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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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Gỏi ngó sen chay (lotus stem salad)

Wedding banquets and đám giỗ (death-anniversary) feasts across the south open with a platter of gỏi ngó sen, usually heaped with prawns and boiled pork belly. In vegetarian households and temple kitchens the shellfish and pork give way to strips of fried tofu, and the fish-sauce dressing becomes lime, sugar and soy. The pickled lotus stems are what matter: pale, crisp and juicy, like a mild bamboo shoot. Pile it onto prawn-free rice crackers or eat it beside rice. Chef's tip: rinse and squeeze the jarred lotus stems well; skipping this leaves the salad tasting of brine instead of lime.

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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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Bánh tráng trộn (rice paper salad)

Saigon students invented this snack in the 2000s, and it is now sold from plastic tubs outside schools and in Đà Lạt's night market: strips of rice paper tossed by hand in a bag with sour green mango, quail eggs, dried shrimp, shredded beef jerky, herbs and a fiery satay chilli oil. Chewy, crunchy, sour and hot all at once, it is eaten standing up with chopsticks straight from the bag. Chef's tip: dress it only just before eating; left to sit, the rice paper turns gummy and clumps together.

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Bắp xào (stir-fried corn)

Outside Saigon schools in the late afternoon, vendors toss corn kernels in a huge, sizzling pan and scoop them into paper cups for children on their way home. The kernels glisten with butter and green scallion oil and taste sweet, salty and faintly smoky. The street version often adds tiny dried shrimp; this one leaves them out so it is vegetarian, and a pinch of chilli flakes is there for grown-ups. Chef's tip: get the pan very hot and spread the corn out; crowding it steams the kernels instead of giving them toasty, caramelised spots.

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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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Martín FierroCheese with quince paste

Ask for dessert in a Montevideo bodegón or a country parador and you may be offered a Martín Fierro: a thick slice of fresh, mild cheese laid with an equal slice of dense quince or sweet-potato paste, named after the gaucho of the epic poem. It's salty against sweet, soft against firm, and takes two minutes to assemble. Uruguayan fresh cheese is usually made with animal rennet, so choose one with vegetarian rennet if that matters to you. The mistake is serving it fridge-cold, which dulls both flavours. Chef's tip: cut the cheese and paste to exactly the same thickness, about 1 cm, so every bite has both.

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LampreadoCassava starch cheese fritters

Paraguayan grandmothers fry lampreado on Sunday evenings to eat with a mug of cocido, the toasted yerba mate drink: small pan-fried cakes of cassava starch, egg, milk and grated cheese with a little onion, crisp at the edges and stretchy inside. Some families also make it with leftover meat, but this version is all cheese. Queso Paraguay is set with animal rennet; a vegetarian Parmesan-style cheese plus mozzarella works well. The trap is a batter that is too thick, which gives heavy, gluey cakes. Chef's tip: the batter should drop slowly off a spoon like thick pancake batter; add milk a spoonful at a time until it does.

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TereréIced yerba mate

In Asunción the hottest part of the day stops for tereré: a horn or cup packed with yerba mate, topped up again and again with ice water infused with crushed herbs, and passed round the group through a metal straw. It was recognised by UNESCO as part of Paraguay's cultural heritage, and the herbs (yuyos) change with the season and the drinker's mood. Yerba mate contains caffeine, so it isn't one for small children. The common mistake is pouring water straight into loose yerba, which then clogs the straw; tilt the yerba to one side first. Chef's tip: for tereré ruso, swap the water for cold orange or grapefruit juice.

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Trà chanhIced lime tea

On warm evenings the pavement beside St Joseph's Cathedral in Hanoi fills with rows of tiny plastic stools, and nearly everyone is holding a tall glass of trà chanh, cheap green tea poured over ice with a squeeze of lime and plenty of sugar, sipped with a saucer of sunflower seeds while the city's scooters roar past. It is sharp, sweet and very refreshing. Chef's tip: brew the tea in water just off the boil, around 80 °C; boiling water makes green tea bitter.

