104 recipes that use flat-leaf parsley, with photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Çoban salatası, takes 10 minutes. It is most often cooked with garlic, onion and egg.
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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.
Patatas bravas are Madrid's favourite bar snack: chunky potatoes fried until crisp outside and fluffy inside, then splashed with a brick-red sauce of olive oil, pimentón and a little stock. In Madrid the sauce is not ketchup or tomato sauce but a smooth, smoky paprika sauce with a kick; in Barcelona and Valencia you often get it with a spoon of alioli as well. This home version is fried twice for crunch and keeps the heat moderate so children can join in; add more hot paprika for the grown-ups. Serve with cold drinks, tortilla and pimientos de Padrón for a tapas spread. Chef's tip: take the pan off the heat before adding the pimentón; paprika burns in seconds and turns bitter, and that bitterness is the most common reason homemade bravas sauce tastes wrong.
Champiñones al ajillo are on the menu of almost every tapas bar in Spain: button mushrooms seared in olive oil with plenty of sliced garlic, a little dried chilli (guindilla), a splash of dry white wine or fino sherry and a handful of parsley. They are usually brought to the table still sizzling in a small terracotta cazuela, with bread to mop up the garlicky juices. Serve them with tortilla, patatas bravas or on toast for a quick lunch. Chef's tip: cook the mushrooms over a high heat in a single layer and do not salt them until they have browned; salt draws out water too early and the mushrooms stew grey instead of searing golden.
Sopa de ajo, also called sopa castellana, is the warming winter soup of Castile and León, from Segovia to Burgos: stale bread fried in olive oil with lots of garlic and smoky pimentón, simmered in stock and finished with eggs poached right in the soup. It was shepherds' and farmers' food, made from what was always in the kitchen, and is still eaten after a cold night out or on Ash Wednesday. Castilian cooks often add cured ham; this vegetarian version gets its depth from smoked pimentón and a good vegetable stock. Serve it in earthenware bowls, piping hot. Chef's tip: use bread that is truly stale and dry, and toast it in the garlicky oil until golden before adding the stock; fresh bread turns to mush, while toasted stale bread swells but keeps a little texture.
Coxinha is the king of Brazilian salgados, sold in every padaria and served at every birthday party, especially in São Paulo. The teardrop shape copies a chicken thigh, but coxinha de palmito, filled with soft heart of palm, tomato and creamy cheese, is a much-loved meat-free version. The dough is a cooked, savoury choux-like paste, rolled in breadcrumbs and fried until shatteringly crisp. Chef's tip: cook the dough until it comes away from the pan in one smooth ball, then knead it while still warm with oiled hands. Lumpy or under-cooked dough cracks in the fryer and lets the filling leak.
Farofa is on the table at almost every Brazilian meal, from feijoada to Sunday barbecue: coarse manioc (cassava) meal toasted in butter or olive oil with onion and garlic until golden, sandy and nutty. Sprinkle it over beans, stews and moqueca to soak up the juices and add crunch. Bacon is common in the South-East; this butter version is the classic everyday one (use olive oil for a vegan farofa). Chef's tip: toast the manioc over a medium-low heat, stirring constantly, and go by smell and sound. It's ready when it smells like toasted hazelnuts and sounds dry and sandy against the spoon; high heat scorches it in seconds.
Mole verde is the brightest of Oaxaca's seven moles: instead of dried chillies and chocolate it is built from tomatillos, fresh green chillies and a fistful of herbs (hoja santa, epazote, parsley) and thickened with masa or pumpkin seeds. In Oaxaca it is often cooked with white beans and vegetables, which is how we make it here, with potatoes, courgette, green beans and chayote. The sauce is tangy, herbal and silky, and goes with white rice or warm corn tortillas. It is vegan as long as you use vegetable stock. Chef's tip: blend the raw herbs in at the very end, off the heat; cooked any longer they turn grey and lose their fresh perfume.
Chiles en nogada belong to Puebla and to September, when fresh walnuts, peaches, pears and pomegranates are all in season and Mexico celebrates its independence: the green chilli, white walnut sauce and red pomegranate are the colours of the flag. Roasted poblano peppers are stuffed with picadillo, a sweet-savoury hash of fruit, nuts and spices, then cloaked in nogada, a cool sauce of fresh walnuts, milk and fresh cheese. Our vegetarian picadillo uses mushrooms for the savoury depth that minced meat usually gives. It is served at room temperature, never hot, as a centrepiece for a celebration lunch. Chef's tip: soak the walnuts in milk overnight and rub off as much of the papery skin as you can; the skins make the nogada bitter and grey. Use a fresh cheese made with vegetarian rennet.
Arroz verde is red rice's fresher sister, popular across central Mexico as a side for mole, enchiladas and beans. The rice is toasted in oil and then simmered in a vivid green purée of poblano pepper, coriander, parsley and a handful of spinach, so it comes out fluffy, herby and gently peppery, the colour of spring grass. It is vegan with vegetable stock and pairs especially well with mole rojo or roasted vegetables. Chef's tip: blend the greens with cold stock and add it straight to the rice; heated slowly or left standing the purée loses its colour, so make it right before you need it.
When the call to prayer ends the fast during Ramadan, tables from Tangier to Ouarzazate are set with a bowl of harira, dates and chebakia. This tomato soup is thick with lentils, chickpeas and a great deal of coriander, parsley and celery, and gets its silky body from a flour-and-water slurry stirred in at the end. Many families cook it with a little lamb; this meat-free version uses a well-browned onion and tomato base and olive oil instead of smen, so it is fully vegan and still deeply savoury. Chef's tip: the soup should coat a spoon like thin custard; add the flour slurry slowly while stirring and stop when it reaches that point. Variation: for the meat version, brown 250 g diced lamb with the onion at the start.
Shlada khizzou is the bright orange dish on the salad spread of every Moroccan restaurant and home lunch, from Marrakech riads to roadside grills on the way to the coast. Carrots are blanched until just tender, then dressed while warm with garlic, cumin, a little sugar and lemon, so they drink in the flavour. Some families add a few drops of orange blossom water, which makes it taste of a Moroccan garden. Serve it with tagines, couscous or simply with bread. Chef's tip: dress the carrots while they are still warm; cold carrots stay bland on the outside.
Every spring, from February to April, Roman market stalls pile up round, thornless romanesco artichokes (cimaroli), and trattorie serve them alla romana: stuffed with wild mint, parsley and garlic and braised stem-up in oil and water until meltingly soft. They are eaten warm or at room temperature as a contorno, often next to their crisp cousins, carciofi alla giudia. Any large globe artichoke works at home. Chef's tip: braise them upside down, stems in the air and tightly packed, so the hearts sit in the liquid and the stems steam to the same tenderness.
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.
Risotto ai funghi is what Piedmont and Lombardy cook in October, when foragers bring porcini down from the Alpine foothills and markets in Alba, Turin and Bergamo sell baskets of wild mushrooms. At home, a handful of dried porcini and their soaking liquid give that deep, woodsy flavour to ordinary chestnut mushrooms. It is a first course in Italy and a full supper anywhere else. Chef's tip: brown the fresh mushrooms in a separate hot pan and fold half in at the end; they stay meaty instead of turning soft and grey.
