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Kiveve

Kiveve (also written quibebe) is Guaraní food, cooked across Corrientes and Paraguay as a side for grilled meat or a supper on its own: ripe squash is simmered with onion until it falls apart, then thickened with a spoonful of cornmeal and enriched with milk and fresh cheese until it is smooth, orange and as soft as polenta, slightly sweet and slightly salty. Correntinos often serve it with chipá or sopa paraguaya on the side. The cornmeal is easy to get wrong: added all at once to a hot pot, it clumps into dry little lumps, so slake it first in cold milk and pour it in while stirring. Queso fresco or queso criollo is usually made with animal rennet; choose a vegetarian fresh cheese if needed. Chef's tip: use the deepest orange squash you can find, ideally a ripe Argentine anco or a kabocha; a pale squash gives a watery, bland kiveve.

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Dulce de calafate

Legend says whoever eats calafate will come back to Patagonia, and in El Calafate, the town on Lake Argentino named after the thorny bush, the small blue-black berries turn up in ice cream, sauces, and above all this jam. The fruit ripens in midsummer across Santa Cruz and Tierra del Fuego; it is tart and seedy, somewhere between a blueberry and a blackcurrant, and the jam is dark purple, glossy and gently spiced by the fruit itself. It goes on bread at breakfast, with a slab of cheese after dinner, or with pancakes. Outside Patagonia, frozen calafate is hard to find; blueberries with a handful of blackcurrants or barberries give a similar balance of sweet and sharp. Overcooking is the slip that turns it into a stiff, dull paste, because the berries are naturally high in pectin, so test early. Chef's tip: crush a third of the berries before cooking; you get a jam with body and some whole fruit to bite on.

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Postre vigilante

Ask for dessert in an old Buenos Aires bodegón and the waiter will rattle off flan, budín and, inevitably, vigilante: a thick slab of soft, mild cheese laid beside an equal slab of dulce de membrillo or dulce de batata. The name, "policeman", is said to come from the beat officers who ordered it as a cheap sweet in early twentieth-century cafés; Uruguayans call the same plate Martín Fierro. It is salty against sweet, creamy against firm, and takes five minutes. The traditional cheese is fresh queso cremoso or cuartirolo, or a firmer port salut; a young Havarti or mild Gouda is the best stand-in abroad. Like many soft cheeses, these are often made with animal rennet, so check the label for a vegetarian (microbial-rennet) cheese. The usual error is cutting the slabs thin like a cheese board; vigilante is about generous, equal bricks. Chef's tip: take the cheese out of the fridge 20 minutes ahead; cold cheese tastes of nothing next to the paste.

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Tomaticán

Mendoza's irrigated orchards and fincas drown in tomatoes in February, and tomaticán is the old Cuyo answer to the glut: a quick pan stew of onion, chopped ripe tomato and fresh sweetcorn, seasoned with oregano and a little ají, with beaten egg stirred through at the end until it sets in soft curds. It is a farmhouse lunch and a cheap supper, eaten with crusty bread to mop the juice, and some cooks add diced potato to stretch it. The flavour is bright and sweet-sour, the texture loose and juicy. People often add the egg to a pan full of liquid and end up with egg soup; cook the tomatoes down until the juices are jammy first. Bread for dipping is traditional, so pick a gluten-free loaf if you need it. Chef's tip: stir the egg in off the heat and let the pan's heat set it; you want soft, creamy ribbons, not a dry scramble.

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Reviro

For field workers in the yerba-mate plantations of Misiones, the morning starts with reviro: a simple dough of flour, egg, water and salt fried in plenty of fat and then broken up with a spatula as it cooks, until it becomes a pile of crisp, golden, irregular crumbs with soft centres. It is filling, cheap and very good dunked in a mug of mate cocido or milky coffee, and it shares its roots with the Guaraní and Paraguayan kitchen across the river. Traditionally it is fried in lard or beef fat; this version uses butter and oil so it is vegetarian. Turning it too early is the classic blunder: the batter needs to fry undisturbed until a crust forms, or it turns into a pale, doughy mash. Chef's tip: keep chopping and turning with the edge of a metal spatula for the last 10 minutes; the more edges you make, the more crunch you get.

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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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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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Ensalada de papa y huevo

Sunday asados in Argentina tend to come with two salads: the green ensalada mixta and this one, chunks of boiled potato and hard-boiled egg dressed while warm with oil, vinegar, salt and plenty of parsley. Some households stir in mayonnaise, which takes it close to ensalada rusa, but the oil-and-vinegar version is lighter and lets the potatoes taste of themselves. It is mild, soft and slightly tangy, and good at room temperature, which is why it suits an outdoor lunch that goes on for hours. Dressing cold potatoes is the error that leaves the salad bland: warm potatoes soak up the vinegar and oil, cold ones don't. Choose waxy potatoes that hold their shape, and cook the eggs fully for 10 minutes. Chef's tip: sprinkle the vinegar on the hot potatoes first and wait five minutes before adding the oil; the potatoes absorb the acid and the salad tastes seasoned all the way through.

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Guiso de quinoa

High in the Quebrada de Humahuaca, where quinoa has been grown on terraces for centuries, a pot of guiso de quinoa is the sort of thing served at a comedor beside the road or in a family kitchen on a cold evening at 3,000 metres. The grain cooks in a cumin-scented broth with potato, squash and red pepper until it bursts and thickens everything into a spoonable stew, and cubes of fresh cheese go in at the end to soften. Serve it in deep bowls with a spoon of llajua or chilli sauce and bread. Skipping the rinse is the mistake that spoils it: quinoa is coated in saponins that taste soapy and bitter, so wash it until the water runs clear. Queso fresco is often made with animal rennet; use a vegetarian fresh cheese, or leave it out for a vegan stew. Chef's tip: toast the rinsed quinoa in the oil for two minutes before the liquid goes in; it brings out a nutty flavour.

