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Chitrali ghalmandi

In the Chitral valley in Pakistan's far north, where winters are long and dairy is plentiful, bread is often a meal in itself, and ghalmandi is one of the best loved: soft, thin wholewheat breads stacked with a filling of crumbled fresh cheese, onion, green chilli, coriander and mint, then cut into wedges and eaten warm with salty tea. It is made for guests and on cold evenings, and every household seasons the cheese its own way. Rolling the breads too thick is the common mistake; they turn heavy and the layers do not hold together, so roll them almost see-through. Chef's tip: brush each hot bread with ghee the moment it comes off the griddle and spread the cheese straight away, so the warmth softens the cheese and glues the stack together.

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Pho cuon

On Ngũ Xã, a little island of streets between Trúc Bạch lake and West Lake in Hanoi, whole rows of restaurants sell nothing but pho in different shapes, and phở cuốn is the one people order by the plateful in the evening. Instead of cutting the fresh rice-noodle sheet into ribbons, the cooks leave it whole and roll it round seared beef, lettuce and herbs. The rolls are soft, cool and slightly chewy, and you dip them in a light, sweet fish sauce with pickled carrot. Look for fresh rice-noodle sheets in the chiller of an Asian supermarket, often sold for Chinese ho fun. Chef's tip: if the sheets are stiff from the fridge, steam or microwave them for 30 seconds under a damp cloth before separating, or they tear.

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Banh trang nuong

Bánh tráng nướng is the snack of Da Lat's night market, where vendors grill sheets of rice paper over small charcoal braziers, crack on an egg, spread it with a bamboo brush and fold the crackling disc in half to hand over in a paper napkin. Visitors call it Vietnamese pizza. The usual toppings include dried shrimp and sausage; this vegetarian version keeps the egg, spring onion, sweetcorn and crispy shallots, finished with chilli sauce and squiggles of mayonnaise. A dry frying pan does the job at home. Chef's tip: keep the heat low to medium; rice paper scorches in seconds, and it needs time for the egg to set on top while it crisps underneath.

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Mi Quang

Mì Quảng comes from Quảng Nam province, around Hội An and Tam Kỳ, where it's eaten at any hour from roadside stalls and family tables. It sits halfway between soup and salad: wide yellow noodles get only a small ladle of rich, turmeric-coloured broth with braised pork and prawns, then a scatter of peanuts and herbs. A toasted sesame rice cracker is broken over the top for crunch. Every bite should be part noodle, part leaf, part cracker. Chef's tip: pour in just enough broth to come a third of the way up the noodles; any more and it becomes a soup and the crackers go soggy.

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Hu tieu

Hủ tiếu came to southern Vietnam with Teochew Chinese and Cambodian influences, and in Saigon it's as everyday as pho, sold from street carts at dawn and again late into the night. The broth is light and clear, sweet from pork bones, daikon and dried shrimp, and the bowl is loaded with sliced pork, minced pork, prawns and often quail eggs. Clear, chewy noodles and a spoon of crispy garlic oil set it apart. Many people order it khô, dry, with the noodles tossed in sauce and the soup on the side. Chef's tip: toast the dried squid over a flame before it goes in the pot; it gives the broth a sweet, savoury depth that's hard to place.

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Banh tom Ho Tay

Lakeside cafés on the shore of West Lake (Hồ Tây) in Hanoi have sold these fritters for generations, and locals still ride out on cool autumn afternoons to eat them looking over the water. Each one is a nest of sweet-potato matchsticks held together by a thin, turmeric-tinted batter, with a whole small shrimp pressed on top so its shell fries crisp. They come piled on a plate with lettuce, herbs and a bowl of sweet-sour fish sauce dotted with slices of green papaya or kohlrabi. You wrap a piece of fritter in a lettuce leaf with a few herbs and dunk it. Chef's tip: soak the cut sweet potato in cold water for 10 minutes and then dry it really well; washing off the surface starch is what keeps the strands separate and crunchy.

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Banh can

Bánh căn comes from Phan Rang on the south-central coast and is now a favourite of chilly evenings in Da Lat, where sellers crouch over charcoal and rows of small clay moulds, cracking a quail egg into each little cup of rice batter. The cakes come out crisp and browned underneath and soft and steamy on top, and are eaten in pairs, dunked in a sweet-sour dipping sauce with shredded green mango and herbs. Most stalls use a fish sauce dip and sometimes add squid or shrimp; this version keeps it vegetarian with a tamari sauce and spring onion oil. Chef's tip: let a little of the cooked rice in the batter go into the blender; it gives the cakes their soft, slightly chewy middle.

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Pho bo

Before Hanoi's offices open, pavement pho stalls are already busy, with diners on low plastic stools bent over bowls of rice noodles in a clear, spiced beef broth. The northern style is restrained: brisket and thin slices of raw beef that cook in the bowl, spring onion and a little coriander, with lime and chilli on the side rather than a heap of herbs and sauces. The work is in the broth, simmered slowly from bones with blackened onion and ginger and a small bag of toasted spices. Make it on a weekend; it keeps for three days and the bowls then take ten minutes. Chef's tip: char the onion and ginger until they are properly black in patches, because that smoky sweetness is what makes the broth taste of pho rather than plain beef stock.

