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The shrimp trucks parked along Kamehameha Highway in Kahuku, on Oʻahu's North Shore, serve this on paper plates to surfers and day-trippers: shell-on prawns from the local farms fried in a heap of garlic and butter until the shells are crisp enough to eat, with two scoops of rice and lemon. Chef's tip: dust the prawns in a little cornflour before frying; it helps the garlic butter cling and the shells crisp.
Malasadas came to Hawaii with Portuguese workers from Madeira and the Azores in the 1870s, and on Malasada Day, the Tuesday before Lent, bakeries in Honolulu have queues round the block. They are eggy, airy yeast doughnuts with no hole, fried golden and rolled in sugar while hot; some are filled with haupia or custard. Chef's tip: the dough is very soft and sticky, so oil your hands rather than adding more flour, or the malasadas turn heavy.
Every Hawaiian plate lunch, from drive-ins in Hilo to the lunch wagons of Honolulu, comes with two scoops of rice and one of this soft, creamy macaroni salad. It is simpler than American pasta salads: overcooked elbow macaroni soaked in vinegar while hot, then folded with lots of mayonnaise, a little milk and grated carrot. Chef's tip: cook the pasta past al dente, a few minutes longer than the packet says; plate-lunch mac is meant to be soft so it soaks up the dressing.
Laulau is one of the oldest dishes of Native Hawaiian cooking: fatty pork and salted butterfish are wrapped in young taro (lūʻau) leaves, tied in a ti-leaf parcel and steamed for hours until the leaves turn soft as cooked spinach and the pork is meltingly tender. It is the centrepiece of a plate with poi, lomi lomi salmon and haupia at lūʻau and family celebrations. Taro leaves must be cooked a long time, as they irritate the throat when undercooked; if you can't find them, use large spinach leaves and wrap in banana leaves or foil. Chef's tip: steam the bundles for the full four hours; shortcutting leaves the taro leaves scratchy.
Huli means turn in Hawaiian, and this chicken was named in the 1950s when a farmer on Oʻahu grilled it between two racks and flipped it over the fire; today you smell it from roadside fundraiser stands and North Shore weekend grills. Chicken is marinated in soy sauce, pineapple juice, ginger and brown sugar, then grilled and basted until sticky and charred. Chef's tip: boil the leftover marinade before basting with it, so it is safe and turns into a glaze.
Butter mochi is the sweet of Hawaii's potlucks, school fundraisers and family parties, a local mix of Japanese mochi and the islands' coconut. Glutinous rice flour is baked with coconut milk, evaporated milk, butter and eggs into a golden, chewy cake with crisp edges and a soft, bouncy middle. Chef's tip: cut it with a plastic knife once fully cooled; a metal knife drags and sticks.
Lilikoi is the Hawaiian name for passion fruit, which grows wild on vines all over the islands, and lilikoi butter is the tangy golden curd that farmers' markets on Maui and Kauai sell in jars. It is spread on toast, sweet bread and scones, or spooned onto shave ice and cakes. Chef's tip: keep the heat low and stir constantly; the curd is ready when it coats the back of a spoon and holds a line drawn through it with your finger.
Shave ice came to Hawaii with Japanese plantation workers, and on hot afternoons on Oahu's North Shore families still queue at roadside stands for a towering, soft cone of ice soaked in rainbow syrups. The ice is shaved so fine it is like fresh snow and soaks up the syrup instead of letting it run to the bottom. Without a shaver, freeze ice in a block and scrape it with a fork. Chef's tip: let the ice block sit out for 5 minutes before shaving; slightly tempered ice gives fluffier flakes.
Shoyu chicken is the home-cooked comfort of Hawaii's plantation families, a Japanese-influenced braise of chicken thighs in soy sauce (shoyu), sugar, ginger and garlic, and a staple of the plate lunch: two scoops of rice, a scoop of macaroni salad and chicken with plenty of sauce. Chef's tip: simmer uncovered at the end and spoon the sauce over until it turns glossy and coats the chicken.
