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Haneeneh

Haneeneh is desert comfort food from the Bedouin tents of the Jordanian Badia: soft dates mashed into hot samneh with crumbs of yesterday's flatbread, scented with cardamom and pressed into a rich, fudgy sweet. It is made for guests, for new mothers and for cold mornings before herding, eaten by hand with black tea or Arabic coffee. It takes ten minutes and uses only store-cupboard things. The mistake to avoid is cooking the dates too long once they meet the ghee; they turn stiff and chewy instead of jammy. Chef's tip: toast the crumbs in the ghee first until nutty, then add the dates off the heat so the mixture stays soft.

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Zarb

Visitors to the desert camps of Wadi Rum often watch the zarb come up from the sand at sunset: tiered racks of spiced lamb, chicken, potatoes and onions that have steamed for hours in a pit of embers, then lifted out smoky and falling apart. At home you get close with a deep roasting tin sealed tightly with foil, a long, low oven and a short blast of heat at the end. Serve it on a big platter over rice or with shrak, with yoghurt and a tomato salad. The mistake most people make is leaving gaps in the foil, so the steam escapes and the meat dries. Chef's tip: marinate overnight in the fridge and add a little smoked paprika to the spice mix; it brings back the taste of the pit.

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Shorbat freekeh

When the sunset call to prayer ends the Ramadan fast in Amman, the first spoonfuls are very often shorbat freekeh, a nourishing broth thickened with cracked green wheat that was roasted in the field while still young. The smoke from that roasting gives the soup its distinctive, almost barbecue-like depth, while chicken, cinnamon and cardamom keep it gentle on an empty stomach. It is followed by dates, salad and the main dish. The usual mistake is not picking over and rinsing the freekeh, which can hold tiny stones and chaff. Chef's tip: toast the rinsed freekeh in butter for a couple of minutes before adding the broth; it brings out the smokiness.

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Ouzi

Ouzi is the showpiece of Jordanian and Damascene wedding buffets and Eid lunches: golden filo bundles that break open to spiced rice, minced lamb, peas and toasted nuts. The name comes from the whole roast lamb once served on a mountain of rice; the parcels are the neat, home-sized version, made ahead and baked as guests arrive. Serve with plain yoghurt or a cucumber-yoghurt salad. The common mistake is filling the filo with wet rice, which turns the bottoms soggy, so cook the rice until just tender and spread it out to steam dry. Chef's tip: lay a few nuts and peas in the bowl first, then the filo, then the filling, so each parcel comes out with a pretty top.

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Galayet bandora

Ask anyone in Amman what they cook when the fridge is nearly empty and the answer is often galayet bandora: ripe tomatoes collapsed in a shallow pan with olive oil, garlic and hot green chilli until they turn jammy and sweet. It turns up at breakfast, as a quick supper, and over a camp fire on desert trips to Wadi Rum, always eaten straight from the pan with torn khubz or shrak. Some families add cubes of lamb; this meatless version is the one most homes make every week. The usual mistake is stirring too much and adding water, which gives you a thin sauce instead of glossy, slightly caramelised tomatoes. Chef's tip: let the tomatoes sit untouched for the first few minutes so their undersides catch and colour; that touch of browning is where the flavour comes from.

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Shrak

In Bedouin camps around Wadi Rum and Ma'an, shrak is baked fresh for every meal: dough stretched thinner than a handkerchief, flung over a domed iron saj above the fire and lifted off seconds later, soft and blistered. It is the bread that lines the mansaf platter and wraps grilled meat, and it is torn for galayet and labneh at breakfast. At home an upturned wok over a gas flame stands in for the saj. The common mistake is rolling the dough on a dry surface; it tears, so oil your hands and worktop instead and stretch the dough over the backs of your hands like a pizza maker. Chef's tip: rest the dough balls a full 30 minutes, well oiled and covered; relaxed gluten stretches to near see-through without fighting back.

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Hilbeh

Hilbeh is the tray cake Jordanian grandmothers bake in winter and for visits after childbirth, when fenugreek is believed to warm and strengthen. Soaked fenugreek seeds swell into soft, jelly-coated beads that dot a dense semolina crumb, giving a gently bitter, maple-like scent that the hot syrup softens. Cut into diamonds, each topped with an almond, it sits on the coffee table beside Arabic coffee from Irbid to Aqaba. The mistake people make is using the seeds dry: they stay hard and bitter, so boil and soak them first. Chef's tip: pour cold syrup over the cake the moment it leaves the oven; hot-on-cold soaks in evenly and keeps the top from going soggy.