Risi e bisi was once served to the Doge of Venice every 25 April, the feast of Saint Mark, when the first tender peas arrived from the lagoon islands. It sits between a soup and a risotto: thicker than a minestra, looser than risotto, eaten with a spoon. Venetians make a quick broth from the empty pods, which gives a sweet, grassy flavour no stock cube can match; pancetta often goes in, but this version keeps it vegetarian with parsley and butter. Chef's tip: when podding fresh peas, keep the pods; simmered for 20 minutes they make the whole dish taste of spring.
In the Veneto and the mountain valleys of the north-east, polenta is the old daily staple, poured steaming onto a wooden board in the middle of the table. Its classic autumn partner is funghi trifolati: mushrooms sautéed with garlic, parsley and a splash of white wine until glossy and deeply savoury. Soft polenta is spooned into bowls with the mushrooms on top, a warming supper for a cold night. Chef's tip: whisk the cornmeal into the water in a thin stream; if it goes in all at once, it lumps and no amount of stirring will fix it.
Rolling yaprak sarma is a social job in Aegean kitchens around Ayvalık and Manisa, where vineyards supply the leaves: a tray of grape leaves, a bowl of spiced rice and two or three people talking while they roll. This meat-free version is the olive-oil kind, filled with rice, onion, pine nuts, currants, mint and a pinch of cinnamon and allspice, and served cold as a meze or at tea-time gatherings. Good sarma are thin as a finger and hold together when bitten. A common mistake is overfilling: the rice swells as it cooks and splits the leaves. Chef's tip: use only a teaspoon of filling per leaf and roll firmly but not tight, leaving room for the rice to grow.
Biber dolması turns up in every corner of Turkey, from Istanbul meyhanes to village kitchens in central Anatolia, and the olive-oil version without meat is the one eaten cold at summer lunches or packed for picnics. Thin-walled green dolma peppers are filled with rice cooked with onion, tomato, pine nuts, currants and warm spices, capped with a slice of tomato and simmered until the peppers slump and wrinkle. A frequent mistake is packing the filling to the top: leave a finger of space so the rice can swell. Chef's tip: let the peppers cool completely in their pot; the filling firms up and the flavours of mint and allspice come through much more clearly than when hot.
Winter in Istanbul brings fat leeks to every neighbourhood market, and zeytinyağlı pırasa is how many households use them: chunks of leek and carrot stewed gently in olive oil with a handful of rice to thicken the juices, finished with lemon. It is served at room temperature on the side of a winter table, or as a light lunch with bread and white cheese, and grandmothers often say it is better the second day. The usual mistake is skipping a proper wash: grit hides between the layers and ruins the whole pot. Chef's tip: cut the leeks on a slant into thick pieces and keep them whole rather than separating the rings, so they hold their shape through the slow braise.
Sit down at a kebab house in Adana or Gaziantep and a small dish of acılı ezme arrives before you have ordered: tomato, pepper, onion and parsley chopped almost to a paste, sharpened with pomegranate molasses and hot pepper flakes. It works just as well at a vegetarian table, spooned onto bulgur pilaf, falafel or grilled vegetables, or scooped up with warm flatbread. The mistake most people make is using a food processor: it turns the vegetables into watery soup instead of a thick, rough relish. Chef's tip: chop everything by hand with a big knife, then drain the tomatoes in a sieve for 5 minutes before mixing, so the ezme stays thick enough to sit on bread.
Çoban salatası, the shepherd's salad, is on the table at almost every Turkish meal from Edirne to Van, whether that is a home dinner, a lokanta lunch or a summer barbecue. It is simple by design: small dice of tomato, cucumber, green pepper and onion with parsley, dressed with lemon juice, olive oil and a little sumac. It is eaten alongside pilaf, beans, börek or anything grilled. The common mistake is salting it too early, which draws the water out of the tomatoes and leaves it swimming. Chef's tip: rub the onion slices with salt and sumac and rinse them before adding; the onion stays crunchy but loses its harsh bite.
Kısır comes from southeastern Turkey but is now the dish women across the country bring to 'altın günü', the afternoon gatherings where friends meet at each other's homes over tea. Fine bulgur is softened with hot water and kneaded with tomato and pepper paste until rosy, then mixed with spring onion, parsley, mint, lemon and pomegranate molasses. It is served at room temperature, often wrapped in crisp lettuce leaves. The typical mistake is pouring in too much water, which turns the bulgur mushy; use just enough to cover. Chef's tip: knead the pastes into the warm bulgur with your hands for a full minute so every grain turns red and the flavour goes right through.
Antalya does piyaz its own way. Elsewhere in Turkey the bean salad is dressed with oil and vinegar, but on the Mediterranean coast the beans are folded through a pale, nutty sauce of tahini, lemon and vinegar, then crowned with sumac onions, tomato and parsley. Lunch canteens in the old town serve it on the side of almost everything, and at home it is a filling lunch with bread or a cool side on a hot evening. Tinned beans make it a fifteen-minute dish. Chef's tip: when the lemon hits the tahini it will seize into a stiff, grainy paste; don't panic, just keep beating in cold water a spoonful at a time and it turns silky.
Along the Black Sea coast, from Samsun to Trabzon, the pide salon is where families go on a Friday night, and the oven man shapes each boat of dough by hand before sliding it onto the hot stone floor of a wood-fired oven. The Black Sea way is generous: a pool of melted kaşar and white cheese held inside a rim of soft bread, an egg cracked into the middle for the last few minutes and a knob of butter dropped on as it comes out. Children love tearing off the crusty ends to drag through the cheese. Chef's tip: heat a heavy baking tray or pizza stone in the oven for a full 30 minutes; the hot base is what gives a crisp underside rather than a soft one.
Of all Turkish böreks, su böreği is the one cooks are proudest of. Thin sheets of egg dough are boiled for a moment, then layered with butter and white cheese and baked until the top is crisp and the inside is soft and almost silky, a little like a cheesy lasagne made of pastry. Bakeries in Istanbul and Ankara sell it by weight from huge trays in the morning, and at home it appears at holidays and when guests are expected. It takes time and patience but nothing is difficult. Make it the day before and reheat it. Chef's tip: have a big bowl of iced water ready next to the pan; plunging each sheet straight into it stops it cooking and keeps the layers from sticking together.
These pencil-thin rolls take their name from the cigarettes they resemble, and they are the börek every Turkish child grows up on. Triangles of yufka (thin Turkish pastry) are rolled round a finger of white cheese and parsley and fried until they shatter when you bite them. They turn up at five o'clock tea parties, on the iftar table during Ramadan and in many a school lunchbox. Yufka is sold in Turkish shops; filo works too if you use two sheets brushed with oil. Chef's tip: shape them all, cover with a damp cloth and fry just before eating; they lose their crunch within an hour.
In Lebanese homes tabbouleh is a green salad first and a grain salad a distant second: a heap of finely cut flat-leaf parsley and mint, flecked with fine bulgur, diced tomato and spring onion, and sharpened with lemon and olive oil. It turns up on every mezze table from Beirut to the mountain villages, and families make it in big bowls for Sunday lunch, scooping it up with crisp inner leaves of cos lettuce. It tastes bright, lemony and fresh, and goes with falafel, grilled halloumi or any spread of dips and bread. The usual mistake is chopping wet parsley, which bruises into a dark, soggy mush; dry it thoroughly and slice it with a sharp knife instead. Chef's tip: dress the bulgur with the lemon juice and tomato juice first, so it softens in that liquid instead of in water and soaks up all the flavour.
