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Saice

Saice is the signature dish of Tarija in southern Bolivia, eaten at lunchtime in the market comedores and on Sundays at home, especially around the city's spring flower festival. Finely chopped or minced beef is stewed with onion, tomato, peas and ají colorado (dried red chilli) into a spicy, brothy sauce, served with boiled potatoes, white rice, rehydrated chuño (freeze-dried potato) and a fresh salsa of onion and tomato on top. The usual mistake is letting the mince clump: break it up hard as it browns, so it stays fine and soaks up the sauce. Mince is safe at 71 °C. Chef's tip: let the ají colorado simmer for at least 15 minutes, as its raw edge softens into a deep, fruity heat.

60 minAndeanMeatGluten freeSpicy
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Lawa de choclo

In the valley markets of Cochabamba and up into the cold highland towns, lawa de choclo is the soup that greets early risers: grated fresh corn simmered into a velvety, naturally sweet porridge-like broth with potato, melting cheese and a handful of herbs. Bolivian cooks use huacataya (black mint); mint and parsley together come close. Traditional queso fresco uses animal rennet, so pick a vegetarian fresh cheese if you need one. Most failed lawas are lumpy because the blended corn went into boiling liquid without stirring. Chef's tip: grate the kernels straight off the cob rather than cutting them; the milky pulp is what thickens the soup.

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Chilcano de pisco

When Lima's grey winter finally lifts and summer reaches the beaches south of the city, the chilcano takes over from the pisco sour: lighter, longer and made for an afternoon. Peru even gives it a Semana del Chilcano each January, and it is poured at weekend lunches with chifa or fried fish. This is a highball for adults only: pisco poured over a tall glass of ice with fresh lime and ginger ale, finished with a few drops of bitters. It should taste crisp and fizzy, with the ginger and lime lifting the floral grape notes of the pisco rather than hiding them. The common mistake is using too little ice and warm ginger ale, which gives a sweet, diluted drink that goes flat in minutes. Fill the glass to the top with ice and keep the ginger ale in the fridge until the last second. It is ready when the glass is frosty, the bubbles race up the sides and the bitters drift through the top as a pink haze. Light it may be, but drink responsibly. Chef's tip: try a fruit-infused pisco, made by steeping passion fruit or mandarin peel in the bottle for a few days; Limeños love a chilcano de maracuyá.

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Repe lojano

Repe is the comfort soup of Loja in southern Ecuador, eaten at lunch on chilly Andean days and often as the first course of the main midday meal. Green bananas are cooked in a light onion and achiote broth until they break down, then milk and crumbled fresh cheese turn it creamy and gently savoury, with coriander on top and avocado on the side. Lojano quesillo is usually made with animal rennet; use a fresh cheese labelled vegetarian or paneer instead. The usual mistake is cutting the bananas with a knife: break them into rough pieces by hand, as the rough edges dissolve and thicken the soup. Chef's tip: once the milk is in, keep the soup just below a simmer so it doesn't catch or curdle.

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Refresco de linaza

In La Paz, Cochabamba and Sucre the refresqueras at the market stalls ladle linaza from big glass jars alongside mocochinchi and somó, and at home it is a standard jug in the fridge for the midday almuerzo. Flaxseed is simmered with pineapple peel, cinnamon and cloves until the water turns faintly silky, then strained, sweetened and chilled. It is pale gold, smooth and almost slippery on the tongue, tasting of pineapple and spice, with lime to wake it up. It is traditionally drunk to cool down and to settle the stomach. The common mistake is simmering too long or leaving the seeds in as it cools: the liquid turns into a thick, slimy gel. Strain it while still hot, as soon as a spoon dipped in comes out lightly coated, like thin syrup. It is ready when it pours freely but feels smooth, and tastes sweet, spiced and fresh. Using the peel and core of a pineapple is the thrifty Bolivian way and gives more flavour than the flesh. Chef's tip: if it thickens too much in the fridge, whisk in cold water a little at a time until it pours easily again.