Musubi is Hawaii's favourite grab-and-go snack, sold wrapped in cling film by the till in every convenience store from Honolulu to Hilo and packed for beach days and school lunches. A slice of tinned pork luncheon meat is fried in a sweet soy glaze, set on a block of rice and belted with a strip of nori, a Japanese rice-ball idea adapted after the Second World War. Chef's tip: wet the mould and your hands so the rice doesn't stick, and press firmly so the block holds.
Saimin was born in the sugar plantation camps of Hawaii, where Chinese, Japanese and Filipino workers shared pots and combined their noodle soups into one, and it is still sold everywhere from old Kauaʻi diners to the snack bars at Little League games. Springy wheat noodles sit in a clear dashi and shrimp broth, topped with sliced char siu (roast pork), pink fish cake, egg and spring onion. Chef's tip: cook the noodles separately and rinse them, so their starch doesn't cloud the clear broth.
Despite its name there is no rice in it: chicken long rice is a gingery chicken broth with bean thread noodles, brought to Hawaii by Chinese plantation workers and now a fixture at every lūʻau and baby's first-birthday party alongside kalua pig and poi. The glassy noodles soak up the broth until it is almost a stew. Chef's tip: soak the noodles and cut them into short lengths before they go into the pot, or you get one long, tangled clump.
Poke, from the Hawaiian word for cut into pieces, began as fishermen's snack of raw reef fish with sea salt, seaweed and roasted kukui nut, and is now sold by the pound from the deli counters of every Hawaiian supermarket, eaten over rice as a quick lunch or with drinks after work. This shoyu ahi style dresses cubes of yellowfin tuna in soy sauce, sesame oil, sweet onion and chilli. Traditional poke is raw fish, which is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system, so this version quickly sears the cubes until cooked through. Chef's tip: dress the tuna just before eating; the soy sauce draws out moisture and turns it soft if it sits for hours.
Lomi means to massage: at Hawaiian lūʻau and graduation parties, salted salmon is squeezed by hand with diced tomatoes, sweet onion and spring onions into a cold, juicy relish that cuts through rich kalua pig and poi. It arrived with salted salmon traded from the Pacific Northwest by nineteenth-century whalers. The traditional version uses raw salt-cured salmon, which is not for pregnant women, young children or anyone with a weakened immune system; this safer version gently poaches the salmon first. Chef's tip: chill everything well and drain the tomatoes, so the relish stays bright rather than watery.
Hawaiian sweet bread grew from the pão doce that Portuguese families baked in the islands at Easter, and bakeries in Hilo made it famous as a soft, golden, faintly tangy loaf. Pineapple juice gives a gentle fruity sweetness, and the crumb is pillowy and pulls apart in strands. Eat it toasted with butter, or use it for French toast. Chef's tip: the dough should be very soft; be patient during kneading instead of adding extra flour.
In Hawaii, Chantilly cake means a chocolate layer cake covered in a rich, caramel-coloured frosting made from evaporated milk, egg yolks and butter, not the whipped cream the name suggests. Honolulu bakeries have sold it for birthdays and graduations for decades, and it is very different from mainland cakes. Chef's tip: cook the frosting base slowly and stir constantly until it is as thick as pudding; if it is runny, the frosting will slide off the cake.
The name goes back to the canals of Ayutthaya and Bangkok, where vendors cooked noodles in narrow wooden boats and passed tiny bowls up to customers on the bank; the bowls are still small, and at Victory Monument diners stack ten or more empties beside them. The broth is what people come for: beef simmered with star anise, cinnamon, galangal and pandan, darkened with soy and red fermented bean curd, then sharpened at the table with chilli vinegar. Stalls traditionally stir in fresh cow's or pig's blood for body; here it is optional and left out by default, and the soup is still rich and deep. Each bowl gets thin rice noodles, tender beef, beef balls, morning glory and Thai basil, finished with crisp garlic and pork crackling. Chef's tip: keep the pot slightly under-salted and let everyone season their own bowl with fish sauce, sugar, chilli and vinegar.
