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Refresco de cocona

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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Einspänner

The Einspänner is named after the one-horse carriages of old Vienna: coachmen waiting outside in winter supposedly liked their coffee under a lid of cream that kept it hot and stopped it slopping. Today it is served in a handled glass at classic coffee houses, a strong black mocha (a double espresso or Großer Brauner without milk) topped with a thick layer of cold, lightly sweetened whipped cream and a pinch of icing sugar. You do not stir it: you sip the hot, bitter coffee through the cold, sweet cream, so each mouthful is two temperatures and two textures. It is an afternoon or late-morning coffee, often with a slice of Sachertorte. The common mistake is runny cream that sinks and turns the drink into a milky latte; whip it until it just holds a peak and spoon it on gently so it floats. It is ready when the cream stands at least 2 cm above the coffee and slowly sinks at the edges. It is strong: a double shot of caffeine in one glass. Chef's tip: pour the coffee in first and wait ten seconds before adding the cream, so the crema settles and helps support the cap.

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Wiener Melange

In Vienna you never simply order 'a coffee'; you order by name, and the Melange is the one most Viennese ask for. It arrives in a large cup on a small silver tray with a glass of water and often a tiny chocolate, and you may sit over it for an hour with the newspapers at Café Prückel or Hawelka, mid-morning or after lunch. Traditionally it is a mild, longer espresso (a Verlängerter) with roughly equal hot milk and a soft cap of milk foam; it is gentler than a cappuccino and the foam is looser and creamier. Expect a round, nutty, slightly sweet cup with little bitterness. The common mistake is overheating the milk: once it passes about 70 °C it smells cooked and loses its sweetness and the foam turns big-bubbled and dry. Stop when the jug is too hot to hold for more than a second or two. It is ready when the foam sits in a smooth, glossy dome about a finger thick and the coffee shows as a brown ring at the edge. One cup has about the caffeine of a single espresso. Chef's tip: always serve the glass of water alongside, as Vienna does; it is drunk first to clear the palate.

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Tereré

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 Massini

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 quemado

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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Charbat (Algerian lemon drink)

During Ramadan, as the afternoon wears on, vendors in Algiers' Bab El Oued, in Blida and Boufarik and in the old streets of Constantine fill plastic bags and jugs with ice-cold charbat for families to carry home before the call to iftar. It is lemonade made with lemon zest rubbed into sugar, a good splash of orange blossom water and a little milk, which turns it pale, opaque and silky and takes the sharp edge off the lemon. Served with zlabia, qalb el louz or straight after the dates and chorba, it tastes like lemon sherbet with a floral finish. The common mistake is adding the milk to strong, undiluted lemon juice, which curdles it into flecks; dilute the lemon fully, chill it, and only then pour in cold milk slowly while stirring. It is ready when it looks like pale lemon cream, smells of orange blossom and tastes sweet first, then tart. Lemon-and-milk drinks do not keep well, so make it the afternoon you serve it. Chef's tip: let the zest sit in the sugar for a good 10 minutes before adding water; the oils give charbat its perfume, far more than the juice alone.

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Ají amarillo 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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Chilcano de pisco

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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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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Mate de muña

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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Jugo de maca

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 surtido

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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Mouna

Oran's mouna came over with Spanish settlers as the Easter mona, and it is still baked for spring outings, recalling the Easter Monday picnics once held at the Santa Cruz chapel above the city. It is a tall, light, golden brioche with a crackly sugar crust, softly flavoured with orange-flower water and lemon zest rather than butter-heavy, and it tears into long, feathery strands. Eat it with coffee or hot chocolate, plain or with jam. The dough is slow and sticky, so give it time. Chef's tip: let the dough rise slowly overnight in the fridge after the first knead; it becomes easier to shape and the flavour deepens.