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Rashoof

In the stone villages around Karak and Tafileh, rashoof is what simmers on cold, wet evenings: brown lentils and coarse bulgur cooked soft, then enriched with jameed, the dried salted yoghurt that is also the soul of mansaf. The result is thick, sour and comforting, almost a porridge, finished with a heap of onions fried golden in samneh. Jameed is sold in hard balls or as a liquid in Middle Eastern shops; thick strained yoghurt with a little extra salt makes a fine stand-in. The classic mistake is letting the soup boil hard once the yoghurt goes in, which makes it split into grainy curds. Chef's tip: temper the yoghurt with a ladle of hot soup first and stir in one direction over a low heat; it stays silky.

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Ka'ak bi ajwa

In the last nights of Ramadan, Jordanian kitchens turn into small bakeries, and trays of ka'ak bi ajwa go into neighbourhood ovens ready for Eid morning. A crumbly semolina pastry scented with anise and mahlab is wrapped round a rope of date paste, closed into rings and baked pale gold, then offered to every visitor with bitter Arabic coffee. Children usually do the rolling. The common mistake is overworking the dough after the butter goes in, which makes the cookies hard rather than sandy. Chef's tip: rest the semolina and butter mixture overnight before adding the liquid; the grains drink the fat and the ka'ak melt in the mouth.

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Kwati

Kwati is a thick, warming soup of nine kinds of sprouted beans that the Newar families of the Kathmandu Valley cook on Janai Purnima, the August full moon also called Kwati Punhi, when the monsoon is at its height and people are said to need strength against the damp. The mix usually includes black gram, green mung, chickpeas, soybeans, field peas, kidney beans, cowpeas, field beans and rice beans, soaked and sprouted for two or three days beforehand, then cooked with ajwain, ginger, garlic, tomato and a pinch of timur. Markets in Asan sell ready-mixed kwati beans in the week before the festival. It is eaten in bowls with beaten rice or simply on its own. The mistake people make is skipping the sprouting, which leaves the soup heavy and the beans hard. Chef's tip: fry the ajwain until it crackles; its thyme-like warmth makes the beans easier to digest and is the flavour of the festival.

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Sel roti

When Tihar, the five-day festival of lights, arrives in late autumn, kitchens all over Nepal fill with the smell of sel roti: big, thin rings of sweetened rice batter fried in hot oil until crisp and russet outside and soft and slightly chewy inside. They are stacked high to offer to the gods, to sisters during Bhai Tika and to every guest, and they are also made at Dashain and for weddings, travelling well and keeping for days. Rice is soaked overnight and ground with sugar into a thick, pourable batter, then poured by hand in one confident circle into the oil. Many families add ghee to the batter, which makes the rings richer but means they are vegetarian rather than vegan; this version uses oil. The common mistake is oil that is not hot enough, so the batter drinks fat and turns greasy. Chef's tip: let the batter rest for an hour after grinding; it thickens and ferments slightly, and the rings puff and hold their shape better.

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Dal bhat

Across Nepal, from Terai farmhouses to trekking lodges below Everest, dal bhat is not a dish so much as the meal itself, eaten twice a day, late morning and early evening, often with the words "dal bhat power, 24 hour". The plate is always the same idea: a mound of plain rice (bhat), a thin, soupy lentil dal scented with jimbu (a dried Himalayan allium) fried in ghee, a dry vegetable tarkari, a little stir-fried greens when there are some, and a sharp spoonful of achar. You pour the dal over the rice and mix it by hand, a little at a time, with bites of curry and pickle. Most newcomers make the dal too thick; Nepali dal should run off the spoon like a light soup so it soaks the rice. Chef's tip: fry the jimbu in the hot ghee only until it darkens a shade and smells of garlicky onion, about 10 seconds, then pour it straight into the dal and cover the pan to trap the aroma.

