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African chicken (Macanese galinha africana)

Macau restaurants have served galinha africana since the 1940s, and the story most often told is that a hotel chef in the city created it from spices that Portuguese sailors brought back from Mozambique and Angola. Today it is a signature at Macanese and Portuguese restaurants from Taipa village to Coloane, eaten at long weekend lunches with rice or crusty bread. Chicken pieces are marinated, grilled until charred, then baked under a thick, brick-coloured sauce of ground peanuts, coconut milk, chilli, paprika, garlic and onion that is rich, nutty and quietly fiery. It is often made with a pale, timid sauce; cook the onion, garlic and paprika slowly until really deep red before the coconut goes in. Chef's tip: marinate the chicken overnight in the fridge so the garlic and chilli reach the bone.

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Galinha à portuguesa (Portuguese chicken)

Puzzlingly, you will not find this in Portugal: galinha à portuguesa belongs to Macau, where cooks mixed a Portuguese idea of a creamy baked chicken with the turmeric, curry powder and coconut milk that came through the Portuguese trading routes from Goa and Malacca. Macanese restaurants and Hong Kong's cha chaan teng serve it bubbling in a clay pot or baking dish, golden on top, with chicken and potatoes in a mild, yellow, gently sweet coconut sauce, always with white rice to soak it up. It is a favourite for family dinners and Christmas tables. The thing people get wrong is boiling the coconut sauce hard, so it splits and turns oily; keep it at a gentle simmer. Chef's tip: brown the chicken well first, and finish under a hot grill for the speckled golden top that Macau restaurants are known for.

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Minchi (Macanese minced meat with potatoes)

If one dish says home to Macanese families, the descendants of Portuguese and Chinese Macau, it is minchi: a quick hash of minced beef and pork seasoned with soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce and a touch of sugar, mixed with crisp little cubes of fried potato and crowned with a runny fried egg. It appears on weeknight tables, at Macanese restaurants near Rua do Cunha, and at gatherings of the Macanese community abroad, always with plain white rice. Savoury, slightly sweet and full of crunch, it tastes like the meeting of a Portuguese kitchen and a Cantonese wok. A common error is stirring the potatoes into the meat too early, which makes them soft and floury; fry them separately until crisp and fold them in at the end. Chef's tip: let the mince sit undisturbed for a minute in the hot pan before stirring, so it browns instead of stewing.

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Serradura

Portuguese for 'sawdust', serradura is the cool, creamy dessert you'll find in every Macanese restaurant and café from Taipa to the Senado Square backstreets, ordered to round off a long Macanese lunch. Alternating layers of sweetened whipped cream and powder-fine tea biscuit crumbs set softly in the fridge, so each spoonful is light, milky and caramel-sweet, with a gentle crumbly texture. It is usually served in small glasses, sometimes semi-frozen like an ice cream cake. Coarse crumbs are where it goes wrong; they stay crunchy and gritty instead of melting into the cream, so grind the biscuits as fine as sand. Chef's tip: whip the cream and condensed milk together only to firm peaks and stop there, or it turns grainy and buttery.

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Empanadas de pescado

Along the coast of Santa Fe, especially during Lent and Holy Week, fishmongers' stalls and riverside kiosks sell fried empanadas filled with sábalo or surubí. The fish is poached, flaked and folded through soft onion and sweet pepper, then sealed in a thin oil-based dough and fried until blistered and crisp. Squeeze lemon over them and eat them warm, with a green salad or just a paper napkin. Any firm white fish works: hake, cod or a farmed catfish. The mistake people make most is skipping the bone check; river fish such as sábalo hide fine bones, so run your fingers through every flake. Chef's tip: keep the filling quite dry and cold before you fill the discs; extra liquid turns to steam in the hot oil and bursts the seams.

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Zapallitos rellenos

Round green zapallitos, the size of a tennis ball, pile up at every verdulería in Buenos Aires from December to March, and stuffing them is how home cooks turn a cheap summer vegetable into a main course. The shells are blanched, hollowed and refilled with their own flesh fried with onion and red pepper, bound with egg and melting cheese, and topped with breadcrumbs that bake to a crunchy lid. Expect a soft, savoury, slightly creamy filling under a golden crust; serve two per person with a tomato and onion salad or white rice. Overcooking the shells in the first boil is the trap: they collapse in the oven and leak water, so they only get 4 minutes. Round courgettes, eight-ball squash or short fat courgettes all work. The cheeses are usually made with animal rennet; swap in vegetarian versions if needed. Chef's tip: squeeze the chopped flesh in a clean cloth before frying it; drier filling means a firmer, tastier stuffing.