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Chilcano de piscoPisco and ginger ale highball

When Lima's grey winter finally lifts and summer reaches the beaches south of the city, the chilcano takes over from the pisco sour: lighter, longer and made for an afternoon. Peru even gives it a Semana del Chilcano each January, and it is poured at weekend lunches with chifa or fried fish. This is a highball for adults only: pisco poured over a tall glass of ice with fresh lime and ginger ale, finished with a few drops of bitters. It should taste crisp and fizzy, with the ginger and lime lifting the floral grape notes of the pisco rather than hiding them. The common mistake is using too little ice and warm ginger ale, which gives a sweet, diluted drink that goes flat in minutes. Fill the glass to the top with ice and keep the ginger ale in the fridge until the last second. It is ready when the glass is frosty, the bubbles race up the sides and the bitters drift through the top as a pink haze. Light it may be, but drink responsibly. Chef's tip: try a fruit-infused pisco, made by steeping passion fruit or mandarin peel in the bottle for a few days; Limeños love a chilcano de maracuyá.

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Cocido quemadoBurnt sugar mate drink

Cocido is how Paraguay starts the day: in Asunción, in the villages of Guairá and Itapúa, and in school kitchens, a pot of burnt yerba is brewed and poured into cups with chipa, the cheesy cassava bread, or with a hard galleta. The old way is to drop a glowing piece of charcoal into a pot with yerba and sugar and stir until the sugar burns. On a home stove you caramelise them together in a dry pan instead, which is safer and gives the same smoky, toffee-like taste. The drink is clear amber-brown, with roasted, slightly bitter mate notes over burnt-sugar sweetness; with milk added it becomes cocido con leche, creamy and coffee-coloured. Yerba mate contains caffeine, so treat it like a cup of coffee. The common mistake is letting the sugar go black: it turns acrid and bitter. Pull it off the heat when the caramel is deep amber and the yerba smells toasted, not burnt. It is ready when the liquid is a clear dark amber and tastes of toffee and smoke. Chef's tip: the water will spit fiercely when it hits the hot caramel, so pour it in from the side, at arm's length.

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Jugo surtidoMixed fruit juice

Step up to any juguería in Lima's Mercado de Surquillo or a barrio market at breakfast time and order a surtido: the juicer drops papaya, banana, pineapple and freshly squeezed orange into a tall blender, sometimes a slice of cooked beetroot for colour or a splash of milk, and pours you a big glass with the rest left in the jug for your 'yapa', the free refill. It is thick but still pourable, sweet from ripe fruit with a sharp orange edge, the kind of drink that stands in for breakfast before a long day. The common mistake is adding lots of ice and water, which makes it thin and frothy rather than velvety. Use cold fruit and freshly squeezed orange juice as the liquid. It is ready when it coats the glass and no lumps of banana are left. This version is fruit only; stalls also make it with milk if you prefer. Drink it straight away: papaya and banana go brown and bitter within half an hour. Chef's tip: use very ripe papaya with orange flesh; under-ripe papaya tastes of nothing and gives a faintly bitter aftertaste.

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Ngô nướngGrilled corn

When the first cool winds of autumn reach Hanoi, women set up little charcoal braziers along Phan Đình Phùng and around Hoàn Kiếm Lake and turn cobs of corn over the coals late into the evening. Hanoians love the chewy, sticky ngô nếp, but sweetcorn is lovely too. The cobs are brushed at the end with mỡ hành, spring onions wilted in hot oil, which turns smoky and savoury on the charred kernels. Chef's tip: if you find sticky (waxy) corn, boil it for 5 minutes before grilling, as it is firmer than sweetcorn.