A whole fried fish blanketed in glossy red chilli sauce is the centrepiece of many family celebrations and riverside restaurant meals in central Thailand. The sauce is known as sam rot, 'three flavours', because palm sugar, tamarind and fish sauce are balanced against pounded chillies and garlic; spooned over a fish fried until its skin crackles and the fins crunch like crisps, it turns sticky and shiny. Sea bass (pla kapong) is the usual choice, though snapper or tilapia work well too. Bring it to the table with jasmine rice, a stir-fried green vegetable and a clear soup to share. Chef's tip: score the fish down to the bone on both sides and pat it bone-dry, so the heat reaches the thickest part and the oil doesn't spit.
After dark on Yaowarat Road in Bangkok's Chinatown, queues form at the guay jub stalls for bowls of curled rice noodles in a cloudy, peppery broth, topped with crackling pork belly and a soy-stained egg. The noodles roll into little tubes as they cook and turn slippery and soft, the broth bites with white pepper, and the pork shatters before it melts. This is Teochew comfort food, eaten as a late supper or to round off a night out, with a dish of chilli vinegar and extra pepper on the side. Chef's tip: grind white peppercorns fresh over each bowl at the end; ready-ground pepper has lost the floral heat that defines the soup.
Every khantoke dinner in Chiang Mai sets out a bowl of this brick-red relish beside the sticky rice baskets, and morning markets sell it by the scoop in little plastic bags. It sits somewhere between a chunky meat sauce and a dip: sweet-sour from slow-cooked cherry tomatoes, savoury from shrimp paste and pork, with a gentle chilli warmth rather than a blast. Scoop it up with cucumber, blanched long beans, cabbage wedges and crisp pork crackling, or press a ball of sticky rice into it. Chef's tip: fry the pounded paste in the oil until it darkens and smells toasty before the pork goes in; that is where the deep, roasted flavour comes from.
Around Pratunam market in Bangkok, the khao man gai stalls are easy to spot: a queue, pale poached chickens hanging in a glass cabinet, and a cook slicing with a cleaver at speed. Like its Hainanese ancestor, the dish pairs silky chicken with rice cooked in the bird's fat and broth, but the Thai plate stands apart for its sauce, a punchy mix of fermented soybeans (tao jiao), ginger, garlic, chilli and vinegar, and for the little bowl of clear broth with winter melon served on the side. Bangkok eats it for breakfast, lunch or a late supper, always with cucumber slices and coriander. Chef's tip: plunge the cooked chicken into iced water for 10 minutes; the skin firms to a jelly-like snap and the meat stays juicy.
On Mahachai Road near Bangkok's Golden Mount, pad thai cooks work charcoal-fired woks late into the night, and their style is the model here: chewy rice sticks tossed with a dark, sweet-sour tamarind sauce, scrambled egg, cubes of firm tofu, sweet preserved radish, garlic chives and plump fresh prawns. It should taste tangy first, then sweet and salty, never like ketchup. Everyone finishes their own plate at the table with crushed peanuts, chilli flakes, a squeeze of lime and a handful of raw bean sprouts and chives for crunch, and children usually love it with the chilli left off. Chef's tip: make the tamarind sauce a day ahead; it keeps for a week in the fridge and the noodles then take ten minutes.
Everything on this central Thai plate is arranged in little heaps around a mound of rice tossed with garlic and fermented shrimp paste: sticky caramelised pork (moo wan), threads of sour green mango, shallots, chillies, sliced long beans, crisp dried shrimp and ribbons of thin omelette. You mix a bit of each into every spoonful, so salty, sweet, sour and hot arrive together. It's a favourite at Bangkok's curry-and-rice shops and a clever way to use up yesterday's rice at home; lime wedges and cucumber cool it down. Chef's tip: use day-old jasmine rice straight from the fridge, because freshly cooked rice clumps and smears the shrimp paste instead of coating each grain.
Satay came to Thailand with Muslim cooks from the south and the Malay peninsula, and now its smoke drifts from Bangkok market lanes to the night stalls of Hua Hin: thin strips of chicken stained yellow with turmeric and coconut, grilled over charcoal until the edges char. Every order comes with two partners, a thick, gently spiced peanut sauce and ajad, a sweet-sour relish of cucumber, shallot and chilli that cuts the richness. Grilled bread or sticky rice turns it into a meal; on its own it is a party snack. Chef's tip: thread the meat in a flat, tight ribbon rather than bunched up, so it cooks evenly and quickly without drying out.
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