25 recipes that use dried chilli flakes, with photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Chimichurri, takes 10 minutes. It is most often cooked with garlic, shallot and coriander.
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Five ingredients and fifteen minutes. The secret is to cook the garlic slowly so it turns sweet and pale gold, then toss everything with a splash of starchy pasta water so the oil turns into a glossy sauce that clings to every strand.
Pasta e patate is Neapolitan home cooking at its most thrifty: potatoes and mixed broken pasta (pasta mista, the odds and ends from many packets) cooked together in one pot like a risotto, until the potato breaks down and the starch makes everything creamy. Naples families eat it on weekday evenings in winter, and many stir in cubes of smoked provola at the end so it goes stringy (pasta patate e provola). Children love it. Chef's tip: cut half the potato small and half larger; the small pieces melt into the sauce while the larger ones keep their shape.
In Naples pasta e fagioli (pasta e fasule in dialect) is thick enough to stand a spoon in, made with cannellini or borlotti beans, a few cherry tomatoes, garlic and broken pasta cooked straight in the bean broth. It is a cheap, filling Friday-night meal in many Neapolitan homes, and the bean starch, not cream or cheese, makes it velvety; this version stays vegan. Chef's tip: blend a ladle of the beans before the pasta goes in; it thickens the soup naturally so the pasta is coated, not swimming.
In Bari the old women of Arco Basso still shape orecchiette on wooden boards in the street, and the dish everyone cooks them with is cime di rapa: the bitter, leafy turnip tops sold in big bunches from autumn to early spring. The greens and pasta boil in the same pot, then get tossed with garlic, chilli and good olive oil. Pugliese cooks usually melt in anchovies; this vegan version uses golden fried breadcrumbs (mollica), the 'poor man's cheese' of southern Italy, for crunch and savour. Chef's tip: add the chopped stalks first and the leaves a few minutes later, so everything is tender at the same moment as the pasta.
Pappa al pomodoro is what Florentine grandmothers make in July and August, when tomatoes are almost too ripe and yesterday's unsalted Tuscan bread is going hard. Bread, tomatoes, garlic and basil are cooked together and beaten into a soft, spoonable porridge (pappa means mush, the word for baby food). It is eaten warm, at room temperature or even cold on hot days, never piping hot. Chef's tip: stir it hard with a whisk at the end; it breaks the bread down into a velvety texture without a blender.
No Argentine asado (barbecue), from a Buenos Aires rooftop to an estancia in the Pampas, is complete without a jar of chimichurri on the table. It is a loose, oily sauce of finely chopped parsley, garlic, dried oregano and chilli flakes in red wine vinegar and oil, sharp and herby rather than smooth like pesto. Spoon it over grilled vegetables, provoleta, halloumi, potatoes and bread. Chef's tip: chop everything by hand and let it sit for a few hours; a food processor bruises the parsley into a green purée and the flavours never settle.
Provoleta is the first thing off the grill at an Argentine asado: a thick round of provolone-style cheese, invented by Italian immigrants in Buenos Aires, cooked in a small iron pan or straight on the grate until the outside forms a golden crust and the inside turns molten. It comes to the table bubbling, sprinkled with oregano and chilli flakes and drizzled with chimichurri, to scoop up with crusty bread. Many provolones use animal rennet, so check the label and choose one made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: chill the cheese well before cooking; cold cheese forms a crust before the middle melts and runs.
Mohinga is Myanmar's national breakfast, ladled from steaming pots at dawn on street corners from Yangon to Mandalay: thin rice noodles in a thick, golden broth fragrant with lemongrass, ginger and toasted chickpea flour, topped with crisp fritters, lime and chilli. The real thing is built on catfish and fish sauce. This vegetarian version is honestly different: dried shiitake and kombu give savouriness instead of fish, and the body comes from toasted chickpea flour, toasted rice powder and banana stem (or palm heart), so it's lighter and earthier rather than fishy. Chef's tip: toast the chickpea flour and rice until golden and nutty before they go in; they carry most of the flavour.
