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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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Shámbar

Mondays in Trujillo mean shámbar: market stalls and huariques across the city put out pots of this thick, smoky soup of cracked wheat, chickpeas, broad beans, peas and canary beans, cooked with smoked ham hock, pork ribs and pork skin, then stirred through with a fried paste of ají panca and garlic and a handful of mint. It is earthy, porky and rib-sticking, and each bowl gets a scoop of crunchy cancha just before eating. Soak the beans and the wheat overnight. People often cook everything together from the start, and the peas turn to mush before the chickpeas soften; cook the hardest pulses first. Chef's tip: toast the wheat in a dry pan before soaking it; it gives the soup a nutty depth the locals look for.

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Chuño phuti

Chuño are potatoes freeze-dried the ancient way on the Altiplano: left out on frosty nights, trampled to squeeze out the water and dried in the high sun, so they keep for years. In Puno and across the border in Bolivia, they are soaked, crumbled and fried with onion, then scrambled with egg and fresh cheese to make phuti, a hearty breakfast or supper eaten with a hot tea. The texture is dense and slightly chewy, and the flavour earthy and a little tangy. Chuño is sold dried in Andean shops; it must soak overnight (ideally 24 hours, with the water changed) and then be peeled, which adds time before you start. The mistake is not soaking or rinsing enough: under-soaked chuño smells strong and stays hard in the middle. Serve with a fresh tomato salsa or uchucuta. Fresh cheese is usually made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian one if needed. Chef's tip: squeeze the soaked chuño hard between your palms before crumbling; the drier it is, the better it fries.

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Inchicapi

From the riverside kitchens of Iquitos and the Peruvian Amazon comes inchicapi, a festive chicken soup traditionally made with a free-range hen for birthdays and fiestas. Raw peanuts and a little maize flour are ground and stirred into the broth, which turns it creamy, pale and nutty, and pieces of cassava, garlic, ají dulce and sacha culantro (a long, serrated, strongly flavoured coriander) finish it. It is served with rice, boiled plantain or cassava. If you can't find sacha culantro in Asian or Latin shops (sold as culantro or ngo gai), use a big handful of coriander. The pitfall is adding the peanut paste dry: it clumps and catches on the bottom, so loosen it with broth first and stir often. Chef's tip: use raw, not roasted, peanuts; they keep the soup pale and give it the right fresh, milky taste.

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Leche de tigre

Every cevichería along Lima's coast, from Chorrillos to the market stalls of Surquillo, sells this as a pick-me-up before lunch: a small glass of milky, lime-sharp juice blitzed with fish, celery, ginger and ají limo, with a few cubes of fish and kernels of cancha floating on top. It is cold, salty, very sour and fiery, and people swear by it the morning after a long night. Because the fish is cured only by lime, this safer version uses very fresh white fish that has been frozen at −20 °C for 24 hours first, keeps everything ice cold and is drunk at once; it is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. The common mistake is blending the lime with the fish for too long, which makes the juice bitter, so pulse only briefly. Chef's tip: squeeze the limes by hand, gently, without pressing the pith; the last hard squeeze is what turns leche de tigre bitter.

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Ceviche de chocho

Chocho, or tarwi, is the Andean lupin bean, a protein-packed legume grown high around Huaraz, Cajamarca and Puno, and street carts in the highlands sell it in plastic cups dressed like a ceviche: lime, red onion, tomato, coriander and a little ají, sometimes with toasted corn for crunch. It is fresh, sour and pleasantly firm, a vegan stand-in for fish ceviche that works as a starter or a light lunch. Food safety matters here: raw or bitter lupins contain toxic alkaloids and must never be eaten as they are. Use only ready-debittered, cooked chochos, sold in jars, vacuum packs or chilled tubs in Latin shops; if they taste bitter, rinse and soak them longer or throw them away. Lupin is also a common allergen and may affect people allergic to peanuts. The usual mistake is to drown everything in lime and leave it, which makes the onion limp; mix the dressing just before serving. Chef's tip: squeeze the limes gently by hand rather than with a press, so the juice doesn't turn bitter.