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Choila

Choila belongs to the Newar community of the Kathmandu Valley, where it is served at festivals like Dashain and at feasts in Bhaktapur and Patan, alongside beaten rice (chiura) and a glass of something strong. Traditionally it is water buffalo, grilled over straw so the meat tastes smoky, then tossed while warm with raw mustard oil, garlic, ginger, chilli and a sizzling fenugreek tempering. This version uses chicken thighs, with buffalo or beef as an option, and it is always fully cooked before tossing. Serve it as a starter or snack with chiura and pickled radish. Chef's tip: let the mustard-oil tempering smoke for a few seconds before pouring it over; the hot oil loses its raw bite and coats the meat with a nutty, pungent flavour.

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Sekuwa

Dharan, in Nepal's eastern hills, is famous for its 'sekuwa corner', a lane of smoky grills where families and friends gather in the evening for spiced goat, chicken and pork skewers fresh off the fire. The meat is marinated in a dry-ish paste of garlic, ginger, cumin, chilli and timur (Nepali Sichuan pepper), with a little mustard oil, then grilled until charred at the edges. It is the classic picnic and party food, eaten with puffed rice, a tomato-sesame achar and sliced onion. This recipe uses lamb or mutton shoulder in place of goat. Chef's tip: soak wooden skewers for 30 minutes and leave a little space between the pieces so the heat reaches all sides.

40 minNepaliMeatGluten freeSpicy
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Juju dhau

Juju dhau means king of curds in the Newar language, and it belongs to Bhaktapur, the old brick-and-temple city east of Kathmandu, where it is sold in round clay bowls from shops around Durbar Square and taken home by the stack. Full-fat milk, traditionally buffalo milk, is boiled down by a third until it is rich and faintly caramel, sweetened, then set overnight in unglazed clay pots that soak up the whey, leaving a custard-thick, creamy yogurt with a pale golden skin. No wedding, festival or important meal in the Valley ends without it, and it is eaten on its own with a small spoon. People often rush the reduction, and the yogurt then sets thin and sour. Chef's tip: if you don't have clay pots, set it in ceramic ramekins and pour off any whey after setting; and keep it warm and undisturbed, wrapped in a blanket, so it sets in one smooth layer.

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Aloo tama

Aloo tama is the curry that tells you you are in Nepal: potatoes (aloo) and black-eyed beans (bodi) simmered with tama, slivers of bamboo shoot that have been fermented until they are pleasantly sour and funky. It is a Newar dish at heart, cooked all over the Kathmandu Valley for weddings, feasts and cold winter evenings, and every Nepali restaurant abroad keeps a pot of it. The sourness comes from the bamboo, sharpened with tomato, and the warmth from fenugreek seeds burnt nearly black in mustard oil and a dusting of timur, the Nepali Sichuan pepper that numbs the lips. Eat it with rice or beaten rice (chiura). Don't skip rinsing the bamboo: straight from the jar it can be so sharp that it takes over the whole pot. Chef's tip: let the fenugreek seeds turn a deep reddish brown before anything else goes in; that bitter-sweet, almost maple smell is the backbone of the curry.

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Gundruk ko jhol

In the terraced hill villages between Pokhara and Ilam, families pack mustard, radish and cauliflower leaves into clay pots after the autumn harvest, let them ferment for a week or two and then sun-dry them into gundruk. That dark, tangy leaf is the store cupboard of the winter months, and its most common use is this thin, sour soup (jhol), served on the side of dal bhat or with dhido, the stiff buckwheat or millet porridge of the hills. It tastes a little like a smoky, vinegary green tea and is light, warming and very cheap. A handful of roasted soybeans (bhatmas) is often thrown in for crunch. The mistake is to cook gundruk without soaking it first, which leaves it gritty and too sour. Chef's tip: squeeze the soaked leaves hard and fry them in the oil until they crackle before you add water; that frying gives the soup its toasty depth.

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Saag (rayo ko saag)

Ask for saag anywhere in Nepal and you will get the leafy part of the dal bhat plate: a tangle of greens, most often rayo (a broad-leafed mustard green), fried fast in mustard oil with garlic and a dried chilli until just wilted. It is nothing like the slow-cooked, puréed sarson ka saag of Punjab. Nepali saag keeps its bright colour, a little bite in the stems and a pleasant bitterness. It grows in every kitchen garden from the Terai to the hills and is on the table most days from autumn to spring. Spinach, chard or Chinese mustard greens all work the same way. The common mistake is to cover the pan, which stews the leaves to a grey mush; keep the heat high and the lid off. Chef's tip: add the stems a minute before the leaves so both are done at the same moment.

