend nước rau má to order through the hottest part of the afternoon, pouring the bright green juice into plastic cups over crushed ice for office workers and students. Pennywort (rau má) tastes fresh, grassy and very slightly bitter, and southerners drink it to 'cool the body' in the dry season; some stalls blend in cooked mung beans or a splash of coconut milk to make it richer. Look for bunches of rau má in Vietnamese and South Asian grocers, where it is also sold as gotu kola. Chef's tip: strain twice through a fine cloth and drink it within the hour; left standing, it separates and darkens to a dull khaki.

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Cà phê muốiSalt coffee

A family café in Huế's citadel quarter began topping its coffee with salted cream, and now cà phê muối is served across central Vietnam and in trendy cafés in Saigon and Hanoi. Sip it without stirring: first the cool, faintly salty cream, then sweet condensed milk and strong phin coffee, the salt rounding off the bitterness much like a pinch in caramel. It is good hot or poured over ice. Chef's tip: use only a small pinch of salt per glass; too much and the drink tastes like seawater rather than salted caramel.

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Nước sâmCooling herbal drink

Big glass jars of amber nước sâm sit on pavement stalls all over Hồ Chí Minh City, ladled over ice for anyone who has eaten too much fried food or spent too long in the sun. The brew is gently sweet and earthy, with honeyed dried longan, the liquorice note of monk fruit and fresh sugarcane, and Chinese-Vietnamese herbalists sell ready-mixed bags of the dried roots. Make a big pot: it keeps for four days in the fridge. Chef's tip: simmer, never boil hard; a rolling boil pulls bitterness out of the roots and turns the drink cloudy.

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Chanh muốiSalted lime drink

Vietnamese households keep a jar of chanh muối, limes cured in salt until they turn soft and olive-brown, on a sunny shelf for months; on a sweltering day a lime or two is muddled with sugar and topped up with ice water or soda water. The drink is salty, sour and sweet all at once, and grandmothers swear by it for sore throats and after a bout of sun. This recipe makes the jar of cured limes (allow four weeks before the first glass) and then the drink itself. Chef's tip: dry the limes completely after blanching; any water left on the skins lets mould take hold in the jar.

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Cà phê trứngEgg coffee

Hanoi's old-quarter cafés, up narrow stairs and in tiny back rooms, serve cà phê trứng in a small cup set in a bowl of hot water so it stays warm while you spoon through the custardy foam into bitter coffee below. The topping is egg yolk whisked with condensed milk until pale and thick, a trick that began when fresh milk was scarce in the 1940s. Because the yolk is not cooked, use pasteurised eggs for pregnant women, young children, older people or anyone with a weakened immune system. Chef's tip: whisk longer than you think; under-beaten yolk tastes eggy and sinks straight into the coffee instead of sitting on top.

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Trà atisôArtichoke tea

Artichokes arrived in the cool Đà Lạt highlands with French planters, and today the town's markets sell dried artichoke leaves, stems and flower buds for tea along with fresh heads for soup. Local cafés serve it hot on misty mornings and iced in the afternoon, slightly sweet, earthy and pleasantly bitter, and many Vietnamese drink it as a gentle tonic after rich meals. This version brews fresh globe artichokes with their stems; a 30 g bag of dried trà atisô works the same way. Chef's tip: skip the aluminium pan; artichokes react with it and the tea turns grey and metallic.

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Bánh pía with durian and salted egg yolkDurian and egg yolk pastries

Sóc Trăng in the Mekong Delta is lined with shops stacking boxes of bánh pía for travellers to carry home, a legacy of the province's Teochew Chinese bakers. The pastry flakes into fine, papery layers around a dense mung bean paste perfumed with durian and hiding a whole salted egg yolk; they are eaten with hot tea at any time of day and given at Mid-Autumn. This home version uses vegetable shortening in place of the lard many bakeries use, which keeps it vegetarian. Chef's tip: keep the water dough and the oil dough at the same softness; if one is firmer, the layers tear when you roll and the pastry bakes up bready instead of flaky.

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Bánh tiêuSesame doughnuts

In Saigon and the Mekong towns, bánh tiêu are fried in big woks at the edge of the morning market and sold warm in paper bags, often torn open and filled with a stick of quẩy or eaten alongside soy milk. A soft, lightly sweet dough is rolled thin, coated with sesame and dropped into hot oil, where it balloons into a hollow, chewy round with a crackly seeded shell. The dough uses no egg or butter, so the doughnuts are vegan. Chef's tip: roll the rounds evenly thin and keep the oil hot; thick spots or a cool pan give you flat, oily discs that never puff.