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Bun cha

Around 11 in the morning, the side streets of Hanoi's Old Quarter fill with smoke as cooks fan little charcoal braziers loaded with pork. Bun cha is the city's lunch: grilled patties and caramelised strips of pork belly served floating in a warm bowl of thin, sweet-sour fish sauce, with cold rice vermicelli and a basket of lettuce and herbs to dip in alongside. Each mouthful is a bit of noodle, a bit of meat and a leaf or two, all dunked together. A barbecue gives the real smoky edge, but a ridged grill pan works well indoors. Chef's tip: let the grilled meat sit in the warm sauce for a few minutes before eating, so the smoky fat seasons the sauce and the sauce soaks into the meat.

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Bun bo Hue

Huế, once the seat of Vietnam's emperors, is known for food that is spicier and bolder than in the north or south, and this soup is the city's breakfast. Compared with pho it is louder in every way: the broth smells of lemongrass and fermented shrimp, it glows red with chilli oil, and the noodles are thick and round. Beef shank and slices of pork hock go in every bowl, often with pork roll, and it comes with a plate of mint, banana blossom and bean sprouts. Locals add pig's blood cubes too, which we leave out here. Chef's tip: bruise the lemongrass stalks hard with a rolling pin before they go in, so their oils flood the broth.

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Banh beo

Bánh bèo are named after the water fern that floats on Huế's ponds, which the little round cakes resemble. In the city they arrive at the table by the dozen, each still in its own small saucer, topped with pink shrimp floss and spring onion oil. You spoon sweet fish sauce over and scoop each one out in a single mouthful. They're a mid-afternoon snack or a light lunch alongside other Huế rice cakes. Small ramekins, egg poaching cups or a silicone mini-muffin tray all work as moulds. Chef's tip: heat the empty saucers in the steamer for a minute before adding the batter; the cakes then set with the little dimple in the middle that holds the toppings.

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Banh mi

On Saigon pavements at breakfast time, bánh mì carts with glass cases are stacked with light, crackly rolls, tubs of pickles and trays of pâté and pork. The bread came with the French, but the filling is entirely Vietnamese: a smear of liver pâté and mayonnaise, cold cuts or lemongrass-grilled pork, sweet-sour carrot and daikon, cucumber, coriander and fresh chilli, with a splash of savoury seasoning sauce. It's eaten on the move, often on the back of a motorbike. This is the meat version; there is also a lemongrass tofu bánh mì on the site. Chef's tip: choose the lightest, airiest baguettes you can find, as a dense French loaf squeezes the filling out the sides.

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Vietnamese baked banana cake

Bánh chuối nướng is sold by the slab from glass-fronted carts and bakeries in Saigon, a soft, heavy cake made from overripe bananas, day-old bread and coconut milk, baked until the top turns deep amber and the bananas go sticky and jammy. It sits somewhere between a bread pudding and a custard cake, and Saigon people eat it as an afternoon snack, often with a little warm coconut sauce poured over. Home cooks make it to use up blackened bananas and stale baguette. Chef's tip: use the ripest bananas you can find, with brown-spotted skins; they give the cake its colour and sweetness.

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Ga kho gung

Across Vietnam, from Hanoi apartments to Mekong Delta farmhouses, a small pot of something braised in caramel and fish sauce sits on the family table at dinner with rice, a plate of boiled greens and a clear soup. This chicken version leans on ginger, cut into fine matchsticks so it turns soft and warming in the glossy, salty-sweet sauce. It's a favourite when the weather cools, traditionally cooked in a clay pot, though any heavy pan will do. It reheats well, so it's a good one for the next day's lunch. Chef's tip: take the caramel to the colour of strong tea, deep amber, before the chicken goes in; that slight bitterness is what keeps the dish from tasting sugary.

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Pho ga

In Hanoi some shops sell nothing but chicken pho, and locals often choose it over beef for a gentler breakfast or a late bowl after an evening out. The broth is lighter than the beef version, made in about an hour from a whole bird with a few charred aromatics and only a hint of spice. The northern signature is a tangle of makrut lime leaf, cut as fine as thread, scattered over the hot chicken just before serving. It's a good first pho to make at home, since the timing is forgiving and the chicken poaches in the same pot. Chef's tip: plunge the cooked chicken into iced water for 5 minutes; the skin turns firm and slightly springy, the way Hanoi cooks like it.

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Xoi xeo

Xôi xéo is a Hanoi breakfast sold before dawn from baskets on the pavement, wrapped in a lotus or banana leaf for people to eat on the way to work. Turmeric-tinted glutinous rice is steamed until chewy, then topped with thin shavings cut from a firm ball of cooked mung bean (the 'xéo' is the slanting cut) and a spoonful of crunchy fried shallots with their fragrant oil. Street sellers often use pork fat for the shallots; frying them in vegetable oil keeps it vegan and still rich. Chef's tip: squeeze the mung bean paste into a tight ball while it is warm and let it cool before shaving; a loose ball crumbles instead of slicing into ribbons.

