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Lao iced coffee

High on the Bolaven Plateau above Pakse, the coffee towns around Paksong grow most of Laos's beans, and roadside stalls there brew them dark and strong through a long cloth sock, all day long. Ordered cold, it arrives as a glass of ice with a thick layer of sweetened condensed milk at the bottom, the black coffee poured over and stirred to a caramel brown, often with a free cup of weak tea to sip afterwards. It is bitter-sweet, chocolatey and much richer than a café latte, made for hot afternoons on the plateau or a morning stop in Pakse. A French press or a fine sieve lined with a paper filter stands in for the cloth sock. Pouring hot coffee straight onto ice before adding the milk is where it goes flat: the condensed milk won't dissolve in cold coffee and sinks in a gluey lump. Chef's tip: stir the condensed milk into the hot coffee first, then pour over the ice.

10 minLaoDrinksGluten free
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Lao bamboo shoot soup

When the rains arrive in June, Vientiane's morning markets fill with pale, freshly dug bamboo shoots, and pots of kaeng nor mai start simmering in kitchens across the city for the family lunch. The broth is a deep olive green, tinted by the juice squeezed from yanang leaves, and thickened with a spoonful of pounded soaked sticky rice so it coats the spoon. Earthy bamboo, sweet pumpkin and slippery mushrooms float in it with lemon basil on top, and a basket of sticky rice and a dish of jeow sit alongside. Skipping the pre-boil of the bamboo is where most cooks go wrong: raw shoots taste bitter and need cooking through to be safe, so always blanch fresh ones and drain. This version leaves out the fermented fish of village kitchens and seasons with salt and tamari. Chef's tip: squeeze the yanang leaves in cold water, never hot, or the broth turns brown and loses its grassy freshness.

60 minLaoSoupsVeganGluten free
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Luang Prabang khao lam

Lines of blackened bamboo tubes propped beside smouldering charcoal mark the khao lam sellers on the roads into Luang Prabang, busiest in the cool season after the November harvest, when new-crop sticky rice is at its sweetest. Inside each tube, rice and black beans have cooked slowly in salted coconut milk, picking up a faint smoky, grassy flavour from the bamboo lining. You split the tube, peel back the thin inner skin and eat the dense, chewy, gently sweet log by hand, often on the morning walk or on a bus journey. At home the tubes roast in the oven or over a barbecue, and a lidded dish lined with banana leaf works if you can't get bamboo. Overfilling the tubes is the usual slip: the rice swells, the plug pops and the coconut milk boils away. Chef's tip: soak the rice overnight; well-soaked grains cook evenly right to the centre of the tube.

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Jeow het

Monsoon jeow, this one: once the rains bring mushrooms to every Lao market from July onwards, cooks grill a basket of them over charcoal and pound them with roasted chilli and garlic for a meaty, smoky dip that disappears with sticky rice at dinner. The texture is shaggy rather than smooth, juicy shreds of mushroom held together by a hot, garlicky paste, with fresh herbs stirred through at the end. It is just as good with steamed greens, cucumber and long beans, or spooned over grilled tofu. Oyster and king oyster mushrooms are the closest match to the wild ones. Many people blitz or pound it to a paste and lose the chew, and that's the thing to avoid. Chef's tip: tear the grilled mushrooms into strips by hand before they go into the mortar, then pound only to bruise them.

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Koy pa

Fishing villages on the Mekong in Champasak, down towards the islands of Si Phan Don, make koy pa from the morning catch and eat it with sticky rice under the stilt houses at lunchtime. It is a fierce, fresh salad: finely chopped fish tossed with lime, roasted chilli, shallot, galangal and toasted rice powder, then buried in mint, dill and sawtooth herb. Traditionally the fish is raw and only 'cooked' by lime, and raw river fish in the region can carry parasites; that raw version is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. Here the fish is poached until opaque and flaking, then chopped, keeping the texture and punch. Stirring the rice powder into hot fish is the mistake that ruins it, turning the salad gluey. Chef's tip: toast your own rice powder with a lemongrass stalk and lime leaf; the shop-bought kind has nothing like the same nutty perfume.