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Nước sấu (sấu fruit drink)

When Hanoi's tamarind-like sấu trees drop their small green fruit in May and June, street vendors start selling glasses of nước sấu: a few candied fruits, a ladle of ginger syrup, cold water and crushed ice. Families make big jars to last until the season ends in August. It is sipped with a spoon so you can bite into the crunchy-soft fruit at the bottom. It tastes sour and sweet at once, with a clean ginger warmth and a flavour a little like green mango and plum. Traditional cooks soak the peeled fruit in limewater to keep it crisp; a salt soak works well at home. The common mistake is skipping the blanch and slow syrup: raw fruit stays acrid and the syrup clouds. Blanch the fruit briefly, then cook it gently in sugar until it turns translucent yellow-green and the syrup is clear and glossy. Store it in a sterilised jar in the fridge for up to 2 months with a clean spoon; discard if it fizzes, smells fermented or shows mould. Fresh sấu is rare abroad; look for frozen sấu in Vietnamese shops, or use firm green ambarella. Chef's tip: slash each fruit a few times so the syrup soaks all the way in.

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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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Trà sen (lotus tea)

Every June and July, before sunrise, boats slip between the pink lotus on Hanoi's West Lake to gather flowers for trà sen. The finest lotus tea is made by stripping the tiny white rice-like anthers from hundreds of blooms and layering them with green tea, a labour that makes it one of Vietnam's most expensive gifts, kept for Tết. Families do a simpler version at home: a spoon of Thái Nguyên green tea is tucked into the heart of a fresh flower in the evening, the petals closed and tied, and by morning the leaves have taken on a sweet, creamy, slightly vanilla-like perfume. It is brewed in a small clay pot and drunk in tiny cups in the early morning. The common mistake is brewing with boiling water, which flattens the lotus scent and makes the green tea bitter. Rinse the leaves quickly and brew at 80–85 °C. It is ready when the cup is pale gold and the steam smells of flowers before tea. No fresh lotus? Buy ready-made lotus-scented tea from Vietnamese shops and start at the brewing step. Chef's tip: pick a bud that is just about to open; a fully open bloom has already lost its scent.

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Cà phê cốt dừa (coconut coffee)

Hanoi takes its coffee seriously, and in the last fifteen years coconut coffee has become one of the city's signatures, sold from Old Quarter cafés, lakeside balconies around Hoàn Kiếm and tiny stools on the pavement. It is a hot-weather drink, at its best on a sticky afternoon between May and September, eaten half with a spoon. Strong Vietnamese robusta drips slowly through an aluminium phin, then is poured over a pale slush of thick coconut cream, sweetened condensed milk and crushed ice, so you get bitter, dark coffee against something rich and cold that tastes like coconut ice cream. The common mistake is blending the slush too long or with too much ice, which leaves it thin and watery, and pouring the coffee in boiling hot so the slush collapses. Blend just until it looks like soft snow, and let the coffee cool for a minute or two. It is ready when the slush holds a spoon upright and the coffee sits in a dark layer on top. Robusta is high in caffeine and this is a strong drink, so it is not for children and one glass is plenty. Chef's tip: chill the coconut cream overnight; cold, thick cream gives a fluffier slush.

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Bajan rum punch

Every Barbadian knows the rhyme: one of sour, two of sweet, three of strong, four of weak. It is how rum punch is mixed for Sunday lunch, at beach limes, at the Friday night fish fry in Oistins and through the Crop Over festival in July and August. The punch is for adults only and it is strong, so pour it over plenty of ice and drink responsibly. Made right, it tastes bright and tangy from lime, rounded by brown-sugar syrup, warm with golden Barbados rum and finished by aromatic bitters and the woody smell of fresh nutmeg on top. The usual mistake is reading 'weak' as fruit juice or adding extra rum: the four of weak is water (and melting ice), and swapping in sweet juices makes the punch cloying. Make the syrup properly, measure by volume and taste before you add the last of the water. It is ready when the sweet and sour are in balance, nothing catches your throat and the jug is beaded with cold. It also keeps 2 days in the fridge, so it can be made ahead. Chef's tip: grate the nutmeg over each glass at the table; ready-ground nutmeg has lost the smell that makes Bajan punch what it is.

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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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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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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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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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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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Trà chanhIced lime tea

On warm evenings the pavement beside St Joseph's Cathedral in Hanoi fills with rows of tiny plastic stools, and nearly everyone is holding a tall glass of trà chanh, cheap green tea poured over ice with a squeeze of lime and plenty of sugar, sipped with a saucer of sunflower seeds while the city's scooters roar past. It is sharp, sweet and very refreshing. Chef's tip: brew the tea in water just off the boil, around 80 °C; boiling water makes green tea bitter.

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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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