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Mate de muñaAndean mint tea

Muña is the minty shrub that grows wild on the slopes around Cusco, Puno and the Sacred Valley, and highland cooks reach for it after a heavy meal of chicharrón or when visitors are struggling with the altitude. Market herb sellers sell it in fresh bunches, and hotels and homes leave it in a flask for anyone coming in from the cold evenings. Steeped simply in hot water, it smells somewhere between spearmint, oregano and pennyroyal, with a cooling, slightly peppery taste and a pale green-gold colour. It is traditionally drunk to settle the stomach. The usual mistake is boiling the leaves hard for a long time, which turns the tea brown and bitter. Pour water just off the boil over the sprigs, cover, and let it steep. It is ready when the cup is pale gold and the aroma rises as soon as you lift the lid. Outside Peru, look for dried muña in Latin shops; failing that, use mostly spearmint with a little fresh oregano. Muña is strong: avoid large amounts in pregnancy, and check with a doctor if you take regular medication. Chef's tip: cover the cup while it steeps so the scented oils stay in the tea.

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Rau sốngFresh herb and vegetable plate

Rau sống, literally 'raw vegetables', is the heaped plate of lettuce, herbs and cucumber that sits in the middle of the table at almost every Vietnamese meal, from Hanoi bún chả to a Saigon family dinner. Everyone tears leaves to wrap grilled food, drops herbs into soup or eats them alongside rice. Nothing is added: no salt, no dressing. About 0.1 g salt per portion, naturally present in the greens. Seasoning comes from whatever dipping sauce is on the table, so a light hand there keeps the whole meal low in salt. The usual mistake is leaving the herbs wet; water dilutes the flavour and makes them wilt fast. Use whatever mix you can find: Thai basil, perilla (tía tô), Vietnamese balm (kinh giới), mint and coriander are classics. Chef's tip: soak the herbs in very cold water for 10 minutes, then spin dry; they become crisp and glossy and last through the whole meal.

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Dưa giáPickled bean sprouts

In southern Vietnam, dưa giá appears beside thịt kho trứng, the pork and egg braised in coconut water that every Saigon family cooks for Tết, and beside clay-pot caramel fish the rest of the year. The sprouts and chives sit overnight in a lightly salted, sweetened brine and come out tangy, crisp and squeaky, with a hint of garlic-chive sharpness that cuts straight through the fatty, sweet braises. Some cooks add carrot strips for colour. Raw bean sprouts can carry bacteria, so buy them very fresh and chilled, rinse them well, and pour the brine on hot to scald them lightly; pregnant people, small children, older people and anyone with weak immunity should blanch the sprouts for 30 seconds first. Common mistake: leaving the jar out too long in a warm kitchen, so the sprouts go limp and too sour; once it tastes right, chill it. It is ready when the brine is cloudy and smells pleasantly sour, and the sprouts are translucent but still snap. Chef's tip: pinch the brown root tails off the sprouts; it is fiddly, but they stay crunchier and look neater.

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Jugo de macaWarm maca drink

Before dawn at markets in Huancayo, Cusco and Lima, juice ladies ladle hot jugo de maca from big pots for workers on their way in: maca root, a turnip relative grown above 4,000 metres in the Junín highlands, simmered with milk, cinnamon and cloves and sweetened with honey or sugar. It tastes malty and toasty, a bit like butterscotch. The common mistake is stirring the powder straight into hot milk, which leaves gritty lumps; whisk it into a little cold milk first. Maca is not usually advised in pregnancy, so ask your doctor first if you are pregnant. Chef's tip: use gelatinised (cooked) maca powder if you can find it; it dissolves smoothly and is gentler on the stomach.

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Refresco de coconaCocona cooler

In Iquitos, Pucallpa and the river towns of Loreto, heat and humidity make a cold refresco part of every lunch, and cocona is one of the favourites sold from plastic jugs at the Belén market. The fruit looks like a fuzzy orange tomato and tastes between tomato, lemon and apricot: very sour, aromatic and juicy. Blended with water and sugar it makes a tangy, golden drink with a light pulp, served with juane or tacacho con cecina. The usual mistake is skipping the fuzz: cocona skin is covered in fine hairs that make the drink scratchy, so rub them off under running water before you start. Blend only briefly, too, so the many seeds do not crack. It is ready when the refresco is opaque orange, sour first and sweet after, with no grit. Outside the Amazon, look for frozen cocona pulp in Latin American shops; naranjilla (lulo) pulp is the closest substitute. Chef's tip: a pinch of salt makes the fruit taste sweeter and fruitier without more sugar.