Warak enab bi zeit, vine leaves cooked in oil, is what Lebanese aunts make in big batches in early summer when the young grape leaves are tender, and it fills the cold mezze table at every wedding and family lunch. The meatless version, eaten on Lenten fast days, is packed with short-grain rice, tomato, parsley, mint and spring onion, seasoned with dried mint and seven spices, and simmered slowly in lemon juice until the leaves are silky and the filling sharp and fresh. It is served cold with a wedge of lemon and a spoonful of yogurt for those who are not keeping it vegan. Rolling too tightly is the mistake most people make: the rice swells and splits the leaves, so roll them snug but not stretched. Chef's tip: line the pan with sliced potato and tomato; they stop the rolls catching and are a cook's treat to eat straight from the pot.
Ful mudammas is breakfast on both sides of the Levant: Cairo's street carts ladle it from huge copper pots at dawn, and in Beirut and Damascus small ful shops serve it on Sunday mornings to queues of families. Small brown fava beans are warmed in their liquid, partly crushed, then dressed at the table with garlic pounded with salt, plenty of lemon and cumin, a pool of olive oil and a heap of chopped tomato and parsley. Scoop it with flatbread and eat it with raw onion wedges, radishes, olives and mint. The mistake most people make is draining the beans and dressing them dry; the cooking liquid is what makes ful creamy, so keep some. Chef's tip: mash only about a third of the beans, so the dish is part silky purée and part whole bean.
Fattet hummus belongs to Damascus, where breakfast restaurants in the old city serve it in deep bowls on Friday mornings, and it has spread to Beirut's Sunday tables too. The name comes from fatt, to break up, for the toasted flatbread at the bottom, which is topped with warm chickpeas in their broth, then a thick, garlicky sauce of yogurt and tahini, and finally sizzling pine nuts in butter or oil with a dust of paprika and cumin. The contrast is the point: crunchy and soft, hot and cool. Assembling it too early is the common mistake, since the bread soaks up the sauce and goes soggy; build it just before eating. Chef's tip: let the yogurt come to room temperature first, so it doesn't cool the chickpeas down too much and the bowl stays warm.
Across the Levant, from Tripoli in northern Lebanon to the villages of the Galilee, mujaddara is the thrifty Friday or Lenten supper that nobody tires of: brown lentils and rice cooked together until soft and earthy, then heaped with a tangle of onions fried until mahogany and crisp. It costs very little, keeps well, and is eaten warm or at room temperature with a cucumber-yogurt salad, plain yogurt for non-vegans, or a sharp cabbage salad. The onions do all the seasoning, so be generous. Chef's tip: fry the onions in batches with room to spare in the pan; crowded onions steam and go soft instead of turning crisp.
Maqluba means 'upside down', and in Palestinian homes from Jerusalem to Nablus the moment the big pot is flipped onto a tray at a Friday family lunch is greeted with clapping. Under the pot comes a golden cake of fried aubergine, cauliflower and potato with spiced rice packed between them. It is also cooked across Lebanon, Jordan and Syria. This meat-free version uses vegetable stock and is served with a cucumber and tomato salad or a bowl of yogurt for those who eat dairy. Chef's tip: once the pot is turned over, wait five minutes before lifting it so the layers settle and the tower holds.
Spanakopita turns up everywhere in Greece: cut into squares at bakeries for a mid-morning snack, carried to the beach wrapped in paper, and set out on Easter and name-day tables beside the salads. A tray of it is a mass of soft, herby spinach and salty feta under layers of fillo that shatter as you cut. Spring onions and plenty of dill keep it fresh rather than heavy. Serve it warm or at room temperature with a tomato salad and olives; it tastes even better a few hours after baking. Feta is often made with animal rennet, so choose one labelled vegetarian. If you want to make your own pastry, our home-made fillo recipe works here. Chef's tip: squeeze the wilted spinach in a clean tea towel until it stops dripping; leaving the water in is the classic mistake that gives a soggy bottom.
In the villages of Crete and the mountains of Epirus, hortopita is what cooks make from whatever greens are growing on the hillsides: wild fennel, sorrel, poppy leaves, nettles and chard. Many families bake it during Lent, when cheese and eggs are put aside, so the filling relies on olive oil, leeks and a big handful of herbs for flavour. It is earthy, a little bitter and very fresh. This version uses easy-to-buy chard, spinach, fennel fronds and leeks, with a spoonful of rice to soak up the juices. Serve warm or cold with olives and a glass of something cold. Most shop fillo is made without butter or egg, but check the label to keep it vegan. Chef's tip: salt the chopped greens and leave them for 20 minutes before squeezing; skipping this is the most common mistake, and it makes hortopita watery.
Gemista is the dish of a Greek August, when tomatoes are cheap, sweet and bursting. Home cooks hollow out the tomatoes and peppers, stir the scooped-out pulp into rice with onions, mint and parsley, and bake everything in one big tray with wedges of potato tucked in between. The vegetables slump and blister, the rice soaks up the tomato juice and olive oil, and the potatoes go sticky at the edges. This vegetarian version is the one most families make in summer and during fasting periods. Serve warm or at room temperature with feta for those who eat dairy and plenty of bread to wipe the tray. Chef's tip: fill the vegetables only three-quarters full; the rice swells as it bakes, and overfilling is the common mistake that splits the tomatoes and leaves the rice hard.
Briam is what Greek home cooks put in the oven on a hot afternoon when the garden is full of courgettes: potatoes, courgettes, aubergine, peppers and onions tumbled with grated tomato, garlic and oregano, then roasted slowly until soft and caramelised at the edges. It is one of the ladera, dishes cooked in olive oil and eaten as a main course, usually at room temperature with feta and bread. It tastes better the next day, when the flavours have settled. Chef's tip: cut the potatoes thinner than everything else so they cook in the same time; same-size chunks are the common mistake that leaves you with hard potatoes and mushy courgettes.
Burgundy's famous stew is traditionally made with beef, but the flavours that make it special are all in the sauce: red wine from the region's vineyards, small whole onions, carrots, thyme and mushrooms. This meat-free version gives the mushrooms the starring role, browned hard so they turn meaty and dark, then simmered in a glossy wine sauce. It is a winter dinner in French homes, served over creamy mashed potatoes, buttered noodles or with a crusty baguette. Pick a vegan-friendly wine if that matters to you. Chef's tip: brown the mushrooms in a hot pan in batches until the liquid they release has evaporated; adding them all at once is the common mistake and they boil instead of browning.
Gigantes plaki is a tray of fat, creamy beans baked in a thick tomato sauce until the top catches and wrinkles. You find it in every taverna's display of oven dishes, on meze tables with bread and olives, and in home kitchens during Lent. The best beans come from Kastoria and Prespes in northern Greece, but any large dried butter beans work. The beans are boiled first, then baked with onions, carrot, celery, garlic and dill. Serve warm or at room temperature with feta for those who eat dairy and crusty bread. Start the night before: the beans need to soak for at least 12 hours. Chef's tip: don't salt the boiling water or add tomato until the beans are already tender; acid and salt too early are the common mistake that keeps the skins tough.
