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Obatzda

Obatzda is what a Munich beer garden puts beside a giant soft pretzel: overripe Camembert mashed with soft butter, sweet paprika, caraway and raw onion until it turns a creamy, rusty orange. It is a thrifty spread that grew up in Bavarian taverns as a way to use cheese that had gone a little too far, and it is still eaten in the afternoon sun with radishes and dark bread. Camembert is usually made with animal rennet, so pick one labelled vegetarian if that matters to you. A common mistake is blitzing it in a processor, which makes it gluey; mash with a fork so a few soft lumps stay. Chef's tip: make it an hour ahead and chill it, then let it stand 15 minutes before serving, so the paprika flavour blooms and it spreads easily.

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Kartoffelkäse

Despite its name, Franconian Kartoffelkäs contains no cheese at all: it is a soft spread of riced potato, sour cream, onion and caraway that farm families around Bamberg and Nuremberg put on the table for Brotzeit, the cold evening supper. It goes on thick slices of rye bread with chives and sliced radish, and it was a way to turn a few leftover potatoes into something rich enough to stand in for cheese. A common mistake is using waxy potatoes, which go gluey; floury ones make it light. Chef's tip: rice the potatoes while hot, but stir in the sour cream only when they are cool, so the spread stays fresh-tasting rather than heavy.

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Trucha frita

Rainbow trout farmed in the cold, clear water of Lake Titicaca is what you eat in Puno, at lakeside restaurants and on the floating islands: a whole fish, dusted in flour and fried until the skin crackles, with boiled Andean potatoes, rice, a simple salad and lime. The flesh is pink-white, sweet and moist; nothing else is needed. Ask your fishmonger to gut and scale the trout. The most common mistake is moving the fish too early, which tears the skin; leave it until it releases from the pan by itself. Chef's tip: slash the thick part of each side twice before flouring, so the fish cooks evenly and the skin crisps right up to the head.

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Bayerischer Krautsalat

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.

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Chifles

Bags of chifles hang from every shop door in Piura and Sullana, and on the northern coast they come alongside almost everything: ceviche, seco, a cold drink at the beach. They are green plantains sliced paper-thin, lengthwise or in rounds, fried until glassy and crisp, then salted. The flavour is starchy and lightly nutty, the crunch is louder than a potato crisp, and they keep for days in a tin. Getting the slices even is what matters most: thick and thin slices fry at different speeds, and the thick ones end up leathery while the thin ones burn, so use a mandoline set to 1–2 mm. Use firm, fully green plantains; any yellow means sugar, which browns too fast. Chef's tip: soak the slices in salted water for 10 minutes, then dry them completely before frying; they crisp more evenly and stay pale gold.

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Radi

In Bavaria a Radi is a single big white radish, cut into one long spiral or paper-thin slices and salted until it 'weeps', then eaten with your fingers in the beer garden between bites of pretzel. Stalls at Munich's Viktualienmarkt sell the long white roots from spring to autumn, and old regulars carry a special spiral cutter. It is crisp, peppery and cooling, the opposite of everything rich on the table. A common mistake is eating it straight away: the salt needs ten minutes to draw out the bitter juice and soften the bite. Chef's tip: pick a heavy, firm radish with a smooth skin; a light one is often woody and hollow inside.

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Helado de lúcuma

Ask anyone in Lima, Cusco or Trujillo for the national ice-cream flavour and they will say lúcuma, the green-skinned Andean fruit with dry, golden-orange flesh that tastes of butterscotch, maple and sweet potato. Every ice-cream parlour, supermarket freezer and street cart sells it, and it's also folded into cakes and milkshakes. This no-churn version needs no machine: frozen lúcuma pulp (or lúcuma powder, both in Latin shops and health-food stores) is whisked into condensed milk, then folded into whipped cream and frozen. It comes out smooth, rich and naturally caramel-coloured. The mistake is over-whipping the cream to stiff peaks, which makes the ice cream grainy and buttery; stop at soft peaks. It needs at least 6 hours in the freezer, so make it the day before. Serve with a slice of chocolate cake or on its own. Chef's tip: a pinch of salt and a few drops of lime sharpen lúcuma's mellow flavour so it doesn't taste flat when frozen.

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Paiche a la parrilla

Paiche (arapaima), one of the largest freshwater fish on earth, has thick, white, almost boneless flesh, and in Iquitos it is farmed and cut into meaty steaks that sizzle on the grills of riverside restaurants. Marinated briefly in garlic, lime, cumin and achiote, it chars on the outside and stays juicy and mild inside, a little like cod but firmer. Serve it with a tomato and onion salad, rice, or tacacho (mashed fried plantain balls). Frozen farmed paiche is sold in some fishmongers; thick cod, halibut or hake loin are good stand-ins. Leaving it in lime too long is the big mistake: the acid starts to 'cook' the surface and it sticks and tears on the grill, so 15 minutes is plenty. Chef's tip: oil the fish, not the grill, and don't move it for the first 3 minutes so it forms a crust and releases cleanly.

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Handkäs mit Musik

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.