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Salsa golf

Mar del Plata's golf club gave its name to this sauce in the 1920s, so the story goes, and Argentines have been mixing mayonnaise and ketchup ever since. It is the pink sauce of the 1970s cocktail party and the seaside: spooned into half avocados (palta a la golf), over hearts of palm, onto a cold hard-boiled egg, beside fries or into a prawn cocktail, and every family has its own ratio. A drop of lemon and a dash of mustard lift it from a simple mix to something tangy and creamy. Too much ketchup is the misstep that turns it sweet and orange; it should be a soft salmon pink. Use shop-bought mayonnaise, which is made with pasteurised egg; if you make your own, use pasteurised eggs. Check the labels of the mayonnaise, ketchup and mustard if you need it gluten free. Chef's tip: let it sit in the fridge for 15 minutes before serving; the flavours blend and it thickens slightly.

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Anchi

Sold in plastic cups from coolers at Salta's Mercado San Miguel and on village plazas at the end of a hot afternoon, anchi is a thin, sweet pudding of fine maize semolina cooked with water, sugar and plenty of lemon. It sets only softly, so it is half eaten and half drunk, cold and refreshing, often with slices of poached peach or a few rehydrated orejones (dried peaches) on top, and sometimes a dusting of cinnamon. There's no milk or egg in it, which is what keeps it light. Too much semolina is the easy error: anchi should pour slowly from the spoon when cold, not slice like polenta, so stick to the ratio and remember it thickens as it cools. Fine maize semolina is the Salta choice; fine wheat semolina works too. Chef's tip: add the lemon juice off the heat at the end; boiled lemon loses its fresh sharpness.

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Budín de pan

Thrifty Argentine kitchens never throw away stale bread: it becomes budín de pan, soaked in sweet milk and eggs, poured into a caramel-lined ring mould and baked in a water bath until it sets into something between a flan and a pudding. Bodegones in Buenos Aires and neighbourhood bakeries serve it in fat wedges, cold, with a spoonful of dulce de leche or whipped cream, the amber caramel running down the sides. The texture should be smooth and dense with only faint traces of bread, studded with plump raisins. The mistake to avoid is skipping the blending or soaking: chunks of dry bread turn into wet sponges and the pudding splits into layers. Chef's tip: let it cool and chill overnight in the mould before turning it out; a warm budín breaks when unmoulded and the caramel won't have melted into a sauce.

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Polenta con tuco

Tuco is what Argentines call the red sauce of their Italian grandparents, and spooned over a mound of soft polenta it is one of the most ordinary, best-loved cold-weather suppers in Buenos Aires and across the pampas. On Sundays the sauce often gets a piece of beef; this is the everyday meatless version, with onion, red pepper, carrot, bay and a long simmer that turns the tomato sweet and deep. The polenta is enriched with butter and cheese until it falls off the spoon like thick custard. The most common mistake is pouring the cornmeal into the water all at once, which gives you lumps you will never beat out, so rain it in slowly while whisking. Grated hard cheese is usually made with animal rennet; choose a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: make the tuco first and let it rest off the heat while the polenta cooks; even 15 minutes of standing rounds out its flavour.

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Chivito al asador

Malargüe, in the dry south of Mendoza, holds a goat festival every summer, and the star is the chivito: a milk-fed kid opened flat, wired to an iron cross and planted at an angle beside a fire of jarilla or other hardwood. It cooks from the side, never over the flames, basted with a garlicky salmuera until the skin turns glassy and crackling and the meat pulls apart. Serve it straight from the cross with salad, bread and chimichurri. Order a whole kid of 5–7 kg dressed weight from a specialist or halal butcher, and check the cross fits it before the day. Most failures come from setting it too close to the fire, which burns the outside while the thick legs stay raw. Kid is lean, so cook it right through, as in Mendoza: the thickest part of the leg should reach at least 70 °C. Chef's tip: cook bone side to the fire for two-thirds of the time; the ribs protect the meat, and the skin goes on last so it crisps instead of scorching.

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Bizcochitos de grasa

A paper bag of bizcochitos de grasa sits next to the mate gourd in kitchens, offices and roadside service stations across Argentina, from Buenos Aires to the Andes. These little rounds, a couple of bites each, are layered with beef fat, so they flake and crumble, salty and plain enough to eat by the dozen with bitter mate in the afternoon. The fat is rendered beef fat (grasa vacuna), so they are not vegetarian; ask your butcher for dripping or render suet yourself. A dough worked too warm is the mistake that robs them of their layers; the fat melts into it instead of staying in sheets. Chef's tip: chill the dough for 10 minutes between folds whenever it starts to feel greasy, and prick each round right through so it puffs in flakes rather than domes.

