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Dingle pies are small, round mutton pies made in west Kerry for the Puck Fair in Killorglin, for fishermen going to sea, and for farmers at the mart, often reheated in a bowl of the mutton broth. A firm hot-water-crust pastry holds a peppery filling of lamb or mutton, onion and carrot, so they travel well and are eaten by hand or with gravy. Chef's tip: shape the pastry while it is still warm; hot-water crust cracks and won't mould once it cools.
Auszogne are the doughnuts of the Bavarian countryside, fried for Kirchweih, the village church fair in autumn, and for Carnival. Each ball of rich yeast dough is pulled over the knees or the backs of the hands so the middle goes almost see-through while a thick, puffy ring stays round the edge; the centre fries crisp, the rim soft and fluffy. They are eaten warm with icing sugar and a cup of coffee. A common mistake is pulling the dough cold: it tears. Let the stretched rounds rest, and keep the oil at a steady 170 °C so the rims cook through before they brown. Chef's tip: stretch them on lightly buttered fingertips, not floured ones, so the dough slides without sticking.
Bacon and cabbage is the Sunday dinner and the everyday dinner of rural Ireland, cooked in farmhouses from Tipperary to Mayo long before corned beef became the emigrants' version. A joint of cured pork, usually collar or loin bacon, is simmered gently, then the cabbage is cooked in the same salty, porky water, and both are served with floury potatoes and a white parsley sauce. Chef's tip: soak the bacon joint overnight in cold water if it is very salty; ask your butcher, as some cures are milder.
Crubeens are boiled pig's trotters, once sold hot from stalls at fairs and in Cork and Dublin pubs as a salty, sticky snack to go with a pint. They are pork, and very gelatinous: simmered for hours until the meat almost falls from the bone, then crisped in the oven with a mustard and breadcrumb coating, which is how many cooks finish them today. Eat them with your fingers, with brown bread and pickles. Chef's tip: ask your butcher for split, cleaned trotters, and singe off any stray hairs with a kitchen blowtorch before cooking.
Every Bavarian inn serves this pale, glossy cabbage salad beside roast pork and dumplings, and it is just as good on its own at a summer barbecue. The white cabbage is shaved very finely, salted and kneaded, then dressed with hot vinegar, oil and caraway so it softens while keeping a crunch. Many cooks finish it with crisp bacon bits; this version leaves them out and is vegan. The common mistake is dressing it cold and serving it at once: it needs the warm dressing and at least half an hour to turn silky. Chef's tip: shave the cabbage as thin as paper; thick shreds never soak up the dressing properly.
Bayerische Creme is the light, wobbling vanilla cream that Munich coffee houses and Bavarian wedding buffets have served for generations: a cooked egg custard folded with whipped cream and set in moulds, then turned out onto a pool of berry sauce. It is traditionally set with gelatine, which is made from animal bones and skin; this version uses agar so it stays vegetarian. A common mistake with agar is adding it to a cool custard: it only sets after it has boiled, so it is simmered in milk first and then whisked into the warm custard. Chef's tip: fold in the cream when the custard has cooled to just warm and is starting to thicken, so the cream stays airy and doesn't melt into it.
In the Palatinate, between the Rhine and the vineyards of the Weinstraße, September brings a pairing that puzzles outsiders: a bowl of creamy potato soup served with a slice of plum tray cake on the side, and you dip the cake as you go. It is a plain, cheap farmhouse supper for plum season, and the sweet-sour fruit against the soft, marjoram-scented soup is the whole joy. This version makes a small tray of yeasted plum cake while the soup simmers. A common mistake is sweetening the soup; it should stay savoury so the cake can do the sweet work. Chef's tip: use dark, oval Zwetschgen plums, which hold their shape; round dessert plums go watery.
After a morning on the slopes, Austrians head into the mountain huts of Tyrol, Salzburg and Styria for one thing: a Germknödel the size of a fist, steamed until pillowy and split open to reveal dark plum butter. It comes drowned in melted butter, or in vanilla sauce, under a thick snow of ground poppy seeds and icing sugar, and it is eaten as a whole meal. The dough is soft and slightly sweet, and the powidl inside is tart and jammy. A common mistake is lifting the lid while they steam; the dumplings deflate and turn heavy. Chef's tip: seal each dumpling with the seam underneath and let them prove a second time on squares of baking paper, so you can move them without denting them.
Dublin lawyer is an old Dublin restaurant dish, said to be named because lawyers were rich and fond of drink: lobster meat is cooked in butter, flamed with Irish whiskey and finished with cream, then served back in the shell. It is a special-occasion dish for anniversaries and birthdays. This recipe contains alcohol; for an alcohol-free version replace the whiskey with 2 tablespoons of apple juice and a squeeze of lemon. Chef's tip: buy cooked lobster from a fishmonger if you are unsure about preparing a live one, and add it to the sauce only to heat through.