Fasolada is sometimes called the national dish of Greece, and it is the soup that fed families through winters and long Lenten fasts. It is humble and filling: small white beans simmered slowly with carrot, celery, onion and tomato until the broth turns thick and creamy, then finished with a generous pour of raw olive oil. On a cold weekday it is dinner on its own, eaten with olives, pickled peppers, raw onion and bread. Soak the beans the night before. Chef's tip: let it simmer gently with the lid ajar and stir now and then so some beans break and thicken the broth; boiling it hard is the common mistake that splits the beans and leaves the soup thin.
Le Puy-en-Velay, in the volcanic hills of the Auvergne, grows a small, slate-green lentil with its own protected name. Lentilles du Puy hold their shape when cooked and have a peppery, almost mineral taste, which makes them perfect for salad. In French homes and bistros this salad is dressed while warm with a sharp mustard vinaigrette, shallot, carrot and parsley, then eaten as a starter, a packed lunch or a side to a quiche. Chef's tip: dress the lentils while they're still warm so they absorb the vinaigrette; dressing them cold is the common mistake and the flavour just sits on the outside.
Sabzi polo is the rice of Nowruz, the Persian New Year on the spring equinox, when families across Iran sit down on the first evening to a mound of rice speckled green with dill, parsley, coriander and chives. Fresh green herbs stand for renewal, and the dish is traditionally paired with fish on the New Year table; a vegetarian house serves it with kuku sabzi, the herb omelette, fried eggs or a bowl of yogurt. The rice tastes bright and grassy, with a gentle garlic note and a golden lavash crust underneath. Chef's tip: chop the herbs the day before and spread them on a tray to dry slightly; damp herbs make the rice heavy and clumpy.
Ghormeh sabzi is often called Iran's national dish: a dark green stew of slowly fried herbs, kidney beans and whole dried limes that perfumes Iranian kitchens on Friday mornings and turns up at nearly every family gathering. The original is made with lamb; this vegetarian version uses mushrooms and plenty of beans for body, and keeps the deep, sour, almost smoky herb flavour that makes the dish. It is spooned over chelow with its crust on the side. Chef's tip: fry the herbs in oil until they turn very dark green and smell nutty; that long frying is the flavour of the stew.
Kuku sabzi is a deep green, herb-packed egg cake that Iranian families make for Nowruz, the New Year on the first day of spring, often alongside sabzi polo. It is more herb than egg: just enough egg binds a heap of parsley, coriander, dill and chives, with crunchy walnuts and little sour barberries. It is eaten warm or cold, cut into wedges, tucked into lavash with yogurt and radishes, and it travels well to the Sizdah Bedar picnic thirteen days later. Chef's tip: cook it slowly with the lid on; high heat browns the base before the middle sets.
Ash reshteh is the thick soup Iranians cook in big pots in the days before Nowruz and for Sizdah Bedar, the spring picnic day, when the noodles (reshteh) are said to help you grasp the threads of good luck for the coming year. Chickpeas, beans and lentils are simmered with a mountain of green herbs and spinach, thickened with flat noodles and finished at the table with tangy kashk, crisp onions and a sizzling swirl of mint oil. It is a meal in a bowl, hearty and herby. Kashk is usually made without rennet, but check the label; strained yogurt is a good substitute. Chef's tip: add the noodles only once the beans are soft, and stir often after that, because they thicken the pot and it can catch on the bottom.
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.
Mesaqa'a shares a name with Greek moussaka but is a different dish: there's no béchamel and no cheese, just fried aubergine slices baked in a garlicky tomato sauce with green peppers and chilli until soft and jammy. In Cairo it is a weekday family dish and a favourite during the summer heat and in the Coptic fasting seasons, when many families eat no animal products; it tastes even better the next day at room temperature, scooped up with baladi bread. Chef's tip: salt the aubergine and press it dry, then roast or shallow-fry it until truly golden; pale aubergine makes a watery, grey mesaqa'a.
Mahshi is the pride of the Egyptian home kitchen: a big pot of courgettes, small aubergines, peppers and tomatoes, hollowed out and stuffed with short-grain rice, tomato, onion and a fistful of dill, parsley and coriander, then packed tightly and simmered in tomato broth. It turns up for Friday family lunches and on feast days, and making it is often a shared afternoon job around the kitchen table. Some families add minced meat to the stuffing; this version is the everyday vegetable-and-rice one. Chef's tip: fill each vegetable only three-quarters full; the rice swells as it cooks, and overstuffed vegetables burst and leave hard, undercooked rice in the middle.
Eggah is the omelette Egyptian families make at home for breakfast or a light supper, often on a Friday morning alongside ful, falafel, cheese and baladi bread. It is thick and set rather than folded, packed with spring onion, parsley and dill and warmed with cumin, and it's cooked slowly so it puffs and browns on both sides. Slice it into wedges and eat it hot from the pan or cold in a sandwich. Chef's tip: grate the onion and squeeze it dry; wet onion makes the eggs weep and the eggah falls apart when you flip it.
Salata baladi, the 'country salad', is on every Egyptian table, from Cairo koshari shops to Alexandria fish restaurants and home lunches, next to the rice and bread. It is finely diced tomato, cucumber, onion and green chilli, with a little parsley, a big squeeze of lemon and a pinch of cumin that makes it taste Egyptian rather than Levantine. It takes ten minutes and cuts through rich food like molokhia or mahshi. Chef's tip: dice everything small, about the size of a chickpea, so each spoonful carries a bit of everything.
Semmelknödel are the bread dumplings of Bavaria and Austria, made to use up yesterday's rolls (Semmeln) soaked in warm milk and bound with egg, onion and parsley. With a creamy mushroom sauce, Semmelknödel mit Schwammerlsoße, they become a full meal and a favourite in Munich beer gardens and Alpine inns from late summer, when foraged chanterelles and ceps reach the markets. Chef's tip: simmer the dumplings in barely trembling water, never a rolling boil; hard boiling breaks them apart, which is the most common Knödel disaster.
Maultaschen are the big square pasta parcels of Swabia, around Stuttgart and Tübingen, and a dish with its own legend: Swabians jokingly call them 'little God-cheaters', because the dough was said to hide meat from God's eyes during Lent. Meat-free spinach Maultaschen are a long-standing Lenten and Good Friday dish there, filled with spinach, soaked bread, onion, parsley and a little cheese. Eat them in clear vegetable broth, or the next day sliced and fried in butter with onions and egg ('geröstet'). Chef's tip: press every pocket of air out as you seal the dough; trapped air expands in the hot water and splits the parcels open.
Linseneintopf is the one-pot lentil stew that German families cook on cold weekdays, and in many school and works canteens it's still the Thursday or Saturday lunch. Brown lentils simmer with potatoes, carrots, celeriac and leek until thick and soft; the finishing touch, all over Germany, is a good splash of vinegar at the table, which wakes the whole bowl up. It's usually made with smoked sausage or bacon; here smoked paprika and vegetable stock give the smoky depth instead. Chef's tip: add the vinegar only at the end, because acid added early keeps the lentils hard.