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Chinchulines

No proper Sunday asado in Buenos Aires province or the interior is complete without a round of achuras, and chinchulines are the boldest of them: beef small intestine, coiled on the grill and cooked slowly until the outside crackles like pork scratchings and the inside stays soft and rich with its own fat. Pass them round on a board with lemon and bread as a starter while the bigger cuts cook. Buy them already cleaned from a butcher or a Latin American meat counter, and rinse them again well at home. The usual mistake is too much heat: the outside burns long before the inside cooks. Offal must be cooked right through, with no soft, raw-looking parts. Chef's tip: simmer them briefly before grilling; it cleans them further, shortens the time on the coals and gives you a much more even crunch.

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Sorrentinos de calabaza

Mar del Plata claims the sorrentino, a big round stuffed pasta about the size of a jam-jar lid that Italian-Argentine cooks made their own in the mid-20th century; despite the name, you won't find it in Sorrento. Every fresh-pasta shop in Buenos Aires province sells them by the dozen on Sunday mornings, and the squash version, with roasted calabaza, ricotta and nutmeg, is the most loved. The filling is sweet and soft, the pasta thin but sturdy, and the sauce is either brown butter with sage or a plain tomato filetto. The classic mistake is boiled squash: it carries too much water, the filling weeps and the parcels burst in the pot, so the squash is roasted until dry and caramelised. Grated hard cheese is usually made with animal rennet; choose a vegetarian hard cheese if needed. Chef's tip: chill the filling until firm before you shape it; a cold, stiff filling is far easier to seal without air pockets.

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Centolla gratinada

Centolla, the southern king crab hauled from the cold waters of the Beagle Channel, is Ushuaia's pride, and seafood restaurants along the harbour serve it gratinada: sweet chunks of leg meat in a light white sauce, crowned with cheese and browned under a fierce grill. It is rich, so serve it in small dishes as a starter with lemon and a green salad, plus crusty bread for anyone who can eat gluten. Buy cooked, frozen king crab legs or meat and thaw them in the fridge overnight; if you ever cook crab yourself, it must be alive when it goes into the pot. A frequent mistake is a sauce so thick and cheesy that the delicate crab disappears; keep it pourable and the cheese thin. Chef's tip: fold the crab in gently at the end, in big pieces, and let the oven only heat it; it is already cooked and turns stringy if it boils.

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Lomito completo

Córdoba claims the lomito as its own, and at lomiterías and late-night carts in the city it comes completo: thin, quick-seared slices of beef tenderloin piled into a big soft roll with cooked ham (pork), melting cheese, a fried egg, lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise. It is messy, juicy and filling, the classic end to a night out or a Saturday football match, usually with chips on the side. The meat is only a few millimetres thick, so it cooks in a minute; Córdoba grills cook it through, but as a whole steak you can leave it a little pink to taste. The big error is a lukewarm pan, which boils the thin beef grey instead of searing it. Chef's tip: lay the cheese on the ham in the hot pan to melt while the egg fries, so everything goes into the toasted roll hot at once.

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Cazuela de cabrito

Up in the Calchaquí valleys of Salta, where goats graze between the vineyards and the cardón cactus, cabrito ends up in a heavy clay cazuela on Sunday or feast days. The meat simmers with onion, red pepper, cumin and ají molido until it slides off the bone, and the potatoes and thick rounds of corn on the cob drink up a brick-red, gently spiced broth. Bring it to the table in the pot with bread or a simple tomato and onion salad. Kid goat can be ordered from halal butchers and some farm shops; lamb shoulder works too. People often boil it hard to save time, which squeezes the lean meat dry and stringy; it wants the barest simmer. Chef's tip: brown the pieces in two or three batches so they colour properly instead of stewing in their own juices; that browning is where most of the flavour comes from.

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Tortitas negras

Black cakes, the name means, though only their tops are dark: tortitas negras are flat, round, flaky buns covered with a thick crust of dark brown sugar that melts in the oven and sets crunchy and toffee-like. They are among the cheapest and most popular facturas in Buenos Aires bakeries, eaten from a paper bag at breakfast or as a merienda with mate, and everyone fights over the sugary edges. The dough is a lightly laminated yeast dough, between bread and puff pastry. Bakeries often use lard or margarine; this version uses butter and stays vegetarian. Being stingy with the sugar is the classic misstep: a thin layer just melts into the dough and disappears, so pile it on thickly and press it down. Chef's tip: brush the rounds with water, not egg, before adding the sugar; the water melts the sugar into a crisp, crackling shell.