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Kapchi

Kapchi (sometimes spelled capchi) comes from the Quechua for something like 'dressed' or 'creamed', and around Cusco it turns up when the fresh broad beans are in season: green habas, potatoes and soft fresh cheese simmered with milk until the sauce turns thick and pale, with ají and a handful of huacatay. Market stalls in San Pedro sell it with rice, and families make it at Easter as a meatless dish. It is gentle and creamy with a herby, slightly minty finish, and the beans stay sweet and tender. The trap is boiling the sauce once the cheese is in; it splits into curds and goes watery, so keep it at a bare simmer. Serve with white rice or boiled potatoes and a spoon of uchucuta. The same recipe works with sliced mushrooms instead of beans, which Cusco cooks also do. Queso fresco is usually set with animal rennet, so pick a vegetarian fresh cheese if you need to. Chef's tip: peel the beans of their pale inner skins after blanching; it takes ten minutes and makes the dish far silkier.

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Pesque de quinua

Up on the Altiplano around Lake Titicaca, where quinoa grows at almost 4,000 metres, pesque is everyday food: quinoa cooked until it collapses, then beaten with milk, a knob of butter and crumbled fresh cheese until it looks like a loose, savoury risotto. Puno families eat it for a warming lunch or supper, often with a glass of milk poured over or a fried egg on top, and in the cold dry air it is exactly what the body wants. It is soft, nutty and mildly salty. The step people skip is rinsing the quinoa, and the natural saponins then leave a soapy, bitter edge; rub it under running water until the foam stops. Serve with a tomato salad or a spoon of uchucuta for some heat. Andean fresh cheese is usually set with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian fresh cheese if needed. Chef's tip: cook the quinoa in a little more water than usual and leave it a few minutes longer than for a salad, so it turns creamy and the grains burst.

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Arroz con pato

Chiclayo and the northern coast claim arroz con pato as their own, and family lunches and big Sunday gatherings there often centre on a deep pot of it: duck legs browned and simmered in dark beer and a purée of coriander and spinach, then rice cooked in the same green, duck-rich liquid with peas, red pepper and ají amarillo. The rice is moist and loose, the duck tender with crisp edges, and it is served with salsa criolla and, often, papa a la huancaína. The beer contains alcohol, and not all of it cooks off; for an alcohol-free pot use alcohol-free beer or the stock swap in the ingredients. A common mistake is skipping the browning, which leaves flabby skin and a pale, fatty rice; render the duck slowly first and pour off excess fat. Chef's tip: let the cooked rice rest under the lid off the heat for 10 minutes before fluffing.

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Seco de chabelo

Piura's picanterías, near the dry northern border, serve this rough, savoury mash at lunch: green plantains, roasted or boiled and pounded, mixed with fried strips of carne seca (salted dried beef) and a quick sofrito of onion, tomato and ají amarillo. It is dense, salty and smoky, with the plantain's starchy sweetness, and is eaten with salsa criolla and fried ripe plantain or chifles (plantain crisps). The legend says it was invented for a soldier called Chabelo in the War of the Pacific. Use carne seca or cecina from Latin shops, or unseasoned beef jerky. Pounding the plantains smooth is the classic mistake: chabelo should be lumpy and rustic. Chef's tip: soak the dried beef in warm water for 30 minutes and taste a piece; if it's still very salty, change the water and soak again.

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Majarisco

Its name blends 'majado' (mashed plantain) and 'marisco' (seafood), and along the coast of Piura and Tumbes, near the Ecuadorian border, it's what cevicherías and beach restaurants serve when you want something hot and filling. Mashed green plantain is folded into a sauce of garlic, onion, ají and seafood juices, with prawns, squid and mussels running through it, so every forkful is creamy, garlicky and briny. Serve it with lime and salsa criolla. Mussels must be alive: tap any open ones and discard those that don't close, and discard any that stay shut after cooking. Overcooking the seafood is the most frequent mistake; it goes in at the end, just until pink and opaque. Chef's tip: keep the mussel cooking liquid and use it to loosen the mash; it's pure seafood flavour.