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Papilla de quinua for babies

In the high Andes around Cusco, Puno and La Paz, quinoa is the grain families have fed babies for centuries, and papilla de quinua is the first porridge many Andean mothers make at six months. The seeds are washed hard to remove their bitter saponin coating, simmered until they burst and show a little white tail, then blended with sweet zapallo (pumpkin) or apple into a smooth, nutty porridge. It is rich in protein and iron for a plant food. For babies there is no salt, sugar, panela or honey. It is free of the major allergens. Chef's tip: rub the quinoa between your palms under running water until the water no longer foams; that foam is what tastes bitter.

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Caldo de gallina

In Lima's markets and the all-night caldo stalls of districts like La Victoria, a bowl of caldo de gallina is the dawn breakfast for market porters, taxi drivers and anyone coming home late: a deep, golden broth from a slow-simmered hen (a boiling fowl) with ginger and spring onion, ladled over thick noodles and yellow potato, with a boiled egg, lime and ají chilli on the side. The common mistake is boiling the broth hard, which clouds it and toughens the meat; keep it to a lazy simmer. The chicken must reach 74 °C, though after this long simmer it will be well past that. Chef's tip: cook the noodles separately, then put them in the bowls; cooked in the pot they drink the broth and turn it starchy.

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Pisco sour

Lima drinks its pisco sour as the aperitif before a long ceviche lunch, and celebrates it every year on the first Saturday of February; the recipe took shape in the city's bars in the 1920s. It is for adults only and stronger than its pillowy look suggests. Underneath a thick white foam you get sharp Peruvian lime, a clean sweetness and the floral, grapey warmth of quebranta pisco, with the bitters adding a spicy smell to every sip. The texture should be silky, almost creamy, never thin. The classic mistake is squeezing the limes too hard or too early: the oil from the pith turns the drink bitter within half an hour. Halve the limes, press each half gently by hand just before mixing and stop when the juice slows. The egg white is raw, so use pasteurised egg white for anyone pregnant, for babies, older people or anyone unwell, or swap in 30 ml aquafaba. It is ready when the foam stands about 1 cm high and is firm enough to hold the drops of bitters on its surface. Sip one slowly and drink responsibly. Chef's tip: shake once without ice first to whip the egg white, then again with ice; the foam will be twice as thick.

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Cremolada (Lima passion fruit slush)

From January to March, when Lima's coast swelters, queues form at the cremolada counters of Barranco and along the Jirón de la Unión downtown for cups of this thick fruit ice. It sits between a granita and a sorbet: frozen fruit pulp scraped again and again until it is slushy and spoonable, with real bits of fruit through it. Passion fruit (maracuyá) gives a sharp, bright flavour; creamy lúcuma, with its maple and sweet potato taste, is the other favourite. Chef's tip: use a shallow metal tray; it freezes faster and evenly, so you get fine crystals rather than chunks.

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Ají de arvejas

Ají de arvejas is a homely Bolivian stew from La Paz and Cochabamba, cooked for weekday lunch or on Fridays and in Lent, when many families eat no meat. Green peas and potatoes simmer in a golden sauce of onion, tomato and ají amarillo (yellow chilli), and cubes of fresh white cheese are stirred in at the end so they soften without melting away. It is served with plain white rice and sometimes a boiled egg. Bolivian queso fresco is often made with animal rennet; for vegetarians, use a paneer or a fresh cheese labelled vegetarian. The usual mistake is boiling the cheese, which turns it rubbery. Chef's tip: cook the ají paste with the onion until it darkens slightly, which takes the raw edge off the chilli.

