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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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Pira caldoCreamy fish soup with cheese

Along the Paraguay River from Asunción to Concepción, pira caldo is the fishermen's soup, said to restore strength after a long night: chunks of firm river fish poached in a broth of onion, peppers and tomato fried in fat, then made creamy with milk and melted fresh cheese. Surubí or other catfish is traditional; any firm white fish such as hake or pollock works. The mistake most people make is boiling the soup after the milk and cheese go in, which splits it. Chef's tip: fry the vegetables until they are very soft and sweet before adding the water; that is where the flavour comes from.

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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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Lahpet yay (Burmese milk tea)

Yangon runs on lahpet yay. From before dawn, crowded teashops set out tiny plastic stools on the pavement, and the tea comes with mohinga, palata or a plate of samusa; people linger again at four in the afternoon to talk. The tea is a dark, very strong brew of cheap black leaf that has been boiled and kept hot in a kettle, mixed in the cup with condensed milk and evaporated milk. Regulars order in code: cho seint is sweet and creamy, kya seint is strong and less sweet, pawsein is the standard. It should be thick, silky, sweet, faintly smoky and bitter underneath. The common mistake is brewing it like ordinary tea: it ends up thin and the condensed milk just tastes of sugar. Boil the leaves hard and then let them stand so the liquor is almost black; the bitterness is needed to stand up to the milk. It is ready when the tea poured from height into the cup has a light froth and the colour of milk chocolate. It is strongly caffeinated, so not one for children or late evenings. Chef's tip: pour the finished tea between two jugs a few times to cool it slightly and give it the teashop froth.

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Laphet yayBurmese milk tea

Burmese teashops, from the busy corners of Yangon to small-town Shan State, run on laphet yay: very strong black tea poured over condensed and evaporated milk, and customers order it by sweetness, from "pan pyar" (less sweet) to "cho seint" (extra sweet and creamy). It comes with samusa, palata or a bowl of mohinga. The mistake is weak tea: it must be brewed long and dark so it stands up to all that milk. Chef's tip: pour the finished tea from one jug to another from a height a few times; it cools slightly and gets the frothy top teashops are proud of.

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Pon ye gyiFermented bean sauce

Bagan, among its thousands of temples, is just as known in Myanmar for pon ye gyi, the thick, glossy black bean paste sold in clay pots at Nyaung-U market. Workshops there boil beans, ferment them under cloth, steep them in brine and boil the dark liquid down for hours. At home it is a seasoning rather than a dip: fried with garlic, onion and chilli as pon ye gyi kyaw, it becomes the savoury base for pork or chicken curries and for stir-fried greens, and is eaten with rice and raw vegetables through the hot dry season. The taste is deeply salty, savoury and slightly sweet-bitter, with a soft funk like miso and black bean sauce combined, and a texture like thick molasses. Common mistake: stopping the reduction too soon; a thin brown sauce will not keep and lacks depth, so cook it until it is black, glossy and falls from the spoon in ribbons. Bagan makers use different beans; this home method uses soybeans with a Bacillus-style ferment like thua nao. It is ready when a spoonful sets into a thick gloss on a cold plate. Chef's tip: stir more often near the end, when it can catch.

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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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Kyar zan hingaGlass noodle soup with chicken

Lighter than mohinga and a favourite with children, kyar zan hinga turns up at Yangon donation feasts, at evening noodle stalls and on the family table when someone needs something soothing. Slippery glass noodles swim in a clear, peppery chicken broth with shredded chicken, crunchy wood-ear mushroom, chewy knots of dried lily buds, bouncy fish balls and whole quail eggs. Each bowl is finished at the table with lime, chilli flakes, fried garlic and coriander, and crisp split-pea fritters are often torn in on top. Simmering the glass noodles in the pot is the classic error: they swell, go soft and drink up the broth, so add them straight to the bowls instead. Chef's tip: knot each softened lily bud before it goes into the soup; it keeps them from shredding and gives every spoonful a little chewy bite.