Guiyang's favourite street snack is a do-it-yourself meal: stalls set out twenty or more small bowls of shredded vegetables, and each person wraps a few strands in a pancake no bigger than a palm, folds it like a swaddled baby and pours in a spoonful of sour, chilli-flecked broth. It's light, crunchy and fun to eat with friends. Use as many fillings as you like; the more colours, the better. Chef's tip: shred everything as fine as you can, so the little parcels stay neat and each mouthful has several flavours.
Khao yam is breakfast in the south: in Nakhon Si Thammarat, Pattani and Songkhla, morning stalls set out trays of tightly shredded lemongrass, pomelo, long beans, bean sprouts, makrut lime leaves and toasted coconut, and you build your plate around a mound of rice, often tinted blue with butterfly pea flowers. The dressing is normally budu, a sweet fermented fish sauce from the Malay borderlands. This version makes a vegetarian 'budu' by simmering soy sauce, tamarind, palm sugar, lemongrass and shallot into a dark syrup. The result is crunchy, fragrant, sweet, salty and sour in every mouthful. Chef's tip: shred everything as finely as you can; thin slivers of lemongrass and lime leaf are pleasant, thick ones are woody.
Khao poon is celebration food in Laos, ladled out at weddings, baci ceremonies and big family gatherings, and sold at morning markets in Vientiane by women with huge steaming pots. Fine round rice noodles sit under a spicy, red-tinged broth of coconut milk, lemongrass and galangal, and everyone adds their own shredded cabbage, banana blossom, beansprouts, mint and lime. The usual chicken or fish is swapped for golden fried tofu and bamboo shoots. Chef's tip: fry the red chilli paste in the coconut cream until oil seeps out in red drops on the surface; that's when the colour and heat are fully released.
Every September the smell of charring peppers drifts over courtyards from Leskovac in southern Serbia to Strumica in North Macedonia, as families roast crates of long red babura peppers on wood stoves and spend a whole Sunday stirring the pulp into ajvar for the winter shelves. A little roasted aubergine softens the flavour, and long cooking with sunflower oil turns it into a glossy, sweet-smoky spread that is eaten on bread with white cheese, beside beans or potatoes, and with almost every winter meal. This is a home-sized batch for two medium jars rather than a cellar full. Chef's tip: do not rinse the roasted peppers under the tap to get the skins off; it washes away the smoky juices that make ajvar taste of autumn, so peel them with oiled fingers and a paper towel instead.
Fërgesë is the dish people in Tirana order at lunchtime in a small clay pot, still bubbling, with a basket of bread for dipping. Soft fried peppers and tomatoes are folded through gjizë, Albania's fresh salted curd cheese, then baked until the top spots golden. The meatless version with peppers is the everyday one across central Albania; it is rich, tangy and gently spicy. Ricotta mixed with a little feta is a good stand-in for gjizë outside Albania. Chef's tip: cook the tomatoes down until thick before the cheese goes in; a watery fërgesë that splits in the oven is the usual mistake.
Smashed avo became the signature breakfast of Sydney and Melbourne cafés in the 1990s and 2000s, and today it's on the menu of almost every café in Australia, from Bondi to Fitzroy, eaten on weekend mornings with a flat white. Ripe avocado is crushed roughly with lemon, salt and chilli and piled thickly onto toasted sourdough, then topped with salty crumbled feta and, often, a soft poached egg. It's creamy, sharp, crunchy and salty all at once. Chef's tip: smash the avocado with a fork, not a blender, and leave it chunky; the contrast between the rough avo and the crisp toast is the whole point.
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.
For the Miao people around Kaili in south-east Guizhou, a pot of sour soup is the heart of a meal, served in a wide pot over a burner with everyone dipping in. Their famous red sour soup is made by fermenting wild tomatoes with chillies for weeks, and it gives the broth a bright, tangy, lightly spicy taste that is fruity rather than vinegary. Chunks of fresh river fish, tofu and bean sprouts simmer in it until tender, and each piece is dunked in a little dish of chilli and herbs before eating. This home version gets close with very ripe tomatoes, fermented chillies and a splash of rice vinegar. Eat it with rice on a cold evening. Chef's tip: cook the tomatoes until they completely collapse into a thick red paste before you add any water; that is where the colour and the deep sourness come from.