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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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Tallarines verdes

Peru's answer to pesto came from Italian-Ligurian families who settled in Lima and Callao, and it was quickly rebuilt with what Peruvian kitchens had: spinach to stretch the basil, queso fresco instead of hard cheese, and a can of evaporated milk to make it creamy. Menú restaurants in Lima serve it on weekdays, often with a breaded steak or a fried egg beside it, and the sauce turns out milder, softer and greener than the Genoese original. This version stays vegetarian: serve it with a tomato and onion salad, or crown each plate with a fried egg if you eat them. The classic mistake is boiling the leaves too long, which turns the sauce khaki and dull; they need only 20 seconds in hot water. Note that queso fresco is usually made with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian (microbial-rennet) fresh cheese if that matters to you. Chef's tip: blend the sauce with the evaporated milk while the leaves are still cold from their ice bath and it will stay bright for the whole meal.

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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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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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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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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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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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Uchucuta

Ground on a batán, the flat grinding stone found in Andean kitchens, uchucuta is the table sauce of Ayacucho and Cusco: rocoto or yellow chilli crushed with huacatay, toasted peanuts and a little fresh cheese into a thick, speckled green-red paste. It goes on boiled potatoes, choclo, broad beans and huatia, and on festival days it sits next to every plate. The flavour is hot, herby and nutty, with a salty creaminess from the cheese. The name comes from the Quechua uchu, chilli, and it is meant to be spicy, but people often add all the rocoto at once and end up with something inedible; blend in half, taste and build up. A food processor or blender will do the work of the stone, though pulse it so the sauce keeps some texture. Queso fresco is usually made with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian fresh cheese if you prefer. Chef's tip: toast the peanuts yourself until just golden; their warmth softens the raw sharpness of the chilli.

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Ensalada de chonta

Iquitos restaurants and the riverside cafés of the Peruvian Amazon serve ensalada de chonta as a cool counterpoint to grilled fish and juanes: long, pale ribbons of fresh palm heart, crisp and faintly sweet, tossed with tomato, avocado, red onion and lots of lime. At Belén market you can watch sellers shave the chonta into curls with a big knife. Outside the Amazon, fresh palm heart is hard to find, but good jarred hearts of palm cut into thin strips work well, and the salad becomes a ten-minute job. It's crunchy, juicy and sharp, perfect with rice and beans or any fried snack. Where most people go wrong is adding the avocado and salt early, so the salad turns soupy and grey; dress it at the last moment. Chef's tip: slice the palm hearts lengthwise on a mandoline or with a peeler for thin, curling ribbons that look like the Iquitos original.

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Aguajina

Aguaje is the scaly, chestnut-red fruit of the moriche palm that grows in the flooded forests around Iquitos, and its orange flesh ends up in ice lollies, ice cream and, above all, aguajina, the cold drink sold in plastic cups at every corner and in Belén market. The taste is unusual and loved locally: tangy, a little like apricot and carrot, with a rich, slightly oily body. Fresh aguaje must be softened in warm water for an hour before its thin layer of pulp can be scraped off; outside Peru, frozen aguaje pulp from Latin American shops is the realistic choice and gives a good result. A common slip is adding all the sugar before tasting: the pulp's sourness varies from pack to pack, so sweeten at the end. Serve very cold with lunch or on a hot afternoon. Chef's tip: blend the pulp with only part of the water first, so it breaks down fully, then stir in the rest.

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Chapo

Breakfast stalls in Iquitos and the riverside towns of Loreto pour chapo into glasses from big steaming pots before the heat of the day sets in, and by afternoon the same drink is sold chilled. It is made from plantains left until their skins are black, simmered with cinnamon and cloves until soft, then blended smooth and loosened with milk. The result is thick, naturally sweet and gently spiced, somewhere between a smoothie and a thin custard, and children love it. Some families make it with water only; evaporated milk is the common addition in town. The mistake is using plantains that are still yellow-green: they taste starchy and the drink turns grey and gluey, so wait until the skins are mostly black and the fruit gives when pressed. Serve hot with bread or a tamal, or cold over ice. Chef's tip: strain it through a sieve after blending for a silky drink, and thin it with water if it thickens as it cools.

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Camu camu

Camu camu are small purple-red berries that grow on bushes along the flooded riverbanks of the Peruvian Amazon, and in Iquitos and Pucallpa they are sold as frozen pulp and blended into a sharp, pink refresco at juice bars and lunch places. The flavour is intensely sour, more than lime, with a faint cherry note, and the berries are famous for containing far more vitamin C than oranges. It is the drink people order with a heavy plate of tacacho or rice. Never boil camu camu or make the juice hours ahead: heat and air quickly fade its colour and much of the vitamin C, so blend it cold and drink it soon. Frozen pulp or freeze-dried powder from health-food and Latin shops are the forms you'll find abroad. Chef's tip: start with half the pulp and add more to taste; it's strong enough that a little goes a long way.

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Halve Hahn

Order a Halve Hahn in a Cologne brewpub and you will not get half a chicken, whatever the name says: you get a buttered rye roll, a slab of aged Gouda, sharp mustard and raw onion rings. It is the standard snack on the long wooden tables of the Altstadt, eaten with a small glass of the local beer, though it is just as good with apple juice spritzer. The point is the contrast of crusty rye, nutty crystalline cheese and the bite of onion and mustard. Aged Gouda is usually made with animal rennet, so look for one labelled vegetarian or made with microbial rennet. A common mistake is slicing the cheese thin like a sandwich; the Cologne way is a slice as thick as your finger. Chef's tip: take the cheese out of the fridge 30 minutes ahead so its flavour opens up.

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