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Shan pickled mustard greens

Jars of sour, olive-gold mustard greens sit on every noodle stall in Shan State, from Kengtung to the five-day markets around Inle Lake, and families keep a crock going through the cool season. The greens are wilted, rubbed with salt and packed under cloudy water saved from rinsing rice; its starch feeds the natural fermentation, and after a few days the leaves turn crunchy, tangy and pleasantly funky. A spoonful goes on top of Shan noodles, beside sticky rice, into soups, or stir-fried with garlic and chilli as a side dish. Leaves poking above the brine are the main thing that goes wrong, since that is where mould starts; keep everything pressed under the liquid. Chef's tip: use the cloudiest rice water from the first rinse, and add a spoon of cooked rice to get the souring going faster.

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Kyay oh

Served bubbling in a small brass pot, which is what kyay oh means, this Chinese-Burmese soup fills the late-night noodle shops of Yangon's Chinatown and the busy breakfast places of Mandalay. A clear, peppery pork broth carries thin rice noodles, springy hand-rolled pork balls, sliced pork, tender greens and an egg cracked in at the last moment so it poaches in the pot. Garlic oil, white pepper and a side of vinegar with chopped chilli keep each spoonful sharp and warming. The pitfall is boiling the broth hard once the pork balls are in; they toughen and the soup turns cloudy, so keep it at a gentle bubble. Chef's tip: slap the pork mince against the bowl for a minute before shaping; it gives the balls their bouncy, almost crunchy texture.

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ChajáSponge, peach and cream cake

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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Vegetarian mohingaRice noodle soup with lemongrass

Mohinga is Myanmar's national breakfast, ladled from steaming pots at dawn on street corners from Yangon to Mandalay: thin rice noodles in a thick, golden broth fragrant with lemongrass, ginger and toasted chickpea flour, topped with crisp fritters, lime and chilli. The real thing is built on catfish and fish sauce. This vegetarian version is honestly different: dried shiitake and kombu give savouriness instead of fish, and the body comes from toasted chickpea flour, toasted rice powder and banana stem (or palm heart), so it's lighter and earthier rather than fishy. Chef's tip: toast the chickpea flour and rice until golden and nutty before they go in; they carry most of the flavour.

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So'o yosopyGround beef and rice soup

So'o yosopy, "pounded meat" in Guaraní, is a soup Paraguayans make for anyone who is tired or recovering, and on cold days in Asunción's winter: beef is ground very finely and stirred into cold water so it breaks into soft, delicate threads, then simmered with onion, tomato, pepper and a little rice and oregano. The texture is smooth and the broth light. The mistake is adding the beef to boiling water, which makes it clump into meatballs; mix it into cold water first and stir as it heats. Chef's tip: ask the butcher to mince lean beef twice, or pulse it very fine in a food processor.

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Ohn no khao swe with tofuCoconut noodle soup with tofu

Ohn no khao swe is the comforting coconut noodle soup that Burmese families serve for weekend lunches and for crowds at donation feasts, especially around Mandalay and Yangon. Wheat noodles sit in a rich, mildly spiced coconut broth thickened with chickpea flour, and everyone adds their own toppings: lime, sliced raw onion, chilli flakes, coriander and crispy fried noodles. It's normally made with chicken; tofu and chickpeas take its place here. Chef's tip: stir the coconut milk in at the end and keep it at a gentle simmer; a hard boil makes the coconut split and turn oily.

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Vegetarian vori voriCornmeal dumpling and vegetable soup

Vori vori is the soup Paraguayan grandmothers make on cold June and July evenings: a golden broth full of bori, small balls of cornmeal and cheese that swell soft as they simmer. The name is a Guaraní take on the Spanish 'bolita' (little ball). It's usually made with hen; this version gets its colour and body from pumpkin, carrot and a sofrito with saffron or turmeric. Chef's tip: shape the balls no bigger than a hazelnut; they double in size and larger ones stay raw inside.

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