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Empanadas de viento

In Quito cafés and markets, empanadas de viento ("wind empanadas") are fried to order: big, thin pastries stuffed with crumbled fresh cheese and onion that puff up like balloons in the hot oil, then get a generous shower of sugar. Ecuadorians eat them for breakfast or afternoon cafecito with coffee or a mug of colada morada. The salty-sweet contrast is the point. The common mistake is overfilling; too much cheese stops them puffing and makes them burst. Some queso fresco is made with animal rennet; choose a vegetarian one made with microbial rennet. Chef's tip: roll the dough very thin, under 2 mm, and press the edges firmly; that's what traps the steam and makes the "wind".

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Horchata lojana

In Loja and the valleys of Vilcabamba and Malacatos, horchata has nothing to do with rice: it is a pink herbal infusion of anything up to twenty garden plants, drunk hot at breakfast and after lunch, or cold from the fridge on warm afternoons. Markets sell the herbs in bundles: cedrón, hierbaluisa, toronjil, mint, chamomile, mallow, and the red-leaved escancel and ataco (red amaranth) that give the colour. It tastes lemony, floral and faintly silky, and turns from ruby to bright pink the moment lemon juice goes in. The common mistake is boiling all the herbs hard, which makes it bitter and grassy; only the tough flaxseed and lemongrass simmer, and the soft leaves steep off the heat. It is ready when the liquid is deep red-pink and smells of lemon and flowers. Abroad, Latin shops sell dried mixes; dried hibiscus gives the colour if you lack amaranth. It is traditionally drunk to settle the stomach; if you are pregnant or on medication, check with a doctor before drinking it daily. Chef's tip: add lemon at the table, glass by glass, to watch the colour change.

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Ají de tomate de árbol

No Ecuadorian table in the Sierra, from Quito to Cuenca, is complete without a small bowl of ají, and the tamarillo version is the household favourite. Tomate de árbol, the egg-shaped, wine-red tree tomato, is blanched and peeled, blended with fresh hot chilli, salt and a little water, then finished with finely chopped onion and fresh coriander. It is spooned over locro de papa, llapingachos, empanadas de viento, hornado and fritada at the long Sunday family lunch, and onto everything at the street stalls of the Saturday markets. The flavour is tangy, fruity and slightly bitter-sweet, more sour than a tomato salsa, with a fresh bite of onion and a clean chilli heat. The common mistake is blending the tamarillos with their skins on, which makes the sauce bitter; blanch them until the skins split and slip off. It is ready when it is bright orange-red, loose and juicy, and the onion is still crisp. Abroad, tamarillos turn up in larger supermarkets; ripe plum tomatoes with the pulp of a passion fruit are the best stand-in. Chef's tip: rinse the chopped onion in salted water first, which tames its sharpness, as Ecuadorians do.

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Chuño

On the Altiplano around Lake Titicaca, in June and July when the nights drop to -10 °C and the days are bright and dry, Aymara and Quechua families spread small, bitter potatoes on the grass to make chuño, a technique far older than the Inca. The potatoes freeze at night and thaw in the sun for several days, then are trodden barefoot to squeeze out the water and rub off the skins, and dried for a couple of weeks more. The result is light, wrinkled, grey-black chuño negro that keeps for years; soaked in running stream water instead, the same potatoes become white tunta. Rehydrated and boiled, chuño is firm, slightly chewy and spongy, with an earthy, faintly mineral, almost fermented taste; it goes into chairo soup, into chuño phuti, or beside grilled meat with spicy llajwa. Skipping the long soak is the big mistake: it stays bitter and gritty, so soak it for at least 12 hours, changing the water. Dried chuño is ready when it is rock hard, very light and rattles in a bag. Chef's tip: without Andean frosts, a freezer and a low oven make a fair version; the method is below.