35 minLaoSaladsGluten freeSpicy
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Jeow mak keua

Long purple aubergines laid straight on the embers turn into one of the softest dips on a Lao dinner tray, eaten up and down the country in the hot season when aubergines are cheap and plentiful. The skins blacken and the flesh collapses into a smoky, silky pulp, which is pounded loosely with charred garlic, shallot and green chilli until it is spoonable but still a little stringy. Pinch a ball of sticky rice, press a hollow in it and scoop up the jeow, or dip in cucumber, long beans and cabbage. Families often add fish sauce; here it is seasoned with salt and a little tamari so it suits vegetarians. Rinsing the charred aubergine under the tap is a mistake, as it washes away the very smoke you worked for. Chef's tip: peel with damp fingertips and leave a few flecks of black skin in the dip.

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Mok het

Wild mushrooms pile up at Luang Prabang's Phosy market as soon as the monsoon soaks the hills, from July into September, and families wrap them up as mok het for the evening meal. Mushrooms are bruised with lemongrass, shallot, chilli and a big handful of dill, bound with beaten egg, then folded into banana leaf and steamed until set, so each parcel opens into a soft, fragrant, slightly wobbly cake. It goes on the shared tray with sticky rice, a bowl of soup and some raw greens. Cultivated oyster, shiitake or chestnut mushrooms work beautifully. A watery filling is the common pitfall: mushrooms leak juice, so salt them and squeeze them first or the egg never sets. Chef's tip: grill the steamed parcels over a flame for a few minutes at the end; the charred leaf adds a lovely smoky edge.

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Sin savanh

Translated loosely as heavenly meat, sin savanh is the sweet beef jerky of Vientiane, sold in glossy dark strips at the morning market and carried home as a snack, a picnic food or a gift for family upcountry. Thin slices of beef are marinated with garlic, coriander root, sugar and fish sauce, coated in sesame and traditionally dried in the dry-season sun, then flash-fried just before eating, so they turn chewy, caramelised and slightly crisp at the edges. Eat it with sticky rice and a tomato jeow, or alone with cold drinks. Here it dries in a low oven until fully cooked and leathery, which is easier and safer than sun-drying. The common mistake is cutting the beef too thick, so the outside goes hard while the middle stays soft. Chef's tip: freeze the beef for 45 minutes before slicing; it firms up and slices thin as card.

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Nam khao

Party food in Vientiane often means a platter of nam khao: golden balls of curry-spiced rice deep-fried until crackling, then smashed and tossed with sour pork, peanuts, shallots, herbs and lime, and scooped into lettuce leaves with a fresh chilli on the side. Evening stalls near the city's markets sell it by the bag, and it's a fixture at weddings and New Year gatherings in April. Traditionally the sour pork is som moo, cured raw fermented pork with shredded skin, which is never cooked; that raw cured version is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. This safer version uses minced pork cooked through and sharpened with lime and garlic, with cooked pork skin for chew if you like. Frying rice balls in oil that isn't hot enough is the usual mistake, as they soak up oil and fall apart. Chef's tip: use rice cooked the day before and chilled; it holds together and fries far crisper.

75 minLaoSaladsGluten free
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Jeow mak phet

Of all the jeows on a Lao table, this is the most basic and most loved, roasted fresh chillies, garlic and shallots pounded together and eaten with sticky rice at almost every meal, from farm lunches in the rice fields to Vientiane office canteens. Made with long green chillies, as here, it is bright, grassy and more fragrant than fierce, with sweetness from the softened shallot; swap some for bird's eye chillies if you want it hotter. Serve it with sticky rice, boiled pumpkin shoots, steamed vegetables, eggs or grilled tofu. Charring the chillies to carbon is the trap, and burnt skins turn the whole jeow bitter. Fish sauce is the usual seasoning; this version uses salt and a little tamari to stay vegetarian. Chef's tip: wear gloves when peeling hot roasted chillies, and keep your hands away from your eyes for the next hour.

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Khai paen

Along the Mekong and Nam Khan below Luang Prabang, women gather silky green river weed in the dry months, when the water runs low and clear, then press it into thin sheets and dry them in the sun. Those sheets turn up everywhere in town, stacked at the morning market and the night market, and a plate of fried khai paen is a favourite nibble with sticky rice and a pot of jeow bong in the late afternoon. Frying takes seconds: the sheets puff, darken and turn shatteringly crisp, tasting of the river, toasted sesame and garlic, a little like nori but earthier. Buy the sheets dried; outside Laos, look in Southeast Asian grocers, and if you can't find them, nori sheets make a stand-in, though they are thinner, sea-salty rather than freshwater and fry even faster. Leaving a sheet in the oil a moment too long is the classic error, as it goes bitter and brown almost instantly. Chef's tip: cut the sheets into squares with scissors before frying, not after, so they don't crumble into dust.