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Quesillo con miel de caña

In the Tafí del Valle hills above San Miguel de Tucumán, quesillo is made by stretching hot curd into long, thin, elastic sheets and folding them into flat rounds; along the road up from the city, stalls sell it beside jars of miel de caña, the dark syrup boiled from the juice of Tucumán's sugarcane. Put the two together and you have the province's simplest dessert: mild, milky, slightly squeaky cheese with a pour of syrup that tastes of molasses and caramel, plus walnuts for crunch. It is eaten after lunch or as a merienda with mate. Drowning the cheese is the usual misstep; the syrup is intense, so pour a ribbon, not a puddle. Real quesillo is hard to find abroad: fresh mozzarella, Oaxaca cheese or another fresh stretched-curd cheese is closest, and light cane syrup or a 2:1 mix of golden syrup and black treacle stands in for miel de caña. Most of these cheeses use animal rennet; choose a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: warm the syrup slightly so it runs into the folds of the cheese.

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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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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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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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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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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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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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Bife a caballo

On the chalkboard of any neighbourhood bodegón in Buenos Aires you will find bife a caballo, steak "on horseback": a thick bife de chorizo (sirloin) or rump seared hard in a hot pan, crowned with two fried eggs whose yolks run into the meat juices, and served with a pile of chips. It is the plate for hungry taxi drivers at lunch and for anyone recovering from a long night. Cook the steak to your taste; Argentines usually ask for it jugoso (medium rare, about 55 °C in the centre) or a punto (medium, about 60 °C). Use eggs fried until the whites are fully set, and cook the yolks firm for anyone vulnerable. Crowding a pan that isn't hot enough is the classic mistake, which stews the steak grey, so let the pan smoke first. Chef's tip: rest the steak while you fry the eggs in the same pan; the beef juices in the fat give the whites crisp, savoury edges.

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Berenjenas en escabeche

Jars of these marinated aubergines sit in every Argentine grandmother's fridge, a legacy of Italian and Spanish immigrants, and they come out for the picada before the asado, alongside salami, cheese and bread, or to fill a sandwich. Strips of aubergine are salted, blanched briefly in vinegar and water, then layered with garlic, chilli flakes, oregano and plenty of oil. They turn soft, silky and sharp, with a slow heat from the chilli. Overboiling is the error: the strips should be just tender after 2–3 minutes, or they turn to mush in the jar. Allow 2 hours for salting before you start and a day in the fridge before eating. Garlic kept in oil can carry botulism, so keep the jar refrigerated and eat it within two weeks. Chef's tip: press the drained aubergine hard between tea towels before jarring; the drier the strips, the longer they stay firm.

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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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Submarino

Café tables in Buenos Aires have their own way with hot chocolate: the waiter brings a tall glass of frothy, steaming milk on a saucer with a slim bar of dark chocolate, and you drop the bar in yourself and watch it sink like a submarine. Stirred with a long spoon, it melts into a rich, not-too-sweet drink, and it is the classic order with medialunas on a cold winter afternoon or after school. At home it takes five minutes, and children love the moment of dropping the bar in. The common letdown is milk that is only warm: the chocolate sits in a lump at the bottom. Heat it until it is steaming and just starting to rise, but not boiling. Chef's tip: froth the hot milk with a whisk or milk frother before pouring; the foam on top is part of the café ritual and keeps the drink hot while the chocolate melts.

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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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Tortilla al rescoldo

Puesteros in the hills of Salta and the Calchaquí valleys bake this bread the oldest way there is: a thick disc of plain dough laid straight onto the hot ash at the edge of the fire, covered with more embers and dug out 20 minutes later with a crust that is blistered and smoky and a crumb that is dense and soft. You brush off the ash, break it with your hands and eat it with goat's cheese, a mate or a bowl of locro. The traditional fat is lard (grasa); this version uses butter or vegetable shortening so it stays vegetarian. Laying the dough on flaming wood instead of a bed of settled grey embers is the mistake that burns the outside black before the middle cooks, so wait until the fire has died back. No fire? A dry cast-iron pan and a hot oven give you a close result. Chef's tip: knock the bread on its base when you lift it out; a hollow sound means it is cooked through.

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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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Hongos de pino en escabeche

After the autumn rains in the pine plantations of Neuquén and Río Negro, slippery jacks (Suillus luteus) pop up by the thousand, and around San Martín de los Andes and Villa La Angostura they are sold fresh by the roadside, dried in bags, or bottled like this. The mushrooms are blanched in vinegar, then kept in oil with garlic, bay and peppercorns, ending up tender, tangy and slightly silky, a classic part of a picada with cheese and bread or beside grilled vegetables. Wild mushrooms must only be eaten if identified by an expert or bought from a trusted seller; if in doubt, use cultivated mushrooms such as chestnut or king oyster. The common mistake is skipping the peeling: the slimy skin on the cap turns the pickle gluey, so pull it off first. Garlic in oil can carry botulism, so the jar must live in the fridge and be eaten within two weeks. Chef's tip: let the jar rest for two days before opening; the vinegar mellows and the flavours come together.

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