Spiced beef is the Christmas meat of Cork city, sold in the English Market in December and served cold in thin slices on St Stephen's Day with brown bread and chutney. A piece of brisket or silverside is rubbed with salt, brown sugar, allspice, cloves and juniper and turned in the fridge for a week, then simmered slowly and pressed. The meat comes out deep pink, tender and fragrant. Chef's tip: keep it in the fridge the whole week of curing and turn it every day so the cure reaches every side.
Dublin Bay prawns are not prawns at all but langoustines, the small orange lobsters landed at Howth and Clogherhead and once sold off the boats along the north Dublin coast. Seafood bars in Howth serve them split and grilled under a sizzling garlic, lemon and parsley butter, with brown bread to mop the plate. Chef's tip: they cook in minutes, so take them out as soon as the flesh turns from translucent to white.
The sheltered waters of Bantry Bay in West Cork grow rope mussels that end up in pots in every harbour pub from Glengarriff to Kinsale. Here they are steamed in Irish dry cider with leek, garlic and thyme, then finished with a spoonful of cream, giving a sweet-sour, apple-scented broth for dipping brown bread. The cider contains alcohol, which mostly cooks off; for an alcohol-free version use cloudy apple juice with a teaspoon of cider vinegar. Chef's tip: the mussels must be alive when cooked, so check every one before they go in.
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.
Dampfnudeln are a Friday supper in Bavaria and the Palatinate, from the days when meatless Fridays meant a sweet main course. Soft yeast buns are packed into a heavy pan with milk, butter and a little sugar, the lid goes on, and they steam until fluffy on top while the liquid boils away and leaves a salty-sweet caramel crust underneath. They come to the table with warm vanilla sauce. The famous mistake is lifting the lid too early: the steam escapes and the buns collapse. Chef's tip: listen to the pan instead of looking; when the bubbling turns to a crackle, the crust is forming and you have about 3 minutes left.
From mid-April until 24 June, Spargelzeit takes over Baden, and the little town of Schwetzingen near Heidelberg holds its asparagus market in front of the palace. The thick white spears are peeled, simmered with a pinch of sugar and a knob of butter, and served on a warm platter with new potatoes and a jug of hollandaise, often as a meal on its own. The sauce is thickened with egg yolks warmed gently to about 70 °C, which also takes them past the safe point. The common mistake is peeling too lightly: the woody outer layer stays stringy, so peel generously from just under the tip. Chef's tip: save the peelings and ends to simmer in the cooking water first; it makes the spears taste far more of asparagus.
Handkäs mit Musik is the bar snack of Frankfurt's Sachsenhausen cider taverns, where it is served on a small plate beside a glass of apple wine; apple juice or a sour apple spritzer is the alcohol-free match. Handkäse is a small, firm, low-fat sour-milk cheese, ripened until it turns glassy and translucent at the edge, and the 'music' is the marinade of onion, vinegar, oil and caraway it soaks in. It is eaten with a knife and fork on buttered rye bread. Most Handkäse is made without rennet, using acid alone, but check the label if you are strict. A common mistake is serving it straight away: the cheese needs at least an hour in the marinade. Chef's tip: choose a cheese that is still chalky white in the very middle, which gives a mix of creamy and fresh textures.
In Vienna the Gugelhupf is the Sunday cake of home bakers, set out on the table for afternoon Jause with coffee, and every family has its own fluted copper or ceramic mould. Unlike the yeasted ring cakes of Alsace and southern Germany, the everyday Viennese one is a Rührgugelhupf, a buttery sponge lifted with whisked egg whites, scented with lemon and studded with plump raisins. It is tender, light and keeps moist for several days under a cake dome. A common mistake is a badly greased mould; every ridge needs butter and flour or the cake tears as it comes out. Chef's tip: soak the raisins in hot water for 15 minutes, dry them and toss them in a spoon of flour so they don't sink.
Herring was the silver fortune of Killybegs and the Donegal coast, when the boats came in loaded through the autumn, and the cheapest supper in every fishing village was fresh herring rolled in oatmeal and fried. The oats make a nutty, crunchy crust around the rich, soft fish. Serve with boiled potatoes and a wedge of lemon or a spoonful of mustard. Chef's tip: press the oats on firmly and let the fish sit for 5 minutes before frying, so the coating sticks.
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.
The full Irish, or simply 'the fry', is the big weekend breakfast served in B&Bs from Donegal to Kerry and in Dublin cafés before the match. It differs from the English breakfast in its back rashers, black and white pudding, and fried soda bread or potato bread to mop up. It contains pork: sausages, rashers and puddings. Chef's tip: cook in stages in one large pan and keep each item warm in a low oven, so everything reaches the plate hot together.
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.
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.
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.
Colcannon is the Halloween potato dish of Ireland, from Munster farmhouses to Dublin kitchens, where a ring or a coin was once hidden in the bowl to tell fortunes. Floury potatoes are mashed with hot milk, a lot of butter and dark leafy kale or green cabbage, so it is creamy, green-flecked and savoury. Serve it with a well of melted butter in the middle, alongside sausages or a nut roast. Chef's tip: warm the milk with the spring onions before mashing; cold milk makes the mash gluey and tastes flat.
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