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Mate de muña

Muña is the minty shrub that grows wild on the slopes around Cusco, Puno and the Sacred Valley, and highland cooks reach for it after a heavy meal of chicharrón or when visitors are struggling with the altitude. Market herb sellers sell it in fresh bunches, and hotels and homes leave it in a flask for anyone coming in from the cold evenings. Steeped simply in hot water, it smells somewhere between spearmint, oregano and pennyroyal, with a cooling, slightly peppery taste and a pale green-gold colour. It is traditionally drunk to settle the stomach. The usual mistake is boiling the leaves hard for a long time, which turns the tea brown and bitter. Pour water just off the boil over the sprigs, cover, and let it steep. It is ready when the cup is pale gold and the aroma rises as soon as you lift the lid. Outside Peru, look for dried muña in Latin shops; failing that, use mostly spearmint with a little fresh oregano. Muña is strong: avoid large amounts in pregnancy, and check with a doctor if you take regular medication. Chef's tip: cover the cup while it steeps so the scented oils stay in the tea.

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Jugo de maca

Before dawn at markets in Huancayo, Cusco and Lima, juice ladies ladle hot jugo de maca from big pots for workers on their way in: maca root, a turnip relative grown above 4,000 metres in the Junín highlands, simmered with milk, cinnamon and cloves and sweetened with honey or sugar. It tastes malty and toasty, a bit like butterscotch. The common mistake is stirring the powder straight into hot milk, which leaves gritty lumps; whisk it into a little cold milk first. Maca is not usually advised in pregnancy, so ask your doctor first if you are pregnant. Chef's tip: use gelatinised (cooked) maca powder if you can find it; it dissolves smoothly and is gentler on the stomach.

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Jugo surtido

Step up to any juguería in Lima's Mercado de Surquillo or a barrio market at breakfast time and order a surtido: the juicer drops papaya, banana, pineapple and freshly squeezed orange into a tall blender, sometimes a slice of cooked beetroot for colour or a splash of milk, and pours you a big glass with the rest left in the jug for your 'yapa', the free refill. It is thick but still pourable, sweet from ripe fruit with a sharp orange edge, the kind of drink that stands in for breakfast before a long day. The common mistake is adding lots of ice and water, which makes it thin and frothy rather than velvety. Use cold fruit and freshly squeezed orange juice as the liquid. It is ready when it coats the glass and no lumps of banana are left. This version is fruit only; stalls also make it with milk if you prefer. Drink it straight away: papaya and banana go brown and bitter within half an hour. Chef's tip: use very ripe papaya with orange flesh; under-ripe papaya tastes of nothing and gives a faintly bitter aftertaste.

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Refresco de cocona

In Iquitos, Pucallpa and the river towns of Loreto, heat and humidity make a cold refresco part of every lunch, and cocona is one of the favourites sold from plastic jugs at the Belén market. The fruit looks like a fuzzy orange tomato and tastes between tomato, lemon and apricot: very sour, aromatic and juicy. Blended with water and sugar it makes a tangy, golden drink with a light pulp, served with juane or tacacho con cecina. The usual mistake is skipping the fuzz: cocona skin is covered in fine hairs that make the drink scratchy, so rub them off under running water before you start. Blend only briefly, too, so the many seeds do not crack. It is ready when the refresco is opaque orange, sour first and sweet after, with no grit. Outside the Amazon, look for frozen cocona pulp in Latin American shops; naranjilla (lulo) pulp is the closest substitute. Chef's tip: a pinch of salt makes the fruit taste sweeter and fruitier without more sugar.

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Ají amarillo paste

In Lima's markets ají amarillo is sold fresh all year, and most Peruvian cooks keep a tub of this paste in the fridge the way others keep tomato purée: it is the golden base of causa limeña, ají de gallina, papa a la huancaína, chupe and the sauce for tiraditos. The chillies are seeded, de-veined and blanched in three changes of water, which tames the heat and the raw grassiness, then peeled and blended with oil into a thick, silky, saffron-orange paste. It tastes fruity and sunny, almost like apricot and passion fruit, with a rounded, medium heat. Abroad, buy whole frozen ají amarillo from Latin grocers; dried ají mirasol, soaked, gives a darker, earthier paste. Common mistake: skipping the peeling; the thin skins leave papery flecks and a bitter edge. It is ready when it is completely smooth and holds a soft peak like thick hummus. This is a low-acid paste: keep it in the fridge for a week or freeze it, never on the shelf. Chef's tip: freeze it in an ice-cube tray; one cube is about a tablespoon, just right for a pot of ají de gallina.