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Ocopa

Arequipa's picanterías put ocopa on the table as a starter, a pale olive sauce spooned thickly over sliced boiled potatoes, and the smell of toasted chillies and huacatay (black mint) is what sets it apart from Lima's huancaína. The chillies are dried ají mirasol, charred in a dry pan, which gives a smoky, raisin-like warmth rather than sharp heat, and toasted peanuts make the sauce nutty and almost velvety. Many cooks thicken it with crackers; this version uses only peanuts and cheese, so it stays gluten free. Serve it at room temperature with yellow potatoes, a black olive and a few lettuce leaves, plus a halved boiled egg for anyone who eats eggs. The mistake people make is toasting the onion and chillies black, which turns the sauce bitter; they should be blistered in spots only. Queso fresco is often made with animal rennet, so look for a vegetarian fresh cheese. Chef's tip: huacatay paste comes in jars from Latin shops; without it, use a small handful of mint plus a few tarragon leaves.

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Pastel de papa

On a plate in an Arequipa picantería, pastel de papa is the soft, golden square that sits next to a fiery rocoto relleno and cools your mouth between bites. Thin slices of parboiled potato are layered with fresh cheese and a seasoned egg and evaporated-milk custard, then baked until the top puffs and browns. It is richer and more set than a French gratin, firm enough to cut cleanly, and it makes a fine vegetarian main with a salad of tomato and onion or a spoon of uchucuta. The way it goes wrong is slicing the potatoes too thick or under-boiling them, which leaves them crunchy while the custard overcooks; cut them 3–4 mm thin and parboil them just until bendy. Arequipa cooks use paria or queso fresco, which are normally made with animal rennet; a vegetarian melting cheese such as a microbial-rennet mozzarella or mild cheddar works well. Chef's tip: let the bake rest for 15 minutes after it leaves the oven so the custard settles and the slices hold.

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Jalea mixta

Ordered to share at a Lima cevichería on a Sunday, jalea mixta arrives as a tall golden pile: chunks of white fish, squid rings and prawns, all in a light, crackly coat, on top of fried cassava and buried under a fresh tangle of salsa criolla. The contrast is the point, hot and crunchy underneath, cold, sour and sharp on top, with tartar sauce or ají on the side and cold drinks all round. A frequent mistake is crowding the oil, which drops its temperature and gives you a soggy, greasy coat; fry in small batches and let the oil come back up between them. Chef's tip: boil the cassava first and let it steam dry before frying; it turns fluffy inside and shatteringly crisp outside.

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Escribano

Mid-morning in Arequipa's traditional picanterías, before the big plates come out, regulars order escribano: a bowl of warm yellow potato crushed with a fork and drenched in rocoto, ripe tomato, vinegar and oil. Local lore says it was a snack for the court clerks (escribanos) who worked nearby, and it is still eaten as a sharp, spicy wake-up with a glass of chicha or a soft drink. The texture should be rough and juicy, somewhere between a salad and a mash, with the red chilli bright against the potato. Don't purée it: overworked potato goes gluey and loses the chunks that hold the dressing. Rocoto is fiercely hot, so start with half and taste. Serve it alone with crusty bread, or beside fried cheese or grilled vegetables. Chef's tip: dress the potatoes the moment they are drained and peeled, while they are steaming, so they drink in the vinegar.

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Choclo con queso

Ride the train or the bus through the Sacred Valley of Cusco and at every stop someone will hold up choclo con queso: a steaming cob of Urubamba's huge white-kernelled corn with a slab of fresh cheese tucked into a corn husk. The kernels are big, chewy and starchy rather than sweet, and the salty, milky cheese is eaten in alternating bites, sometimes with a dab of uchucuta or ají. It's snack food, a market lunch and something to keep children going on a long day. Fresh choclo is sold frozen in Latin American shops; sweet corn works but is sweeter and softer. Adding salt to the cooking water is the usual misstep, as it can toughen the kernels: season the cheese, not the corn. Andean fresh cheese is generally made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian fresh cheese if needed. Chef's tip: drop a few of the inner husks and a small spoon of sugar into the pot; it brings back some of the sweetness lost after picking.