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Mollejas a la parrilla

Order an asado in any Argentine parrilla and the mollejas arrive early, before the big cuts, crusty and golden outside, soft and almost custardy within, with nothing but lemon. They are the thymus glands of young cattle, mild in flavour and rich in texture, and parrilleros treat them as a treat for the guests who hang around the grill. Ask a butcher for veal sweetbreads (heart sweetbreads are the plumpest) and cook them the day you buy them. Grilling them hot and fast is the common mistake: the outside chars while the centre stays raw and rubbery. As offal, they must be cooked right through, to at least 71 °C in the middle. Chef's tip: a brief blanch firms them, makes the membrane easy to peel and means the grill only has to crisp them.

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Trucha a la manteca

Restaurants on the shores of Nahuel Huapi, in Bariloche and Villa La Angostura, put rainbow trout from the cold Andean lakes on almost every menu, and this butter version is the one locals order most. Fillets are fried with crisp skin, then drenched in butter browned with flaked almonds and sharpened with lemon. Serve with boiled new potatoes and a green salad. Any trout or char works. People commonly start the fish in butter, which burns before the skin crisps; fry it in a film of oil and make the brown butter after. Chef's tip: dry the skin really well and dust it with rice flour; it gives a thin, glassy crust without any gluten.

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Patay

Long before sugar reached the dry northwest, the pods of the algarrobo tree were the region's sweetness, and patay is the oldest way of keeping them: the pods are ground, the flour is moistened and pressed into a cake that dries into something dense, fudgy and naturally sweet, with notes of cocoa, coffee and caramel. In Santiago del Estero you still buy it in round slabs at markets and roadside stalls, to eat with mate or to crumble into milk. Harina de algarroba comes from the South American Prosopis tree; look for it in health-food shops or online, and mesquite flour is the same family and works well. Mediterranean carob flour is different and tastes more bitter. Too much water is the way most first attempts go wrong: the cake should be pressed from a damp, crumbly mix, not a batter, or it bakes up gummy. Chef's tip: sieve the flour twice; algarroba flour clumps, and lumps stay as hard grains.

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Torrejas de acelga

When a bunch of acelga (Swiss chard) is the cheapest thing at the verdulería, Buenos Aires home cooks turn it into torrejas: thin fritters of chopped chard bound with egg, a little flour, garlic and grated cheese, fried in shallow oil until the edges lace up and crisp. They are weekday food, eaten hot from the pan with a squeeze of lemon and a salad, or cold the next day in a sandwich, and children who won't touch greens tend to eat them. Inside they stay tender and green, outside nutty and golden. Wet chard is what ruins them: water left in the leaves makes the batter thin and the fritters spit and fall apart, so wring the blanched chard really dry. Grated hard cheese is often made with animal rennet; pick a vegetarian hard cheese if needed. Chef's tip: fry one small torreja first to check the seasoning and thickness, then adjust with a spoon of flour or a splash of milk.

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Mejillones a la provenzal

On the Atlantic coast around Puerto Madryn and the Golfo Nuevo, mussels from cold Patagonian waters are farmed and gathered in quantity, and seafood places along the rambla steam them a la provenzal, which in Argentina means lots of garlic and parsley. A splash of dry white wine goes into the pot; the alcohol mostly cooks off, but you can swap it for fish stock with a little lemon for an alcohol-free pot that tastes just as good. Serve with bread or chips to mop up the briny juices. Cooking mussels too long is the usual slip: they shrink and turn rubbery, so lift the lid as soon as most have opened. Before cooking, throw away any mussel with a broken shell or one that stays open when tapped; after cooking, discard any that stay shut. Chef's tip: keep the garlic in gently warm oil until it just smells sweet; brown garlic turns bitter and dominates the mussels.

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Pollo al disco

Out on the estancias of the Pampas, the disco de arado (an old plough disc welded onto legs) is set over a wood fire for long weekend lunches, and chicken braised in it is one of the most loved dishes: pieces browned in the wide, sloping pan, then cooked down with onions, peppers, garlic, paprika and a splash of white wine until the sauce is sweet and glossy. Friends stand around the fire with bread for dipping. A large, heavy casserole or wok on the hob does the job at home. The recipe uses white wine; for an alcohol-free version, use the same amount of chicken stock plus 1 tablespoon of white wine vinegar. Chicken must reach 74 °C at the thickest part near the bone. The common mistake is piling everything in at once, which boils the chicken pale, so brown it well first. Chef's tip: push the browned chicken up the sloping sides while the vegetables cook in the centre, as disco cooks do; in a casserole, lift it onto a plate.

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