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Vegetarian banh tet

In the Mekong Delta, families gather in the days before Tết (Lunar New Year) to wrap bánh tét: long, round logs of coconut-scented sticky rice around a core of mung bean, tied in banana leaves and boiled overnight over a wood fire. The everyday version hides a strip of pork belly in the middle; the chay version here, with peppery shallot-seasoned mung bean, is the one made in Buddhist pagodas and vegetarian households, and some cooks make a sweet bánh tét chuối with ripe banana instead. Slices are cut with a loop of string, eaten with pickled vegetables, or fried until crisp in the days after Tết. Chef's tip: roll and tie the log tightly; a firm parcel is what keeps the water out and gives clean, dense slices.

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Lotus seed and longan sweet soup

Hue, the old imperial capital on the Perfume River, is famous for its chè: sweet soups and puddings sold from tiny shops where the menu runs to dozens of kinds. The most elegant is chè hạt sen long nhãn, once a palace dessert. Lotus seeds from the city's lakes are simmered until soft and creamy, then tucked inside juicy longan fruit and served in a light, clear syrup. It is eaten warm on cool rainy afternoons or over crushed ice in the hot months. Chef's tip: split each dried lotus seed and pick out any green germ inside before cooking; one missed germ makes the whole bowl bitter.

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Fresh hot soy milk

On cold Da Lat nights, the steam rising from soy milk stalls is part of the scenery around the central market: big pots of freshly made sữa đậu nành, ladled hot into glasses and sipped with grilled rice paper or a warm bánh bao. Made at home, it tastes nutty and clean, nothing like the cartons, and a knot of pandan leaf gives it the gentle vanilla-like scent that Vietnamese sellers favour. Chef's tip: rub the soaked beans between your palms and float off the skins; peeled beans give a smoother, sweeter milk.

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Vegetarian bun rieu

In Hanoi, bún riêu is a mid-morning bowl bought from street sellers who set up on low plastic stools: a tangy red tomato broth with rice vermicelli and soft, floating curds that are normally made from pounded paddy crab. Vegetarian cooks and Buddhist temple kitchens make bún riêu chay instead, folding crumbled tofu, egg and chopped shiitake into the same loose, spongy curds, and seasoning the broth with fermented tofu rather than shrimp paste. It arrives with fried tofu, lime, chilli, shredded water spinach and perilla, so each spoonful is sour, savoury and fresh at once. Chef's tip: let the tomatoes fry in the annatto oil until they collapse into a jammy paste before any stock goes in; that is where the broth gets its colour and depth.

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Cha ca La Vong

A family restaurant in Hanoi's Old Quarter served this one dish for so long that the street itself was renamed Chả Cá, Grilled Fish Street. Chunks of white fish are marinated in turmeric and galangal, cooked until golden, then brought to the table in a pan of hot oil where everyone throws in handfuls of dill and spring onion to wilt. You eat it over rice vermicelli with peanuts, fresh herbs and a pungent shrimp-paste dip. Dill is rare elsewhere in Vietnamese cooking, which is why this dish tastes so distinct. Chef's tip: use a lot more dill than seems sensible; it is treated as a vegetable here, not a garnish.

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Banh cuon

In Hanoi, banh cuon shops open early, and the cook sits beside a pot of boiling water stretched over with cloth, spreading batter across it in one sweep and lifting off sheets thin enough to see through. Each sheet is rolled around a little minced pork and crunchy wood-ear mushroom, cut into pieces, showered with crispy shallots and dipped into warm fish sauce. Slices of Vietnamese pork roll and a sprig of herbs often come on the side. At home a lidded non-stick frying pan does the job of the cloth, and once you find the rhythm the sheets come quickly. Chef's tip: make a practice sheet first; the first one is almost always a little too thick, and it tells you how much batter to use.

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Bot chien

Bột chiên came to Saigon with the Teochew Chinese community of Chợ Lớn and is now an after-school snack sold from street pans across the city in the late afternoon. Cubes of steamed rice-flour cake are fried in a wide pan until crisp outside and soft inside, then an egg is poured over and stirred until it binds them in golden scraps. It is eaten with shredded pickled green papaya and a sweet, sour soy dipping sauce. Chef's tip: make the cake the day before and chill it overnight; cold, firm cake cuts into neat cubes and crisps far better.

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Cao lau

You will really only find proper cao lầu in Hội An, the old trading port on Vietnam's central coast, where it's sold in small family eateries and along the riverside at lunch. The noodles are yellowish and unusually chewy, made with lye water that locals traditionally link to the town's ancient Bá Lễ well. They come almost dry, topped with slices of sweet five-spice pork, raw greens and crisp squares of fried dough, with just a spoonful of the pork juices. Because the real noodles are very hard to buy outside Hội An, this home version uses thick udon noodles, which give a similar bouncy chew; it is a substitute, not the original. Chef's tip: rinse the cooked udon in cold water, then dip briefly in hot water just before serving, so they are warm but firm.

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