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Välling (Swedish oat and milk drink)

Välling, a thin gruel of cereal and milk, has been the Swedish child's bedtime drink for generations, and many families still make their own for toddlers once they move on to cow's milk at around a year old. It is smooth, warm and lightly oaty, with no added sugar or honey. It contains milk and gluten (oats are often processed with wheat; use certified gluten-free oats if needed); there is no egg, nuts, soya, sesame or fish. Chef's tip: blend the oats to a fine flour first, so the drink is silky and flows easily from a beaker.

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EinspännerBlack coffee with whipped cream

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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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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Homemade kashkFermented yogurt whey

Kashk began with Iran's nomadic herders, who churned their yoghurt for butter in goatskin bags, then cooked and dried the sour leftover into hard balls that lasted through winter. In Kerman, Fars and Khorasan it is still made that way, but in Tehran most people buy it liquid in jars. Making your own is worth one slow afternoon. It is the salty, sour, almost cheesy finish swirled over ash reshteh at Nowruz, folded into kashk-e bademjan with fried mint and walnuts, and stirred into kaleh joosh on cold nights. Liquid kashk is thick and creamy like soured cream but sharper and saltier; dried kashk is chalky-hard and grates like aged cheese. Common mistake: heating the churned yoghurt fast; it scorches and the curd turns rubbery. Keep the heat low and stir. The curd is ready when it separates into soft white clumps in a clear, yellow-green whey. Kashk is always cooked again before eating — even the jarred kind — so heat it when you use it. Chef's tip: a goat or sheep's milk yoghurt, or half and half with cow's, gives the most authentic, funky flavour.

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Wiener MelangeCoffee with milk and foam

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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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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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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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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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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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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Kaffeost (coffee with cheese)

In the far north, across Swedish Norrbotten and Finnish Lapland, coffee comes with cheese in the cup. Leipäjuusto, a mild, squeaky cheese baked or grilled until spotted brown (called kaffeost or 'bread cheese'), is cut into cubes and put in a cup, often a carved wooden kuksa, then hot black coffee is poured over. Sámi reindeer herders and Tornedalen farmers have made it this way for generations; it is a fireside or mid-morning drink on a cold day, and in some families a little sugar or a slice of dried reindeer meat goes in as well. The cheese warms through, softens slightly and soaks up the coffee, so you drink the coffee and then spoon out the warm, chewy, milky cubes. The common mistake is using a soft or melting cheese: it collapses into strings. Use proper leipäjuusto or halloumi, which keep their shape. It is ready when the cubes are hot to the centre, about 2 minutes, and slightly puffed. Strong coffee means real caffeine here, so it is an adult drink. Leipäjuusto is sold in Nordic shops; halloumi is the nearest substitute. Chef's tip: warm the cheese on a dry pan first for extra browned flavour.

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Sharbat-e rivas (rhubarb sherbet)

For a few weeks in spring, after Nowruz, sellers come down from the Alborz foothills, the mountains of Khorasan and Kurdistan with bundles of rivas, the thick-stalked wild rhubarb. People peel and eat the stalks raw with salt, cook them into khoresh, and boil the rest into syrup to keep the taste of the season into summer. Sharbat-e rivas is pink, sharp and refreshing, like sour cherry and green apple together, softened by sugar and lifted by mint. The common mistake is boiling the rhubarb hard and pressing it through the sieve, which makes the syrup cloudy, brownish and stringy; simmer gently and let it drip on its own. Use only the stalks, never the leaves, which are poisonous. The syrup is ready when it is clear, rose-coloured and coats a spoon in a thin film; it keeps for two weeks in a clean bottle in the fridge, and should be thrown away if it fizzes, smells of alcohol or grows mould. Garden rhubarb is a good substitute for rivas; the reddest stalks give the prettiest colour. Chef's tip: a strip of lemon peel in the pot brightens the colour and stops the syrup tasting flat.

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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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Lingondricka (lingonberry cordial)

In Sweden the jug of red lingondricka sits on the table at weekday dinners, in school canteens and at the julbord, poured beside meatballs, pyttipanna or a Saturday pea soup. Lingonberries grow wild in the forests of Norrland and Dalarna, and in late August families pick them by the bucket with a wooden berry rake. Cooked with sugar and strained, they become a cordial that is both sweet and sharp, with a slight bitter-almond edge from the skins, bright enough to cut through rich, creamy food. The common mistake is boiling the berries hard for a long time: the cordial turns jammy and brownish, and the pectin can make it set in the bottle. Bring it just to the boil, crush, then simmer only briefly. The syrup is ready when it is clear ruby, flows like a thin syrup and tastes tart then sweet. Lingonberries are sold frozen in Nordic and Eastern European shops; cranberries work as a substitute, with a little more sugar. Bottled hot into sterilised bottles it keeps 2 months in the fridge, or 6 months frozen. Throw it out if you see mould or it fizzes. Chef's tip: mix one part cordial to five of chilled sparkling water for a party version.

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Blåbärssoppa (warm bilberry drink)

Every first Sunday of March, the 90-kilometre Vasaloppet ski race from Sälen to Mora is fuelled by blåbärssoppa: volunteers at the feeding stations hand thousands of skiers paper cups of the warm purple drink, and Swedes drink it from thermoses on winter hikes, after skating and on the ski slopes. It is made from wild bilberries, the small dark forest berries with purple flesh, cooked with sugar and thickened with potato starch so it is just thick enough to coat the cup. It is sweet, softly tart and tastes intensely of berries, with a silky, almost glossy body. The common mistake is stirring the starch straight into the hot pot: it forms jelly lumps at once. Always mix potato starch with cold water first, take the pot off the boil, then stir it in and bring back just to a bubble; long boiling thins it again. It is ready when it turns glossy and coats a spoon in a thin film. Bilberries are sold frozen in Nordic shops; cultivated blueberries work too, with a squeeze of lemon for sharpness. Chef's tip: it is just as good cold the next day, or served as a soup with whipped cream and almond biscuits.

