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Bò xào cần tây (beef and celery stir-fry)

Bò xào cần tây is a weeknight stir-fry found on family tables all over Vietnam: thin slices of beef, seasoned with fish sauce and pepper, flashed in a hot wok with crunchy celery, onion and plenty of garlic, then eaten with rice. The usual mistake is cooking the beef and celery together from the start, so the beef stews while the celery softens; sear the beef first, take it out, and add it back at the end. Chef's tip: slice the beef across the grain and as thin as you can, so it is tender after only a minute in the pan.

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Bánh mì ốp la (Vietnamese fried eggs with baguette)

All over Saigon and Hanoi, street stalls serve bánh mì ốp la for breakfast: two or three eggs fried in a little iron pan, brought to the table sizzling, with a split baguette for scooping and a splash of dark seasoning sauce on top. The whites go lacy and crisp at the edges while the yolks stay soft, and the cucumber and chilli on the side keep it fresh. The usual mistake is frying the eggs on a fierce heat until the bottoms burn before the whites on top have set; a medium heat and a lid fix that. For pregnant people, young children, older or vulnerable people, cook the yolks until fully set. Chef's tip: warm the baguette in a hot oven for 3 minutes first so the crust shatters the way it does at the stall.

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Bò lúc lắc (Vietnamese shaking beef)

Bò lúc lắc, shaking beef, is a Saigon dish from the French-influenced south, ordered at family dinners and celebrations: cubes of tender steak seared in a smoking pan and shaken with garlic and onion, then tipped over peppery watercress and tomato with a lime, salt and pepper dip. The mistake almost everyone makes is crowding the pan, which boils the meat grey instead of searing it; cook in two batches. Chef's tip: let the cubes sit untouched for a full minute before the first shake to build a dark crust.

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Tôm rim (caramelised prawns)

Tôm rim is a homely dish cooked in kitchens from Hanoi to the Mekong Delta and eaten at the family rice tray with boiled greens and a clear soup: prawns simmered down in fish sauce, sugar and shallot until the liquid turns to a sticky, salty-sweet glaze. The mistake is walking away in the last few minutes, when the sauce goes from glaze to burnt very quickly. Chef's tip: leave the shells on if your prawns are small, as many Vietnamese cooks do; they turn crisp and caramelised and add flavour.

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Mì xào rau (Vietnamese stir-fried noodles with vegetables)

Mì xào rau is what Hanoi and Saigon households cook when there is a packet of egg noodles in the cupboard and a few greens in the fridge: a fast, smoky plate for a weeknight dinner or a late lunch. The noodles turn slightly crisp at the edges, the cabbage stays sweet and crunchy, and a light soy glaze holds it all together. The most common mistake is dumping everything into a lukewarm pan at once, which steams the vegetables and leaves the noodles soggy and clumped. Serve it with a dish of sliced chilli in soy sauce and a fried egg if you want more protein. Chef's tip: loosen the cooked noodles with a teaspoon of oil while they drain, so they hit the wok as separate strands instead of a block.

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Sữa chua (Vietnamese set yogurt)

In Vietnamese homes, sữa chua is made in a row of small jars and kept in the fridge or freezer, and children in Hanoi and Saigon eat it after school straight from the cup, sometimes frozen hard like ice cream. The condensed milk gives it a mild caramel sweetness and a smooth, firm set that is less sharp than plain yogurt. It is sweetened, so this version uses less condensed milk than the street-stall kind. It contains milk. Chef's tip: keep the milk at blood heat, about 43 °C; hotter kills the yogurt culture and cooler sets slowly and sour.

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Trà atisôArtichoke tea

Artichokes arrived in the cool Đà Lạt highlands with French planters, and today the town's markets sell dried artichoke leaves, stems and flower buds for tea along with fresh heads for soup. Local cafés serve it hot on misty mornings and iced in the afternoon, slightly sweet, earthy and pleasantly bitter, and many Vietnamese drink it as a gentle tonic after rich meals. This version brews fresh globe artichokes with their stems; a 30 g bag of dried trà atisô works the same way. Chef's tip: skip the aluminium pan; artichokes react with it and the tea turns grey and metallic.

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Nộm hoa chuốiBanana blossom salad

Hanoi cooks make nộm hoa chuối on hot summer days and as a sharp, crunchy partner to boiled meats at family gatherings, when a banana blossom from the market is sliced paper-thin into acidulated water. The pale purple-white shreds taste faintly nutty and astringent, softened by a sweet-sour fish-sauce dressing, carrot, rau răm and plenty of toasted peanuts and sesame; many households add poached chicken or pig's ear. Chef's tip: slice the blossom straight into lime water and keep it submerged; sliced banana blossom left in the air blackens within minutes.