Paprikás krumpli is a thrifty potato stew that every Hungarian student learns to cook, and it turns up at school dinners, on autumn weekdays and in cauldrons at village harvest festivals. Potatoes simmer in an onion and paprika base with pepper and tomato until they start to break and thicken their own sauce. Most versions add sliced smoked sausage; this vegan one swaps it for a pinch of smoked paprika and caraway, which give the same savoury depth. Serve in bowls with crusty bread and a pickled cucumber or a spoon of pickled peppers on the side. Chef's tip: cut the potatoes unevenly on purpose; the smaller pieces melt and thicken the sauce while the bigger ones stay whole.
Gombapaprikás is the meatless cousin of chicken paprikás, cooked in Hungarian homes on Fridays and through Lent, and a regular on the vegetarian line of Budapest's self-service étkezde lunch rooms. Mushrooms simmer in onion, paprika and a little pepper and tomato, then the sauce is finished with sour cream until it turns a soft brick-pink. It is quick, rich and comforting, and nokedli are its natural partner, though rice or boiled potatoes work too. Chef's tip: brown the mushrooms in a hot pan in two batches before they meet the onions, so they fry instead of stewing in their own water and the sauce tastes deep rather than watery.
Lobio simply means beans, and in Georgia it means this thick, herb-scented stew of red kidney beans, cooked and served in a clay pot (a ketsi or kotani). In Imereti and Racha it is everyday winter food and a mainstay of the Lenten table, eaten with hot mchadi, pickled cabbage or green chillies and a spoon of tkemali. Some of the beans are crushed so the stew turns creamy while the rest stay whole. A common mistake is mashing everything to a purée; crush only about a third. Raw kidney beans must also boil hard for 10 minutes before simmering, or they can make you ill. Chef's tip: stir in the fresh coriander and garlic only at the end, off the heat, so they stay bright and sharp against the soft beans.
Ajapsandali is what Georgian kitchens make in late summer, when the markets of Tbilisi and the gardens of Kakheti are heaped with aubergines, peppers and tomatoes. The vegetables are fried briefly, layered in a pot and left to stew gently until soft and sweet, then finished with a whole handful of coriander, basil and garlic. It is eaten warm with bread as a main dish during Lent, or cold the next day as a side at a feast. The common mistake is stirring it too often, which breaks everything into mush; shake the pan instead and let the layers keep their shape. Chef's tip: fry the aubergine on its own first until golden; this one step gives the whole stew its deep, rounded flavour.
Across Saudi Arabia, from Riyadh flats to Jeddah family compounds, a Friday lunch usually means one huge tray of kabsa set on a cloth on the floor, everyone eating from their own side. The rice cooks in a tomato broth scented with dried lime, cinnamon and cardamom, so every grain turns orange-red and fragrant; this version swaps the usual chicken for chickpeas and carrot, which soak up the spices just as well. It is topped with raisins and toasted almonds and comes with daqqus, a sharp tomato-chilli sauce spooned over at the table. Chef's tip: pierce the dried limes before they go in; whole ones float and give little flavour, pierced ones fill the broth with a sour, smoky depth.
Sabich came to Israel with Iraqi Jews, who ate fried aubergine and hard-boiled eggs on Saturday mornings when no cooking was allowed. In Ramat Gan in the 1950s someone stuffed it all into a pita, and today it is street food all over Tel Aviv: crisp-edged aubergine, sliced egg, hummus, tahini, chopped salad and a spoonful of tangy amba mango pickle, with zhug for heat. It is messy, rich and best eaten standing up with a paper napkin. Chef's tip: salt the aubergine and dry it well before frying; it soaks up far less oil and comes out creamy instead of greasy.
Zhug is the sauce Yemenite Jews brought to Israel, and now it sits beside the tahini and amba at every falafel and sabich stand in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. Fresh green chillies are ground with a big bunch of coriander, garlic, cumin and cardamom into a bright green, punchy relish with a slow, warming heat. Spoon a little into soup, onto eggs, over jachnun or into a pita. Chef's tip: dry the herbs thoroughly after washing; wet leaves make a watery zhug that goes brown in the fridge.
Ptitim was invented in Israel in the 1950s, when rice was scarce and the Osem factory was asked to make a wheat substitute; the little toasted pasta pearls soon became the dish every Israeli child grew up on. In homes from Haifa to Be'er Sheva it is cooked like a pilaf, first toasted in oil until nutty, then simmered in stock until plump and chewy. This version folds in courgette, red pepper and peas for a quick weeknight dinner or lunchbox side. Chef's tip: toast the dry ptitim until it smells like popcorn and turns light gold; it gives a much nuttier flavour than boiling it like pasta.
Tel Aviv restaurants made the whole roasted cauliflower famous, set on the table charred and steaming for everyone to tear apart, and it has since become a favourite for Shabbat dinners and Friday get-togethers across Israel. The head is first boiled in salted water until just tender, then roasted very hot with olive oil until the florets blister and blacken in places. Lemony tahini, a scatter of herbs and a dusting of sumac turn a humble vegetable into the centre of the meal. Chef's tip: let the boiled cauliflower steam dry for 5 minutes before roasting; a wet head steams in the oven and never chars.
Eetch is a Western Armenian dish from the old Cilician towns, carried by families to Aleppo, Beirut and the Armenian quarters of American cities. Fine bulgur is stirred into a hot sauce of onion, red pepper, tomato and pepper paste and left to drink it up, then finished with lemon, parsley and spring onion and eaten at room temperature, often scooped up with lettuce leaves. Unlike a herb-heavy raw bulgur salad, eetch is cooked, so it is rich and tomatoey, and it is a fixture of Lenten tables, picnics and mezze spreads. It keeps for days, which makes it a favourite for lunchboxes. Chef's tip: take the pan off the heat before adding the bulgur and keep the lid on; the grains soften in the residual heat and stay separate instead of turning to porridge.
Every year on 3 October the city of Leiden celebrates Leidens Ontzet, the end of the Spanish siege of 1574, and the whole town eats hutspot. The story goes that a hungry boy found a pot of stewed root vegetables left behind in the abandoned Spanish camp. Today it is a rough, orange mash of winter carrots, onions and potatoes boiled together in one pot, then stamped coarsely with butter. In the rest of the Netherlands it turns up all autumn and winter as a weekday supper. It is traditionally served with slow-braised beef (klapstuk); here it goes with a fried egg or a spoon of piccalilli, which suits it just as well. Chef's tip: layer the vegetables with the potatoes on top and the carrots at the bottom, in just enough water to reach the potatoes; the potatoes steam, the carrots soak up the flavour of the onions, and nothing turns watery.
In May and June, white asparagus from Mechelen and the sandy fields around Limburg arrive in Belgian markets, and asperges à la flamande (asperges op Vlaamse wijze) is the way to eat them. The pale spears are peeled and cooked until tender, then covered with a warm sauce of melted butter, chopped hard-boiled egg, parsley and nutmeg that is half sauce and half garnish. It is served as a starter in Flemish restaurants all through the short asparagus season, sometimes with a slice of ham alongside; here it stays meat-free. Chef's tip: peel the spears from just below the tip all the way down with a swivel peeler; white asparagus has a thick, bitter skin, and missing even a strip leaves woody threads.
Ciorbă is the sour soup that opens a Romanian lunch, from canteens in Cluj to Sunday tables in Moldavia, and the vegetable version is cooked all through the fasting weeks before Easter and Christmas. Root vegetables, beans and peppers simmer in a light broth that is soured at the end with borș, the fermented wheat-bran liquid sold in bottles at Romanian shops, or with lemon juice. Fresh lovage (leuștean) gives its unmistakable celery-like perfume. It is eaten piping hot with bread and a fresh green chilli on the side. Chef's tip: add the borș only at the end and let it come back just to a simmer; boiling it hard dulls the sour tang.