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HyldeblomstsaftElderflower cordial

In Denmark the elder hedges flower from late May to the end of June, and picking the creamy umbels on a dry, sunny morning is one of the first rituals of summer. The flowers steep for a few days with sliced lemon, sugar syrup and citric acid, then are strained into bottles of hyldeblomstsaft, a non-alcoholic cordial that is diluted with cold still or sparkling water and poured at garden lunches, children's birthday parties and around the bonfire on Sankt Hans aften, 23 June. It tastes floral and honeyed, a little like muscat grapes, with a fresh lemony edge that keeps it from cloying. The mistake most people make is picking flowers that are already browning, damp or growing by a busy road; they give a musty, catty smell. Choose freshly opened heads that smell sweet, and shake out the insects instead of washing them, which rinses away the pollen and the flavour. The cordial is ready when it tastes clearly of elderflower and the lemon slices have softened. Chef's tip: snip the florets off with scissors right under the flowers, as green stalk makes it bitter.

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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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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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Chai nabat (saffron rock candy tea)

Pilgrims leaving Mashhad carry home boxes of saffron nabat, crystals of rock candy grown on a string and tinted gold with Khorasani saffron. Across Iran a glass of chai nabat is what you are handed when you feel unwell, after a shock, after an exam, or late at night when the evening meal sits heavy; it is traditionally drunk to settle the stomach and warm you up. The tea is brewed strong in a teapot that sits on top of the kettle, then poured clear and amber into small glasses, and the nabat stick is stirred until it softens the tea with a gentle, honeyed sweetness and a faint saffron aroma. Black tea has a moderate amount of caffeine, so give children a weaker glass. A common mistake is boiling the leaves or letting them steep on direct heat, which turns the tea bitter and murky; Persian tea is "dam" — brewed gently on steam. It is ready when the leaves have sunk, the tea is clear and reddish-amber and it smells of bergamot or cardamom. Chef's tip: hold the glass up to the light; if you can't see through it, top it up with hot water, as Iranians do.

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Sharbat-e bidmeshk (willow blossom sherbet)

Kashan and the villages of Qamsar and Niasar are famous for distilling flowers in spring: rose water in May, and before that araq-e bidmeshk, the distillate of the fuzzy catkins of the musk willow. In summer, when the desert heat settles over the old houses, the same bottles go into sharbat-e bidmeshk, a pale syrup diluted with icy water and served to guests in tall glasses, sometimes with swollen basil seeds. It is traditionally drunk to calm the nerves and cool the body. The taste is delicate, sweet and haunting, somewhere between honeysuckle, musk and fresh hay. The common mistake is adding the distillate to hot syrup; the heat drives the scent away within minutes, so cool the syrup completely first. The syrup is ready when it is clear and pours like thin honey, and the finished sherbet should smell floral the moment you lift the glass. Look for the distillate in Iranian shops; there is no true substitute, though rose water with a few drops of orange-blossom water makes a pleasant but different drink. Chef's tip: a squeeze of lemon in the syrup stops it crystallising in the fridge, where it keeps for a month.

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Sharbat-e zaferan (saffron sherbet)

Big steel urns of golden saffron sherbet are poured for guests at Iranian weddings and engagement parties, and the same drink is handed out on the street as nazri during Muharram and at memorial gatherings, when families offer something sweet and cool in the name of the departed. Saffron from Khorasan is ground with a sugar cube, bloomed in a little water and stirred into syrup with rose water and lemon. The result is honey-sweet and floral, with saffron's faint bitterness and hay-like perfume at the end, and a colour that should be a clear, sunny orange-gold. The usual mistake is dropping whole threads straight into cold water, which gives a pale, patchy drink and wastes expensive saffron; grind it first and let it bloom for at least 10 minutes. You know the bloom is ready when the water is a deep red-orange and smells strongly of saffron. Taste before serving: it should be sweet but finish clean, with the lemon just noticeable. Chef's tip: an ice cube placed on the ground saffron and left to melt slowly gives the deepest colour of all, an old Iranian trick.

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Skyr

Skyr has been made in Iceland since the Viking settlers arrived: skimmed milk soured with a spoonful of the last batch, set with a drop of rennet, then strained until very thick, high in protein and mildly sour. Icelanders eat it every day with milk or cream and berries, or whisked into a drink, and skyrkaka is a favourite cheesecake. You need a few spoonfuls of plain shop skyr with live cultures as a starter. A common mistake is skipping the long, slow set; rushed skyr is thin and grainy. Chef's tip: strain it in the fridge overnight and stir it smooth before serving. Rennet is traditionally animal; use vegetarian rennet.

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Moraba-ye bahar narenjBitter orange blossom jam

When the bitter orange trees lining Shiraz's streets bloom in April, the whole city smells of blossom, and households gather the fallen petals to make this pale golden jam for the year ahead. It is spooned onto bread with fresh cheese at breakfast, or stirred into tea. The petals are bitter, so they are blanched and soaked several times before they meet the syrup. A common mistake is cutting the soaking short, which leaves the jam harsh. Chef's tip: add the lemon juice only at the end; it keeps the petals bright and stops the syrup from crystallising.

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AguajinaAguaje palm fruit drink

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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