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Canh mướp tômLuffa and prawn soup

In summer the trellises of Vietnamese gardens hang heavy with luffa, and canh mướp is what goes on the table most evenings from Hanoi to Huế: a clear, barely salted broth with soft, sweet gourd and a little chopped prawn, ladled over rice through the meal. It takes 20 minutes and very little oil, which is why mothers make it for anyone feeling the heat. Chef's tip: add the luffa last and pull the pot off as soon as it turns translucent; overcooked luffa goes slimy and the soup turns grey.

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Shlada batata (Moroccan cumin potato salad)

Shlada batata is one of the cooked salads that line up on a Moroccan table before Friday couscous, in Rabat as much as in the Rif: boiled potato chunks dressed while warm with olive oil, lemon, cumin, paprika, garlic and plenty of parsley, with no mayonnaise at all. It's eaten at room temperature with bread, or with grilled sardines. Dressing cold potatoes is the common mistake; they don't absorb the flavours, so toss them while they're still steaming. Chef's tip: a few slivers of preserved lemon peel make it unmistakably Moroccan.

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Rau luộc chấm kho quẹtBoiled vegetables with dipping sauce

Farm families in the Mekong Delta, in Đồng Tháp and Cần Thơ, used to stretch a few spoonfuls of salty kho quẹt across a whole basket of boiled garden vegetables, and it is now a nostalgic favourite in Saigon restaurants. The dip is pork fat rendered into crisp cracklings, then fish sauce, sugar, shallot, dried shrimp and black pepper bubbled down until thick and sticky enough to 'scrape' (quẹt) with a vegetable. The vegetables do most of the work, so the plate stays light. Chef's tip: take the dip off the heat while it still looks a little loose; it sets as it cools and, cooked too far, it burns bitter and turns rock-hard.

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Shlada beldia (Moroccan tomato and cucumber salad)

Shlada beldia, "country salad", sits next to the bread on almost every Moroccan table, from Marrakech grill stalls to a Tuesday family lunch in Oujda. Tomato, cucumber, onion and green pepper are diced as small as lentils, then dressed with lemon, olive oil, parsley and a pinch of cumin, so it eats like a fresh relish with grilled meat, tagines or eggs. The common mistake is dressing it too early: the tomatoes weep and it turns to soup, so salt it just before serving. Chef's tip: dice everything to the same tiny size; that's what makes it taste Moroccan rather than like a chopped salad.

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Chanh muốiSalted lime drink

Vietnamese households keep a jar of chanh muối, limes cured in salt until they turn soft and olive-brown, on a sunny shelf for months; on a sweltering day a lime or two is muddled with sugar and topped up with ice water or soda water. The drink is salty, sour and sweet all at once, and grandmothers swear by it for sore throats and after a bout of sun. This recipe makes the jar of cured limes (allow four weeks before the first glass) and then the drink itself. Chef's tip: dry the limes completely after blanching; any water left on the skins lets mould take hold in the jar.

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Nước rau máPennywort juice

Saigon street carts blend nước rau má to order through the hottest part of the afternoon, pouring the bright green juice into plastic cups over crushed ice for office workers and students. Pennywort (rau má) tastes fresh, grassy and very slightly bitter, and southerners drink it to 'cool the body' in the dry season; some stalls blend in cooked mung beans or a splash of coconut milk to make it richer. Look for bunches of rau má in Vietnamese and South Asian grocers, where it is also sold as gotu kola. Chef's tip: strain twice through a fine cloth and drink it within the hour; left standing, it separates and darkens to a dull khaki.

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Bò tái chanhLime-cured beef salad

In Saigon's beer gardens bò tái chanh arrives as the first plate of the evening, a sharp, herb-heavy pile of thin beef slices dressed in lime juice and fish sauce with onion, rau răm and peanuts, scooped up with sesame rice crackers. Street cooks often leave the beef almost raw and let the lime 'cook' it; lime does not make beef safe, so this home version blanches the slices for a few seconds until they are cooked at least to medium, still tender and rosy at the centre. Chef's tip: squeeze out the lime juice before dressing; beef left sitting in a pool of lime turns grey and chewy.

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Cà phê trứngEgg coffee

Hanoi's old-quarter cafés, up narrow stairs and in tiny back rooms, serve cà phê trứng in a small cup set in a bowl of hot water so it stays warm while you spoon through the custardy foam into bitter coffee below. The topping is egg yolk whisked with condensed milk until pale and thick, a trick that began when fresh milk was scarce in the 1940s. Because the yolk is not cooked, use pasteurised eggs for pregnant women, young children, older people or anyone with a weakened immune system. Chef's tip: whisk longer than you think; under-beaten yolk tastes eggy and sinks straight into the coffee instead of sitting on top.