Tocăniță is the everyday stew of Romanian home cooking, and the mushroom version is a fixture of the Orthodox fasting days, when Transylvanian cooks use forest mushrooms gathered in the Apuseni hills and city cooks use button mushrooms from the market. Onions, garlic, tomato, white wine and thyme cook down into a thick, glossy sauce, without the sour cream and paprika of a Hungarian paprikás. It is always eaten with hot mămăligă and a spoon of the sauce over the top. Chef's tip: brown the mushrooms in batches in a hot pan; crowding them is the usual mistake, and they then stew grey in their own water instead of turning golden.
Shopska salata is named after the Shopi people of the Sofia region and has become Bulgaria's national salad, the first thing ordered at any mehana (tavern) with a cold glass of rakia. Ripe tomatoes, cucumber, onion and soft roasted peppers are dressed simply with sunflower oil and vinegar, then buried under finely grated sirene, the Bulgarian white brined cheese, so the top looks like fresh snow. Unlike a Greek village salad, there are no olives and the cheese is grated, not in a slab. Chef's tip: salt and dress the vegetables before the cheese goes on; dressing over the cheese is the common mistake and turns the white snow soggy.
Lyutenitsa is Bulgaria's pantry relish, cooked in huge pans in courtyards around Plovdiv and the Thracian plain every September, when the red peppers are at their sweetest. Roasted peppers, tomatoes and a little aubergine and carrot are ground smooth and simmered for hours into a thick, brick-red spread, warm with garlic and a little hot pepper. It is smoother and more tomato-rich than ajvar or zacuscă. Children grow up on it spread on bread with grated sirene (filiyka), and it goes with everything from eggs to beans. Chef's tip: stir from the bottom often as it thickens; walking away is the common mistake, and a scorched base will taint the whole pot.
Chushki byurek are one of the great autumn dishes of Bulgaria: in September, when the long red peppers ripen around Plovdiv and Pazardzhik, they are roasted, peeled, filled with sirene and egg, then dipped in flour, egg and breadcrumbs and fried. The outside crunches, the pepper is silky and sweet, and the salty cheese melts inside. They are served hot as a main course with a tomato salad, or cold the next day. Chef's tip: dry the peeled peppers well before filling; a wet pepper is the usual mistake, and the batter slides off and the oil spits.
Gyuvech takes its name from the glazed clay pot it is baked in, and in late summer in the villages of the Rhodopes and the Thracian plain it is slid into the bread oven packed with peppers, aubergine, okra, green beans, potatoes and tomato, seasoned with paprika and the herb chubritsa (summer savory). In the last minutes, eggs are often cracked over the top and baked until just set. It is served straight from the pot with bread to scoop up the juices. Unlike Greek briam, the vegetables stew in a paprika broth under a lid rather than roasting in oil. Chef's tip: put a clay pot into a cold oven; heating it first is the usual mistake and can crack it.
Mish-mash is the quick summer supper of Bulgaria, cooked in every home from Sofia flats to Black Sea holiday villas once the peppers and tomatoes are cheap and ripe. Roasted peppers, onion and tomato are fried down, then sirene and beaten eggs are stirred through until soft and creamy, finished with parsley. The crumbled white brined cheese melting into the eggs is what makes it Bulgarian rather than Turkish menemen. It is eaten straight from the pan with fresh bread, often with a glass of cold beer. Chef's tip: cook the eggs gently and take them off while still a little wet; overcooking is the common mistake, and they turn rubbery and weep water.
Where ajvar is the patient winter preserve, pindjur is its quick summer cousin, made in Macedonian and Bosnian kitchens in July and August when tomatoes are at their ripest. Roasted peppers and aubergine are chopped rather than ground, then simmered briefly with fresh tomatoes and plenty of garlic, so it stays chunky, juicy and bright. It is eaten warm or at room temperature, scooped up with bread and a slab of white cheese, as part of a mezze spread in Ohrid or Mostar. Chef's tip: chop everything with a knife instead of a blender; a puréed pindjur loses the texture that sets it apart from ajvar.
Epis is the jar that lives in every Haitian fridge, in Port-au-Prince flats and in Haitian kitchens in Miami, Montreal and Boston alike, and it's made fresh most weeks. Flat-leaf parsley, spring onion, garlic, sweet peppers and thyme are pounded or blended with a few cloves, a little scotch bonnet, oil and lime into a loose green paste. It is the first thing into the pot for rice and beans, legim and soup joumou, and it's rubbed over vegetables and tofu before they're fried. Raw it smells bright and herby; cooked it turns sweet, savoury and gently warm with clove. Chef's tip: use whole cloves and grind them yourself; just three or four give epis its signature warmth, but more turns it medicinal.
Every cook in Barbados keeps a jar of Bajan seasoning, and families in Bridgetown and St Philip guard their own blend. It's a wet, coarse paste of spring onion, onion, garlic, fresh thyme, marjoram and parsley, sharpened with lime and given a backbone of clove, paprika and scotch bonnet. Bajans press it into slits in fish and meat; here it goes into stews, onto roasted vegetables, tofu and halloumi, and into the stew for cou-cou. It smells strongly herby and peppery, and keeps for weeks. Chef's tip: marjoram is the herb that makes it Bajan; don't skip it, and use fresh if you can find it.
Niébé is the Wolof and French name for black-eyed beans, and this bright salad turns up at Senegalese family lunches, baptism feasts and Ramadan break-fast tables next to grilled dishes and rice. The beans are dressed while warm with lime, mustard and onion, then mixed with crunchy raw vegetables and a little hot pepper. It travels well and tastes better after an hour. Chef's tip: dress the beans while they are still warm so they drink in the lime; cold beans stay bland however much dressing you pour over.
Brik is Tunisia's crackling street and Ramadan snack: a sheet of paper-thin malsouka pastry folded around a raw egg, mashed potato, parsley and capers, and fried for a minute until the shell shatters and the yolk is still runny. In Tunis and La Goulette it is eaten by hand, held by the corners and bitten carefully to avoid egg on the chin. The classic filling adds tuna; this version keeps it vegetarian with a little cheese. It is different from Moroccan briouats, which are small rolled parcels baked or fried with a cooked filling. Chef's tip: have the oil hot and ready before cracking the egg onto the pastry; once the egg sits, it soaks through the sheet.
Walk into a bar near Madrid's Plaza Mayor or Puerta del Sol and you will hear gambas al ajillo before you see them: peeled prawns still spitting in a small terracotta cazuela of olive oil, sliced garlic and dried chilli. They arrive at the table bubbling, with a basket of bread for mopping up the golden oil, which many people think is the best part. At home it takes ten minutes and works as a tapa for four or a quick supper for two. Chef's tip: pat the prawns completely dry with kitchen paper before they go in, so they sizzle in the oil instead of stewing in their own water.
Albóndigas turn up all over Spain: in a cazuelita on a tapas bar counter, as the second course of a weekday menú del día, and in home kitchens on a Sunday when there is time to roll them. These are made with pork and beef, softened with milk-soaked bread, browned and then simmered in a tomato sauce thickened the old Spanish way with ground fried almonds, which gives it body and a gentle nutty sweetness. Serve them with chips, rice or plenty of bread. They taste even better the next day. Chef's tip: wet your hands with cold water before rolling each meatball; the mixture won't stick and the balls come out smooth and round.