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Halwat tabaa (stamped jam biscuits)

Ask anyone who grew up in Algeria about the night before Eid and they will mention the smell of halwat tabaa baking: buttery shortbread cut and printed with a patterned metal stamp, then sandwiched in pairs with apricot jam. Children love helping to press the patterns, and the biscuits fill the tins offered to neighbours on the morning of the feast. They are tender and short, with a clean vanilla flavour against the tangy jam, and keep well for a week. A fluted round cutter and the tines of a fork will do if you have no stamp. Avoid working the dough too much or letting it get warm, as the stamped pattern then spreads and blurs in the oven. Chef's tip: dip the stamp in flour and tap off the excess before every press; a sticky stamp blurs the pattern, which is the most common disappointment.

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Mchewek (almond cookies)

Mchewek means something like 'prickly', which is exactly how these cookies look: balls of almond paste rolled in flaked almonds so the flakes stick out like spines, each topped with half a candied cherry and baked only until the tips turn gold. Inside they stay soft and chewy, like a rustic macaroon. Being made with no flour, they suit anyone avoiding gluten, and they appear on Eid and wedding trays all over Algeria, often brushed with a little honey syrup for shine. Chef's tip: take them out when the edges are just golden and the centres still feel soft; overbaking is the classic mistake and leaves them dry and crumbly once cool.

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Dziriettes (almond flower pastries)

Named after the women of Algiers, dziriettes are the jewels on any wedding or Eid tray: thin, crisp pastry pinched into a flower or crown, filled with a dome of almond paste scented with orange blossom, then baked and soaked in warm honey. They take patience, but the result is delicate and fragrant, with a shatter of pastry giving way to a soft, moist almond centre. Families often make a few hundred over several evenings, together, before a celebration, and serve them with mint tea or coffee. Chef's tip: roll the dough so thin you can almost see the worktop through it; thick pastry is the commonest mistake and turns dziriettes stodgy instead of crisp.

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Ka'ak nakache (date-filled semolina rings)

Constantine bakers own a special brass tweezer, the nakache, just for decorating these rings: a rope of buttery semolina dough is wrapped round spiced date paste, joined into a circle and pinched along the top into chevrons and leaves. Baked pale, ka'ak nakache is crisp and short outside with a soft, cinnamon and clove scented filling, a classic of Eid trays and of the coffee served to guests in the old city. Without the tweezer, a fork or the back of a small knife makes a good pattern. Chef's tip: let the buttered semolina rest for at least 30 minutes before adding water; skipping the rest is the usual mistake, and the rings crack as you shape them.

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Mbesses (Kabyle semolina cake)

Somewhere between shortbread and cornbread, mbesses is the plain cake of Kabyle kitchens, a shallow tray of semolina rich with melted butter, lightly sweetened and baked until golden on top. The texture is sandy and tender, breaking into crumbs that taste of toasted grain and butter, with a hint of orange blossom. It is cut into diamonds and served with milky coffee in the afternoon, or offered to guests who drop by during Ramadan evenings. Some households scatter sesame or nigella seeds over the top before baking. Chef's tip: spread the mixture into the tray with a light hand; pressing it down hard is the most common mistake and gives a dense, heavy cake.

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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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Punschkrapfen

Punschkrapfen are the bright pink cubes that glow from every Viennese Konditorei counter, especially in winter. Traditionally the filling of sponge crumbs, jam and chocolate is soaked in rum punch, which gives the cake its name, so the classic version contains alcohol. This recipe makes the alcohol-free version with orange juice and strong black tea, which keeps the fruity, warming flavour that children can eat too; to make the traditional one, swap 40 ml of the orange juice for dark rum. The sponge is moist and dense, the icing sweet and crackly. A common mistake is skipping the overnight press; the cubes fall apart when cut. Many pink colourings use carmine, made from insects, so choose a plant-based one such as beetroot red. Chef's tip: cut with a knife dipped in hot water and wiped between each cut for clean edges.

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Vanillekipferl

No Austrian Christmas cookie tin is complete without Vanillekipferl, the pale little crescents that melt on the tongue; Viennese grandmothers bake them by the hundred in early December, and they are just as loved over the border in Bavaria. The dough is short and rich with butter and ground almonds, and the crescents are rolled in vanilla sugar while still warm so it sticks. The common mistake is overbaking: they should stay pale with only the tips turning golden, or they lose their tender, sandy texture. Chef's tip: chill the dough well and shape it with cool hands; warm dough cracks and the crescents spread in the oven.

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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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