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Shlada khiar (grated cucumber salad with oregano)

In the heat of a Fes or Marrakech summer, this ice-cold grated cucumber salad is served in bowls with spoons, half salad, half drink, alongside rich tagines or a plate of fried fish. Cucumber is grated and loosened with water, vinegar and a little sugar, then perfumed with crushed dried oregano or zaatar. Grating ahead and leaving it to sit in salt is the usual slip; the cucumber goes limp and bitter. Chef's tip: rub the oregano between your palms over the bowl to wake its oils.

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Cà phê muốiSalt coffee

A family café in Huế's citadel quarter began topping its coffee with salted cream, and now cà phê muối is served across central Vietnam and in trendy cafés in Saigon and Hanoi. Sip it without stirring: first the cool, faintly salty cream, then sweet condensed milk and strong phin coffee, the salt rounding off the bitterness much like a pinch in caramel. It is good hot or poured over ice. Chef's tip: use only a small pinch of salt per glass; too much and the drink tastes like seawater rather than salted caramel.

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Shlada gar'a (cooked courgette salad with cumin)

In Meknes and Casablanca the pale courgettes of early summer are cooked down into this soft, spiced salad, one of several little dishes set out with bread before the main course. The courgettes are steamed with garlic, then crushed lightly with olive oil, cumin, paprika and lemon until spoonable but still chunky. Serve it cool with bread or alongside grilled fish. Watery courgettes are the usual problem; cook off all the liquid before seasoning. Chef's tip: add a handful of chopped coriander only at the end so it stays bright.

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Gỏi đu đủ khô bòGreen papaya salad with beef jerky

Outside Saigon's schools and in the alleys off Hồ Con Rùa, carts piled with shredded green papaya sell gỏi đu đủ khô bò by the plate as an after-school or after-work snack. The papaya is crisp and cool, tossed with strips of sweet-spicy beef jerky, Thai basil and rau răm, then drowned in a thin, sweet fish-sauce dressing and finished with peanuts and a squirt of chilli sauce. It is lighter and sweeter than Thai som tam and never pounded. Chef's tip: soak the shredded papaya in iced salted water and dry it well; skip this and the salad is limp and the dressing tastes watery.

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Canh bí đỏ chay (clear pumpkin soup)

Every Vietnamese family meal has a canh, a light soup to sip between mouthfuls of rice, and in autumn in the north the pot is often full of orange pumpkin. Unlike a blended Western pumpkin soup this one stays clear and brothy, with soft, sweet chunks you break with a spoon. Most kitchens add minced pork or dried prawns; this vegetarian version gets its depth from shiitake and a little soy. It is a good soup for children and for anyone recovering from a cold. Chef's tip: cut the pumpkin into even 3 cm chunks and stop cooking as soon as they are tender; overcooked pumpkin falls apart and turns the broth cloudy and porridge-like.

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Đậu hũ chiên sả ớt (lemongrass chilli tofu)

Saigon's chay restaurants, the ones tucked beside pagodas that fill up on the 1st and 15th of each lunar month, nearly always have a plate of this on the table: golden tofu cubes buried under a crunchy, fragrant rubble of fried lemongrass and red chilli. The tofu stays soft inside, the lemongrass turns nutty and crisp, and a splash of tamari with a little sugar glazes everything. Eat it with steamed jasmine rice, sliced cucumber and a bowl of clear vegetable soup. Many chay cooks skip garlic and shallot, so this version leaves them out. Chef's tip: mince the lemongrass really finely and fry it on its own until golden; coarse chunks or lemongrass added with the tofu stay woody and chewy.

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Cà tím nướng mỡ hành (grilled aubergine with scallion oil)Grilled aubergine with spring onion oil

Saigon's nhậu (drinking-snack) joints grill long purple aubergines over charcoal until they collapse, peel them by hand and drown them in hot scallion oil and nước chấm. At home in the south it turns up beside caramelised dishes and rice on weeknights. This vegan version swaps fish sauce for a tamari dressing; the smoky, silky flesh and the green onion oil still carry the dish. Chef's tip: grill the aubergines until the skin is blackened all over and the whole thing slumps; undercooked aubergine is spongy and won't peel.

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Nấm kho tiêu (peppered braised mushrooms)

Phú Quốc and the pepper farms of the south give this little clay-pot dish its backbone: so much freshly cracked black pepper that it warms the back of the throat. Mushrooms are braised in a thin caramel until their edges darken and the sauce clings in sticky, salty drops, and nothing else gets in the way: no tofu, no coconut water, just mushroom, caramel and pepper. Families eat it on chay days with plain rice and boiled greens to dip in the leftover sauce. Chef's tip: crack the peppercorns coarsely just before cooking; ready-ground pepper turns dusty and bitter and is the commonest mistake.

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