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Escabeche de pescado

In Lima, escabeche de pescado belongs to the criollo kitchen of the old city: it turns up on Friday lunch menus, on buffet tables, and above all in Lent and Holy Week, when families eat fish and this dish can be made the day before. Fish is fried until golden, then covered in a warm sauce of thick-cut red onion softened in oil with garlic, ají amarillo, ají panca, cumin and vinegar, and left to cool so the flavours soak in. It is served cold or at room temperature with boiled sweet potato, hard-boiled egg and purple botija olives. It tastes tangy, sweet and gently fruity-hot, with crunchy onion over tender fish. The fish here is fully cooked, but because it is a cold seafood dish, pregnant people, babies, older people and anyone with weak immunity should eat it well chilled and within 2 days. Common mistake: stewing the onions until limp; they should only lose their raw bite. It is ready when the sauce has soaked a little into the fish and smells of vinegar and toasted chilli. Chef's tip: use thick fillets of corvina or bonito; thin fillets break under the sauce.

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Estofado de pollo

Estofado de pollo is the mild, homely chicken stew of Lima's family kitchens and school lunches, usually on the table on a weekday or a quiet Sunday with white rice. Chicken pieces are browned, then braised in a sauce of onion, garlic, tomato, a little ají panca paste and bay, with carrots, peas and yellow potatoes cooked right in the pot until the sauce is thick and orange. It is comforting rather than hot. The usual mistake is boiling it hard, which shreds the potatoes and dries the chicken; keep it at a lazy bubble. Chef's tip: use a few yellow potatoes along with waxy ones; they collapse slightly and thicken the sauce naturally.

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Locro de zapallo for toddlers

Locro de zapallo is the golden pumpkin stew of Lima's home kitchens and menú lunch spots, eaten on weekdays with white rice and, for adults, a fried egg and ají on the side. For toddlers from 12 months it is cooked without any ají, the pumpkin is simmered until it melts into a sauce, and just a little crumbled fresh cheese is stirred in, so it is sweet, creamy and easy to mash. It contains milk; there is no gluten, egg, nuts or soya. Queso fresco is often made with animal rennet, so for a vegetarian bowl choose one labelled vegetarian, or use a little paneer, and always a pasteurised cheese. Chef's tip: cut half the pumpkin small so it dissolves into the sauce and the rest larger so it keeps some shape.

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Ají de fideos

Ají de fideos fills the market comedores of La Paz at lunchtime: spaghetti snapped into short pieces and simmered in a brick-red sauce of dried chilli, onion and tomato with chunks of beef and potato, all eaten with a spoon. It is warming, a little smoky and properly hot, perfect at 3,600 metres. The trap is adding the pasta too early, which leaves it bloated and the sauce gluey. Chef's tip: toast the broken spaghetti in a little oil until golden before it goes into the pot; it keeps its shape and adds a nutty flavour.

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Higos con queso

Across the Ecuadorian highlands, from Ambato to Loja, families make a big pot of figs in dark panela syrup around Christmas and for Sunday lunch, then serve the glossy, near-black fruit with a cool slice of salty fresh cheese. The figs turn tender and jammy, the syrup tastes of cinnamon and cloves, and the cheese cuts the sweetness. Use firm, slightly underripe green figs: ripe ones collapse. The usual mistake is rushing the syrup on a high boil, which leaves it thin and the figs pale instead of deep and shiny. Traditional queso fresco is often set with animal rennet; choose a cheese labelled vegetarian if that matters to you. Chef's tip: make them a day ahead; the figs soak up the syrup overnight and taste even better.

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