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Pisco sour

Lima drinks its pisco sour as the aperitif before a long ceviche lunch, and celebrates it every year on the first Saturday of February; the recipe took shape in the city's bars in the 1920s. It is for adults only and stronger than its pillowy look suggests. Underneath a thick white foam you get sharp Peruvian lime, a clean sweetness and the floral, grapey warmth of quebranta pisco, with the bitters adding a spicy smell to every sip. The texture should be silky, almost creamy, never thin. The classic mistake is squeezing the limes too hard or too early: the oil from the pith turns the drink bitter within half an hour. Halve the limes, press each half gently by hand just before mixing and stop when the juice slows. The egg white is raw, so use pasteurised egg white for anyone pregnant, for babies, older people or anyone unwell, or swap in 30 ml aquafaba. It is ready when the foam stands about 1 cm high and is firm enough to hold the drops of bitters on its surface. Sip one slowly and drink responsibly. Chef's tip: shake once without ice first to whip the egg white, then again with ice; the foam will be twice as thick.

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Cà phê cốt dừa (coconut coffee)

Hanoi takes its coffee seriously, and in the last fifteen years coconut coffee has become one of the city's signatures, sold from Old Quarter cafés, lakeside balconies around Hoàn Kiếm and tiny stools on the pavement. It is a hot-weather drink, at its best on a sticky afternoon between May and September, eaten half with a spoon. Strong Vietnamese robusta drips slowly through an aluminium phin, then is poured over a pale slush of thick coconut cream, sweetened condensed milk and crushed ice, so you get bitter, dark coffee against something rich and cold that tastes like coconut ice cream. The common mistake is blending the slush too long or with too much ice, which leaves it thin and watery, and pouring the coffee in boiling hot so the slush collapses. Blend just until it looks like soft snow, and let the coffee cool for a minute or two. It is ready when the slush holds a spoon upright and the coffee sits in a dark layer on top. Robusta is high in caffeine and this is a strong drink, so it is not for children and one glass is plenty. Chef's tip: chill the coconut cream overnight; cold, thick cream gives a fluffier slush.

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Trà sen (lotus tea)

Every June and July, before sunrise, boats slip between the pink lotus on Hanoi's West Lake to gather flowers for trà sen. The finest lotus tea is made by stripping the tiny white rice-like anthers from hundreds of blooms and layering them with green tea, a labour that makes it one of Vietnam's most expensive gifts, kept for Tết. Families do a simpler version at home: a spoon of Thái Nguyên green tea is tucked into the heart of a fresh flower in the evening, the petals closed and tied, and by morning the leaves have taken on a sweet, creamy, slightly vanilla-like perfume. It is brewed in a small clay pot and drunk in tiny cups in the early morning. The common mistake is brewing with boiling water, which flattens the lotus scent and makes the green tea bitter. Rinse the leaves quickly and brew at 80–85 °C. It is ready when the cup is pale gold and the steam smells of flowers before tea. No fresh lotus? Buy ready-made lotus-scented tea from Vietnamese shops and start at the brewing step. Chef's tip: pick a bud that is just about to open; a fully open bloom has already lost its scent.

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Ei im GlasSoft-boiled eggs in a glass

In the old coffee houses of Vienna, the breakfast menu still lists Ei im Glas: two very soft-boiled eggs, scooped warm from their shells into a small glass, with a knob of butter, chives, salt and pepper. You stir it into a golden, custardy mess and eat it with a crisp Semmel roll (gluten-free bread if you need it) and a Melange coffee. The mistake almost everyone makes is boiling the eggs a minute too long, so the yolk sets and the dish turns into plain egg salad. Chef's tip: warm the glass with hot water while the eggs cook, so the butter melts on contact and the eggs stay hot to the last spoonful.

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