Pastil is the grab-and-go breakfast of Cotabato City and the Maguindanao region of Mindanao: a mound of warm rice wrapped in a banana leaf, topped with shredded chicken that has been fried dry with garlic and onion (kagikit). Vendors sell them by the dozen from early morning, and Muslim families pack them for the pre-dawn meal during Ramadan. Each parcel is small, cheap and filling. Eat them warm with a hot chilli vinegar. Chef's tip: fry the chicken flakes until they are dry and fluffy, almost like floss; moist chicken makes the rice soggy inside the leaf.
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.
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.
Out in the rice-farming provinces of Isan, a plate of larb turns up at almost every family meal and roadside som tam shack, always with a basket of sticky rice and a pile of raw greens. Warm minced chicken is tossed with fish sauce, plenty of lime, dried chilli and a fistful of mint, then finished with nutty, crunchy toasted rice powder. The result is bright, sour, salty and hot all at once, with a pleasing coarse texture. Wrap spoonfuls in lettuce, or eat it with sticky rice, cucumber and long beans. Chef's tip: toast your own rice powder; shop-bought tastes flat, and freshly ground grains smell like popcorn.
Bus stations and football matches across Isan have the same soundtrack: the crackle of chicken pieces clamped in split bamboo over glowing coals, and the thump of a pestle making som tam beside them. Gai yang is marinated in garlic, coriander root, white pepper and lemongrass, then grilled slowly so the skin turns lacquered and smoky while the meat stays juicy. Tear it apart with your hands and eat it with sticky rice, green papaya salad and a sour-hot jaew dipping sauce. Chef's tip: leave it in the marinade overnight in the fridge; the lemongrass and garlic need hours to get past the skin.
The name means 'waterfall', after the juices that drip from the beef onto the coals, and this salad is what Isan drinking spots and family barbecues serve when there is good meat on the grill. Smoky slices of pink steak are tossed while still warm with lime, fish sauce, chilli flakes, shallots and mint, then dusted with toasted rice powder for crunch. The meat soaks up the dressing like a sponge, so every bite is juicy, sour and hot. Pile it on a plate with sticky rice, cabbage, cucumber and long beans. Chef's tip: choose a steak with some marbling, such as sirloin or rump; very lean cuts turn dry and chewy once sliced thin.
Shepherds from Amatrice, a mountain town in northern Lazio, carried guanciale and pecorino up to summer pastures, and once tomatoes arrived from the south the sauce took the shape it has kept ever since. The town still holds a sagra every August, and the dish became a Roman staple through the cooks who moved to the capital. Thick, hollow bucatini catch the sweet-sharp tomato inside and out, while the guanciale gives rich, porky pockets and the chilli a gentle warmth. Locals are firm that onion and garlic do not belong in it; they soften the clean taste of the pork. Chef's tip: lift the browned guanciale out of the pan before the tomatoes go in and return it just before serving, so it keeps its bite instead of turning soft in the sauce.
Naples cooks this on Christmas Eve, when the feast is meatless, and all summer long in seaside trattorie along the bay. The clams open in a hot pan of garlicky oil and white wine and release their sea-salty juice, which the half-cooked spaghetti then drinks up as it finishes cooking, so every strand tastes of the shore. Neapolitans keep it in bianco, without tomato, with just a little chilli warmth and a heap of parsley. Most clams in shops are sold already purged of sand; if yours are not, soak them in cold salted water in the fridge for 30 minutes first. Serve with a glass of something cold and bread for the juices. Chef's tip: drain the spaghetti 2 minutes early and finish it in the clam liquor, tossing hard with a little extra oil, so the juices turn into a light, clinging sauce rather than a puddle in the bowl.
In Tashkent, chuchvara is the little cousin of manti: dumplings no bigger than a thumbnail, folded around a peppery lamb-and-beef filling and dropped into clear meat broth. Families make them in big batches on a slow weekend, freeze trays of them, and eat bowls through the winter with a spoonful of suzma (strained yogurt) or sour cream and lots of dill. The dough is thin and firm, the filling juicy with grated onion, and the broth light enough to drink. Many home cooks roll the dough too thick, which turns the dumplings stodgy; aim for a sheet you can just see the board through. Chef's tip: freeze the shaped dumplings on a floured tray before bagging them, so they stay separate and cook straight from frozen.