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Luang Prabang salad

Clear spring-fed beds outside Luang Prabang grow some of the crispest watercress in Laos, and the old royal capital turned it into a salad that shows its French years: peppery cress, tomato and cucumber under a smooth dressing made from mashed hard-boiled yolks. Cafés along the Nam Khan serve it at lunch in the cool season, from November to February, often as the light plate beside grilled river fish or a bowl of sticky rice. It tastes fresh, gently sweet and garlicky, with crunch from fried garlic and peanuts on top. Restaurants sometimes add fish sauce or pork; this version is vegetarian and seasoned with salt. Dressing the cress too early is the mistake to avoid, because it wilts into a soggy heap in minutes. Chef's tip: dry the watercress properly in a salad spinner, or the dressing slides off instead of clinging.

30 minLaoSaladsGluten free
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Lao fish soup with dill

Restaurants on stilts over the Mekong at Pakse, where the Xe Don river joins it, serve tom pa at lunch in big communal bowls, and southern Lao families make it at home whenever the market has fresh river fish. Chunks of fish poach gently in a clear broth fragrant with lemongrass, galangal and lime leaf, soured with tomato and lime and finished with a generous fistful of dill, an herb Lao cooks use far more than their neighbours. The result is light, tangy and aromatic, with soft fish and a whisper of chilli heat; spoon it over sticky rice or sip it between mouthfuls of jeow. Boiling hard once the fish goes in is the mistake to watch, as the pieces break up and the broth turns cloudy. Chef's tip: add the dill only when the pot is off the heat, so it stays green and sweet.

30 minLaoSoupsGluten free
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Jeow som

Grilled food in Laos rarely leaves the stall without a little bag of jeow som, the thin, sour-sweet sauce that every street grill from Vientiane's riverside to small-town bus stations ladles out beside the skewers. Unlike the pounded jeows, it is pourable: lime juice, garlic and raw chilli in a light, sweet-salty syrup, sharp enough to cut through anything charred. Dip grilled tofu, corn, aubergine or sticky rice into it, or spoon it over a plate of steamed vegetables. Stall versions lean on fish sauce; salt and tamari keep this one vegetarian. Tipping granulated sugar straight into cold lime juice is the usual fault, since it never fully dissolves and the sauce tastes gritty and unbalanced. Chef's tip: let the sauce sit for 15 minutes before serving so the garlic and chilli mellow into the lime.

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Marquesitas

Evening in Mérida's Plaza Grande means the smell of marquesitas: thin batter pressed in hot hinged irons until crisp, then rolled like a cigar around grated Edam cheese and a sweet filling such as cajeta, chocolate-hazelnut spread or jam. Edam came to the Yucatán through the port trade with the Netherlands and became part of the local cooking, and the salty-sweet combination is the whole point. At home you can cook them in a thin, wide frying pan. Edam is usually made with animal rennet, so check the label or use a vegetarian Gouda-style cheese. Chef's tip: roll while the crêpe is still in the pan and hot; within seconds it hardens and will crack.

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Camotes poblanos

Camotes are the sweet Puebla is most famous for: finger-long rolls of sweet-potato fondant, flavoured with pineapple, lemon, strawberry or orange and wrapped individually in paper. Like tortitas de Santa Clara, they come from the city's convent kitchens, and you will find them at every candy shop on Puebla's Calle de los Dulces. The texture is soft and smooth, like a firm marzipan, and very sweet, so one or two is plenty. Chef's tip: sieve the cooked sweet potato while it is hot; fibres caught in the sieve are what would make the candy stringy.

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Chalupas poblanas

On Sunday evenings in the old centre of Puebla, around the Barrio de San Francisco and the Paseo Bravo, stalls fry stacks of small, thin tortillas in shallow oil and paint them half red and half green with salsa. These are chalupas poblanas, sold by the half dozen on paper plates and eaten in a few bites. The Puebla version is usually topped with shredded pork; ours keeps the salsas, onion and cheese, which are the real flavour, and adds a few beans. The edges should be crisp, the middle still a little soft from the salsa. Cheese like queso fresco is often made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian fresh cheese if you prefer. Chef's tip: spoon the salsa on while the tortilla is still in the pan so it sizzles and soaks in.