Bacalao al pil pil belongs to Bilbao and the rest of Bizkaia, where it fills restaurant menus in Lent and Holy Week and reappears on Christmas Eve tables. It is made from just four things: desalted salt cod, olive oil, garlic and a dried chilli. The trick is the sauce. The cod gives off gelatine as it cooks gently in warm oil, and swirling the clay dish round and round turns that oil into a thick, pale, mayonnaise-like emulsion; the name comes from the 'pil pil' sound of it bubbling. Plan ahead, because thick salt cod needs 24–48 hours of soaking in the fridge. Chef's tip: buy thick, skin-on loins (lomos); the gelatine that makes the sauce comes from the skin.
Arroz carreteiro is named after the carreteiros, the ox-cart drivers who crossed the pampas of Rio Grande do Sul with charque (dried salted beef) that kept for weeks, cooking it with rice in one iron pot at camp. In southern homes today it is often the Monday dish, made with whatever is left from Sunday's churrasco, though some cooks still use carne seca. It's quick, filling and savoury, with tomato, onion, garlic and plenty of fresh herbs. Chef's tip: dice the leftover beef small, about 1 cm, and brown it hard before the rice goes in; those crispy edges flavour the whole pot.
On the long beach of Barra Vieja, just south of Acapulco in Guerrero, whole fish are split open, painted with chilli paste and grilled over wood embers in palapa restaurants with their feet in the sand. One half gets a brick-red adobo of guajillo and ancho, the other a bright green paste of herbs and fresh chilli, so a single fish brings two flavours to share. It is eaten straight off the platter with tortillas, rice, lime and cold drinks. Chef's tip: cook it mostly skin-side down in a hinged fish basket, so the skin protects the flesh and the fish turns without breaking.
Olluco is a glossy yellow-and-pink tuber grown high in the Andes, crunchy when raw and silky when cooked, and in Lima's market eateries it is cut into fine matchsticks and stewed with charqui, sun-dried meat that was the travel food of Inca messengers. The dish is gently spiced with ají panca and finished with fresh parsley, and it is always served with white rice. Latin shops sell olluco in jars; if you can't find it, firm new potatoes or courgette give a similar texture, and beef brisket stands in well for charqui. Chef's tip: cut the olluco and rinse it well; the slippery sap washes off and the stew won't turn slimy.
Café kitchens from Tangier to Agadir keep a row of small clay tagines bubbling with this one at lunchtime, and plenty of Moroccan families make it on busy weeknights. Little cumin-and-paprika meatballs poach in a thick, garlicky tomato sauce, then eggs are cracked straight into the pan and left to set softly on top. You eat it straight from the pot, tearing bread to scoop up meat, sauce and runny yolk together. Serve with a plate of olives and a simple chopped salad. Chef's tip: roll the meatballs no bigger than a cherry tomato so they cook through in the sauce in the same time it takes to thicken.
Down at the harbour in Essaouira the fishermen's catch goes straight from the blue boats to the grills and the clay pots, and tagine hout is how home cooks there turn it into a meal. Firm white fish is coated in chermoula, the fresh green paste of coriander, garlic, cumin and lemon, then laid over slices of potato, tomato and pepper that soak up all its juices. The result is light and aromatic, with tender potatoes at the bottom and fish that flakes at a touch. A tomato and cucumber salad and some bread are all it needs. Chef's tip: lay the potatoes in a single tight layer so they lift the fish off the base and nothing catches.
Out on the edge of the Sahara around Rissani and Merzouga, medfouna means 'buried', because the stuffed bread was traditionally baked in hot sand next to a fire. Two rounds of soft yeast dough enclose a filling of spiced beef, lots of onion, parsley and a little fat, and the whole thing bakes into a golden, crusty pie that is cut into wedges like a pizza. It is road-trip food, market-day food and the meal desert guides cook for travellers, eaten hot with mint tea. Chef's tip: squeeze the chopped onion and drain the cooked filling well; dry filling means a crisp base instead of a soggy one.
Safi and Essaouira are sardine country, and cooks along that Atlantic coast have always made the most of the cheap, silvery catch by turning it into kefta. Fresh fillets are chopped with chermoula herbs and spices into tender, rich fish balls, then simmered in a peppery tomato sauce until they soak up its flavour. They taste nothing like tinned fish: soft, savoury, a little lemony. Eat them from the pan with bread, or as part of a Friday spread of salads. Chef's tip: chill the mixture for 15 minutes before rolling; oily sardines firm up in the cold and the balls hold together 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.
Thick cross-cut slices of veal shank, each ringed around a hollow bone full of marrow, are browned and then braised slowly in white wine and stock until the meat is soft enough to cut with a spoon: this is Milan's great winter Sunday dish. The old Milanese way, 'in bianco', keeps tomato out, so the sauce stays golden and savoury. Just before serving it gets a shower of gremolata, a sharp mix of lemon zest, garlic and parsley that wakes up the rich braise. Serve it with risotto alla milanese, the saffron risotto that is its traditional partner (one of the few times a Milanese risotto shares the plate), or with soft polenta. Chef's tip: snip through the thin skin around each shank in three or four places before browning, so the slices stay flat in the pan instead of curling up.
In Adana, on the hot Çukurova plain in southern Turkey, this is the kebab of the ocakbaşı, the grill-side counters where the cook presses fatty lamb mince onto broad flat skewers and sets them over glowing coals. It is meant to be fiery with red pepper flakes, juicy from the lamb fat and wrapped in thin lavash with sumac-dusted onions, parsley and blistered peppers. Make it for a summer barbecue, or under a very hot oven grill on a weeknight. Chef's tip: knead the mince with wet hands for a full 5 minutes until it turns sticky; that is what holds it on the skewer.
Karnıyarık is a summer weekday dinner in kitchens all over Turkey, made when aubergines are glossy, cheap and piled high at the street markets. Small whole aubergines are peeled in stripes, fried until silky, then slit down the middle and packed with minced beef cooked with onion, green pepper and tomato. A short spell in the oven melts it all together. It is eaten warm with plain rice pilaf and a bowl of cacık or yogurt. Chef's tip: press the fried aubergine open with the back of a spoon to make a deep boat, so the filling sits inside rather than rolling off.
Hünkar beğendi is a dish from the Ottoman palace kitchens of Istanbul; its name means 'the sultan was pleased', and a well-known story links it to a royal banquet of the 1860s. Today it is a special Sunday or guest dish in Istanbul homes and old-style lokanta restaurants. Tender chunks of lamb are braised slowly with tomato and peppers, then spooned over beğendi, a silky purée of fire-charred aubergine whisked into a light cheese sauce. The smoky, creamy base against the rich stew is the whole point. Chef's tip: char the aubergines directly over a gas flame until the skins are black and collapsing; the oven alone won't give that smoky flavour.