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Habas tostadas

Paper cones of habas tostadas are sold by the scoop at markets from Huancayo to Puno, piled next to cancha and roasted peanuts, and they disappear by the handful at football matches, on long bus rides and with a cold drink in the evening. Dried broad beans are soaked, dried and fried until they crack open, turning golden and crisp outside with a slightly mealy, nutty centre. Most sellers leave the skins on, which gives them their bite. The beans need an overnight soak before you start, so plan a day ahead. The mistake to avoid is frying them still wet from the soak: the oil spits dangerously and the beans steam instead of crisping, so dry them thoroughly on a towel. Eat them on their own or put a bowl out with olives and pickled onions. Chef's tip: fry them twice, first at a lower heat to cook the centre, then hotter for the crunch, and salt them the moment they come out of the oil.

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Tiradito

Lima's Japanese-Peruvian cooks turned ceviche on its head with tiradito: instead of cubes soaked in lime, the fish is cut thin like sashimi, laid flat and dressed at the last minute, so it stays silky with only the surface turning white. The sauce here is the classic golden one, ají amarillo blended with lime, garlic and ginger, fruity and medium hot. It is served as a starter in cevicherías and upmarket Miraflores restaurants with boiled sweet potato and corn. Because the fish is eaten almost raw, this version uses sashimi-grade fish frozen at −20 °C for 24 hours first (allow for that), kept cold and eaten the moment it is dressed; it is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system. The mistake people make is dressing it ahead: after ten minutes the lime cooks it through and it turns chalky. Chef's tip: chill the plates in the freezer for 10 minutes before you lay out the fish; it keeps the slices firm while you work.

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Choros a la chalaca

Named for the people of Callao, Lima's port, choros a la chalaca are what you order with friends at a seafront cevichería on a hot afternoon: steamed mussels, chilled, each on its half shell under a bright, wet salsa of red onion, tomato, Andean corn, rocoto and lime. Cool, sweet, briny and sharp, they are eaten with your fingers in two bites, often before a ceviche or a jalea. Here the mussels are fully steamed open first, so nothing is served raw. People often overcook them while waiting for the last stubborn shells, which leaves the rest rubbery; lift them out as soon as each one opens. Chef's tip: dress the salsa no more than 15 minutes ahead, and spoon a little of the juice onto every mussel; that juice is the whole point of the dish.

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Huatia

After the potato harvest in May and June, families in Puno, Cusco and across the highlands build a huatia in the field: a little dome of dry earth clods heated with dried brush until the clods glow, then knocked down over freshly dug potatoes and oca so they bake slowly underground. Opened an hour later, the potatoes are smoky, floury and so soft their skins split, and the oca turns sweet and tangy. Everyone eats them with their hands, with salt, chilli sauce and fresh cheese. This recipe gives an oven method for home cooks: a lidded pot bedded with coarse salt and herbs, which traps heat and steam much like the earth. If you do try a real huatia outdoors, use a clear patch of ground away from anything that can catch fire and keep water nearby. Don't uncover the pot early to check: the steam escapes and the potatoes turn leathery. Fresh oca is sold in some markets as New Zealand yam; small sweet potatoes will do. Chef's tip: choose potatoes of a similar size so they all finish together, and serve with uchucuta.

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Ensalada de pallares

Around Ica, on Peru's southern desert coast, pallares grow in irrigated valleys and dry into fat, flat beans the size of a thumbnail; the region holds them in high regard and sells them by the sack at the Ica market. Cooked until creamy and dressed while warm, they become a filling salad that sits on the table beside fried fish, rice or a plate of boiled sweet potato, and it works as a light lunch on its own. The onion is cut the Peruvian way, in fine half-moons, rinsed so it stays crisp without biting, and the ají limo gives a fruity heat that you can turn up or down. A frequent slip is dressing the beans straight from the fridge: they stay chalky and the lime slides off instead of soaking in. Using dried beans adds an overnight soak; good jarred or canned large lima beans make it a 20-minute dish. Chef's tip: dress the beans while they are still warm with half the lime and salt, then add the onion, tomato and the rest of the lime just before serving.

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