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Cajeta de Celaya

Celaya, in the Bajío of Guanajuato, has made cajeta for centuries, once packing it into little wooden boxes (cajetes) that gave it its name. It is caramel cooked from goat's milk, so it is looser and has a gentle tang compared with the cow's-milk dulce de leche of Argentina. Mexicans spread it on crêpes and churros, pour it over ice cream, sandwich it between obleas (wafers) and turn it into glorias. A splash of rum-flavoured 'envinada' cajeta exists, but this one is plain and alcohol-free. Chef's tip: use a pan at least three times the volume of the milk; it foams high when the bicarbonate goes in.

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Chocolate de agua

Walk down Calle Mina in Oaxaca City and the air smells of cacao, cinnamon and almonds, roasted and ground into chocolate in front of you at the mills. Most Oaxacans drink it made with water, not milk, so the taste of the cacao comes through clean and slightly bitter, with a thick head of foam raised with a wooden molinillo. It is drunk for breakfast with pan de yema and at every wedding and Day of the Dead altar. The tablets already hold sugar and cinnamon; we give a version with dark chocolate too. Chef's tip: the foam is the point, so whisk hard just before pouring and serve in wide cups.

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Nicuatole

Nicuatole is a Zapotec sweet sold in little squares from glass cases at Oaxacan markets and at village fiestas, often with a bright pink top coloured with cochineal. It is made from corn masa cooked with water, sugar and cinnamon until it thickens enough to set when cool, a cousin of atole you can cut with a knife. The texture is soft, slightly bouncy and cool, and it is eaten as an afternoon treat. We give a coconut-milk option and use beetroot juice or a natural red food colouring instead of cochineal (which comes from insects) for the red layer. Chef's tip: cook it until the spoon leaves a clear path across the pan base for a full second; undercooked nicuatole never sets.

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Rajas con crema

Rajas means strips, and in Puebla they mean poblano chillies, the dark green pepper the state is named after, charred, peeled and sliced, then simmered with onion, sweetcorn and cream. Poblanos are mild with a grassy, gently smoky bite, so the dish is rich rather than fiery. It turns up on Puebla tables as a side for rice, as a taco filling at fondas, or in a tamal for breakfast. Some cooks melt in Chihuahua or Oaxaca cheese, which may be made with animal rennet; use a vegetarian melting cheese if needed. Chef's tip: sweat the peeled chillies in a covered bowl for 10 minutes; the steam lifts the skins off cleanly without rinsing away the smoky flavour.

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Charamuscas

Around Day of the Dead in Guanajuato city, sweet sellers display charamuscas pulled and shaped into skulls, mummies (a nod to the town's famous museum) and simple twists, glossy amber and wrapped in cellophane. The everyday ones are rope-like spirals of pulled piloncillo, chewy then brittle, with a deep molasses taste. Pulling the hot sugar is a two-person job and great fun with older children; younger ones should watch. Chef's tip: wear clean rubber kitchen gloves rubbed with oil; you can handle the sugar sooner and much more comfortably.

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Papadzules

Papadzules may be the oldest dish still eaten in the Yucatán: Maya cooks were rolling tortillas in ground squash seeds long before the Spanish brought chickens and their eggs. Today they are a lunch and Lent dish in Mérida, Valladolid and Campeche. Corn tortillas are dipped in a pale green sauce of toasted pumpkin seeds and epazote, rolled around chopped hard-boiled egg, then topped with a cooked habanero-tomato sauce and a few drops of green pumpkin-seed oil squeezed from the paste. The flavours are nutty, herbal and gently hot. Chef's tip: keep the seed sauce warm, never boiling; heat makes it split and turn grainy, and the oil that separates is meant to be drizzled on top, not stirred back in.

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Glorias

Linares, a small town in Nuevo León, is famous across Mexico for glorias: soft, chewy balls of goat's milk caramel packed with pecans, each wrapped in a twist of red cellophane. They are bought by the box at roadside sweet shops on the way to Monterrey and handed out at weddings and Christmas. Goat's milk gives them a gentle tang; a mix of goat's and cow's milk is milder. Chef's tip: the last ten minutes need constant stirring, as the caramel thickens and catches fast.

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