Lahmacun belongs to south-east Turkey, especially Gaziantep and Şanlıurfa, where bakeries slide dozens at a time into wood-fired ovens and people eat them on the street at any hour, often with a cold ayran. The dough is rolled almost see-through and spread with a raw paste of minced lamb, onion, peppers, tomato and herbs that cooks in minutes in fierce heat. To eat, squeeze lemon over, add a handful of parsley and onion, roll it up and fold. Chef's tip: blitz the topping vegetables to a fine paste and squeeze out the excess juice, so the meat spreads in a thin, even layer that bakes crisp rather than soggy.
Kayseri, in central Anatolia, is famous across Turkey for mantı so small that, by local saying, forty should fit on one spoon. Families make big batches together on winter afternoons, rolling the dough thin and pinching each square around a pea of spiced minced meat, and the dumplings were traditionally part of a bride's test in the kitchen. They are boiled and served under garlicky yogurt, then drenched in butter sizzled with red pepper. Chef's tip: make a double batch and freeze the uncooked dumplings on a floured tray; they cook from frozen in about 2 minutes extra.
Musakhan is the dish Palestinian families in the villages around Jenin and Tulkarem make in late autumn, when the olives have been pressed and the first green, peppery oil comes home from the mill. Mounds of onion are cooked slowly in that oil with plenty of sumac, piled onto taboon bread with roast chicken and baked until the bread's edges crisp and its middle soaks up the purple-red juices. It is eaten with your hands, shared from one big tray, with yogurt and a chopped salad. Chef's tip: use more oil than feels right; the bread is meant to drink it, and a dry musakhan misses the point.
Mansaf is Jordan's national dish and the centrepiece of its weddings, Eid gatherings and big family days, set down on a huge round tray for everyone to eat from together. Bone-in lamb is simmered until tender in a sauce of jameed, the dried, salted goat's-milk yogurt of the Bedouin, then served on thin shrak bread and turmeric-tinted rice, scattered with almonds and pine nuts and drenched in more of the hot sauce. If you can't find jameed, a mix of thick yogurt and labneh gives a fair stand-in. Chef's tip: stir the yogurt sauce in one direction constantly as it heats, and never let it boil hard before the lamb goes in; that is what keeps it smooth.
Kafta is the everyday grilled mince of Lebanon, Syria, Jordan and Palestine: a Sunday barbecue staple in the Lebanese mountains and a quick dinner in city flats, cooked on skewers, shaped into fingers for the pan, or baked in a tray with potatoes and tomato. Lamb and beef are mixed with plenty of onion and parsley and warmed with baharat (seven spice). Wrap them in bread with tomato, onion and a smear of hummus or tahini sauce. Chef's tip: grate the onion and squeeze it hard in a clean cloth; dry onion keeps the kafta firm on the skewer and stops it steaming.
In Beirut and across Lebanon, a plain bowl of hummus becomes a meal when the cook pours sizzling minced lamb and pine nuts over it straight from the pan. You find it on the mezze table at long Sunday lunches and in neighbourhood breakfast shops, eaten with warm bread, raw onion, mint and pickles. The contrast is the thing: cool, creamy chickpeas and hot, crisp-edged, spiced meat. Chef's tip: peel the warm chickpeas by rubbing them in a tea towel; it takes 5 minutes and makes the hummus really silky.
This is a pork recipe. Sheftalia are the little skinless sausages you find on every souvla barbecue in Cyprus, from Limassol beach grills to Sunday family gatherings in Nicosia gardens. Minced pork is mixed with onion, parsley and mint, wrapped in lacy caul fat and grilled slowly so the fat melts and bastes the meat. They come tucked into a large pitta with salad, lemon and tahini. Ask a butcher for caul fat (sometimes called lace fat); without it you can still shape the mix into thick sausages and grill them on an oiled rack. Chef's tip: soak the caul fat in warm, lightly vinegared water first; it becomes supple and stretches without tearing.
Lisbon's Bairro Alto taverns claim this dish, said to be named after a tasca owner called Brás, and it is still a weeknight favourite in homes all over the city. Flaked salt cod is softened with slowly cooked onion, tossed with a heap of fine straw-cut fried potatoes, then bound at the last second with beaten egg so everything stays creamy and loose. Black olives and parsley go on top. A green salad is all it needs. Chef's tip: take the pan off the heat the moment you add the eggs; they should finish cooking from the warmth of the potatoes, like a soft scramble.
If there is one dinner every Argentine child grows up on, it is milanesa: beef pounded very thin, dipped in garlicky egg, coated in breadcrumbs and fried until golden. It came with Italian immigrants to Buenos Aires and Rosario, and today it is eaten on weekday nights with mashed potato or chips, cold in sandwiches the next day (milanesa al pan), and on long car trips. Lemon wedges are a must. The mistake most people make is leaving the beef too thick; it should be about 5 mm, so it cooks through by the time the crumb is golden. Chef's tip: bread the milanesas, lay them on a tray and chill them for 30 minutes before frying, so the coating sticks firmly and doesn't fall off in the pan.
Walk through downtown Cairo in the evening and you will smell hawawshi before you see it: round baladi breads split open, packed with minced beef, onion, green chilli and warm spices, then baked until the bread turns crisp and the fat from the meat soaks into the crumb. Street stalls sell it wrapped in paper with pickles and tahini; at home it is a quick Friday supper. Pitta works well if you can't find baladi bread. The mistake most people make is packing in too thick a layer of meat, so the bread burns before the middle is cooked; keep it about 1 cm thick. Chef's tip: squeeze the grated onion in a sieve before mixing it in, or the filling turns wet and the bread goes soggy.
In Vienna's old Beisl taverns the Schnitzel arrives so large it hangs over the plate: a veal escalope beaten thin, coated in flour, egg and fine breadcrumbs and fried in plenty of hot fat while the pan is swirled, so the crumb lifts away from the meat in golden waves. Austrian law keeps the name 'Wiener Schnitzel' for veal; the pork version, very common in German homes, is called Schnitzel Wiener Art and is cooked exactly the same way. Serve it with a lemon wedge, lingonberry jam and potato salad. The most common mistake is pressing the crumbs firmly onto the meat, which stops the coating from puffing. Chef's tip: shake off the crumbs and lay the cutlet in only when the fat is hot enough that a crumb sizzles at once.
Ceebu jën, "rice and fish" in Wolof, is the dish Saint-Louis claims as its own and the whole of Senegal cooks for the big Friday or Sunday lunch, served on one wide platter that the family eats from together. Thick fish steaks are stuffed with a green paste of parsley, garlic and chilli, browned, then simmered in a deep tomato broth with whole cassava, carrot, cabbage and aubergine; the broken rice then soaks up that same broth until it turns orange and fragrant. The prized part is the xoon, the crust that forms at the bottom of the pot, which is shared out at the end. The usual mistake is leaving the fish in the pot while the rice cooks, so it falls apart; lift it out with the vegetables and keep it warm. Chef's tip: rinse the broken rice three times and steam it briefly before it goes into the broth, so the grains stay separate instead of turning to porridge.
Sunday in Uruguay means asado: in Montevideo backyards and the cattle towns of the interior, beef ribs (asado de tira), chorizo and morcilla cook slowly over the embers of a wood fire, with only coarse salt, while the family waits. The parrillero rakes coals under the grill and keeps the heat low and even. This recipe includes pork chorizo. The mistake is cooking over flames; the fire should burn down to embers you can hold your hand above for 6–8 seconds. Chef's tip: salt the meat only when it goes on the grill, with coarse salt, never fine.