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Aloo achar

Aloo ko achar is the potato salad of Nepal, but tangy, nutty and hot rather than creamy. Boiled potatoes are tossed with ground toasted sesame, lemon juice, green chilli and timur, then finished with mustard oil in which fenugreek seeds have been fried dark. You find it everywhere: in tiffin boxes on the way to school, at picnics and on the long leaf plates of Newar feasts, alongside beaten rice and spicy beans, and it is a fixture at Dashain and Tihar gatherings when food has to sit out for hours. It keeps well, and the flavour improves after a rest. Dressing the potatoes while still hot is the usual mistake: they soak it up and turn mushy, so let them cool first. Chef's tip: toast the sesame until it just starts to pop and smells like popcorn, then grind it to a coarse sandy powder; it thickens the dressing and gives the salad its nuttiness.

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Golbheda ko achar

No momo is served in Nepal without a small bowl of golbheda ko achar, and no dal bhat feels complete without a dab of it on the side. Tomatoes (golbheda) are charred over a flame or on a dry griddle until black-blistered and soft, then pounded with garlic, green chilli and timur, the citrusy Nepali pepper that leaves a buzz on the tongue. Grandmothers grind it on the flat stone silauto; a blender or mortar does the job at home. It is smoky, sour and hot, and is made fresh in most kitchens every day or two. A spoonful of toasted sesame or soybean powder thickens the version served with momos in Kathmandu. Don't purée it smooth: the skins and seeds give it its rustic body. Chef's tip: char the garlic and chillies beside the tomatoes; their sharp edge softens and the achar tastes sweeter and deeper.

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Bara

Bara, or wo in the Newar language, is a thick, savoury pancake of ground black lentils that the Newar people of the Kathmandu Valley have made for centuries. It is cooked on a flat griddle until spotted brown and lacy at the edges but soft and airy inside. It is festival food above all: it appears at Sithi Nakha in early summer, on the plates of Newar feasts and at roadside stalls in Kirtipur and Patan, where it is often topped with a cracked egg. This plant-based version keeps it plain, with ginger, garlic and cumin in the batter. Eat it hot with golbheda ko achar. The usual mistake is to add too much water when grinding: the batter must be thick enough to hold a peak, or the bara spread thin and go flat. Chef's tip: beat the ground batter by hand for 3–4 minutes until it turns pale and fluffy; the air you whip in is what makes the bara light.

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Chatamari

Chatamari is a thin, round crêpe of rice flour that Newar cooks in Patan, Bhaktapur and old Kathmandu make on a covered griddle, so the topping steams on top while the base turns crisp underneath. It is sometimes called Newari pizza, which says something about how it's eaten: cut into wedges, hot, and shared. It is a festival and teahouse snack, served at Newar feasts and in the small eateries around Patan Durbar Square. The classic topping is a cracked egg spread over the batter with onion, tomato and coriander, and this vegetarian version keeps the egg; leave it out and add more vegetables if you prefer. The common mistake is to pour the batter too thick; it should be as thin as single cream so it cooks through before the edges burn. Chef's tip: swirl the batter with the back of a ladle in a spiral from the centre outwards, so it sets in an even, lacy layer.

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Yomari

Yomari are the sweet dumplings of the Newars of the Kathmandu Valley, made once a year on Yomari Punhi, the full moon of December that marks the end of the rice harvest. Freshly milled rice flour is kneaded with hot water, pinched into a hollow cone, filled with chaku, a dark, fudgy Newari molasses, and toasted sesame, then shaped with a pointed tail like a fish or a teardrop and steamed. Children go from house to house singing for them, and families offer a few to the gods before anyone eats. The shell is soft and slightly chewy, and the filling melts into warm, smoky caramel. The usual mistake is mixing the dough with lukewarm water: it must be just off the boil so the starch swells and the dough stretches without cracking. Chef's tip: keep a bowl of warm water beside you and dip your fingertips often; damp hands smooth out cracks as you shape.

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