161 recipes that use shallot, with photos, step-by-step instructions and cook times. The quickest, Kangkung goreng, takes 10 minutes. It is most often cooked with garlic, sugar and turmeric.
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Green bean casserole was invented in a test kitchen in the 1950s and spread across the Midwest via church cookbooks; today it is on most American Thanksgiving tables. This version skips the tins: fresh beans in a homemade mushroom cream sauce, topped with crisp shallots you fry yourself. Chef's tip: blanch the beans only until bright green and still squeaky, because they cook again in the oven.
Malatya cooks wrap cubes of lamb with tomatoes, peppers, shallots and garlic in greaseproof paper and bake them slowly, so the meat steams in its own juices and the parcel puffs up like a pillow. At the table each person tears open their own package to a cloud of fragrant steam. It's a festive dish for guests, served with bulgur pilaf and a yoghurt salad. Common mistake: wrapping loosely so the juices leak and the meat dries; fold and crimp the edges tightly. Chef's tip: brown the lamb quickly before wrapping; it gives a deeper flavour than raw meat steamed alone.
Steak frites is the backbone of the Parisian bistro and brasserie menu, ordered at a zinc-topped table at lunchtime with a green salad and a dab of Dijon. A thick entrecôte or bavette is seared hard in a very hot pan, rested, then topped with a melting coin of shallot and parsley butter, while chips cooked twice come out crisp outside and fluffy within. In France the steak is usually served rare (saignant) or medium-rare (à point); because this is a whole-muscle cut, the inside can safely be pink as long as the outside is well seared, but cook it to your taste using the guide in the steps. Chef's tip: take the steak out of the fridge 30 minutes before cooking and salt it just before it goes in the pan, for an even, crusty sear.
No grill in Martinique or Guadeloupe is complete without a bowl of sauce chien: shallot, garlic, spring onion, parsley and Scotch bonnet chopped very fine, then 'cooked' with a splash of boiling water, lime juice and oil. Islanders spoon it over grilled vegetables, plantain, rice and beans, and accras, at beach picnics and family barbecues on Sunday afternoons. One story says it is named after the knife used to chop the herbs, whose handle bore a dog. Chef's tip: pour the water on just off the boil; it softens the raw onion and garlic and brightens the green of the herbs.
Bordeaux's brasseries, from the quays of the Garonne to the old Chartrons wine-merchant quarter, still grill entrecôte over vine cuttings and serve it with sauce bordelaise: shallots, thyme and red wine reduced to a syrup, then enriched with stock and cold butter. Poached bone marrow, folded in at the end, is the old-school touch and well worth trying. The sauce is glossy, deep and a little sweet against the well-browned, juicy steak. The sauce uses red wine; the ingredient note gives an alcohol-free version. Serve with frites or sautéed potatoes and a crisp green salad. Chef's tip: let the steaks sit out of the fridge for 30 minutes before cooking so the centre cooks evenly.
Kig ha farz, "meat and stuffing" in Breton, belongs to the Léon country of north Finistère, where it is still the big shared dish of village fêtes, rugby-club dinners and family gatherings. Beef shin and salt pork belly simmer for hours with cabbage, carrots, leeks and turnips, and in the same pot sits a cotton bag of buckwheat batter that cooks into a dense, nutty pudding. The pudding is crumbled and served with the meats and vegetables, often with lipig, a sauce of shallots melted in butter. Chef's tip: tie the cloth bag loosely, leaving room for the batter to double, or the pudding turns heavy and rubbery.
The name means 'silk weaver's brain', a joke from the Croix-Rousse hill in Lyon, where nineteenth-century canuts worked the looms and could not afford the lamb's brains their bosses ate. Their version was fromage blanc whipped with shallot, garlic and herbs, and it is still served in every bouchon as a starter or after the main course, with bread, toast or boiled potatoes. Some cooks splash in white wine; this version uses a little white wine vinegar instead, so it is alcohol-free. Some fromage blanc is set with rennet, so pick a brand labelled vegetarian if that matters. Chef's tip: make it an hour ahead; the shallot softens and the herbs flavour the cheese right through.
Garganelli come from the farmhouses between Imola and Lugo in Romagna, where egg-pasta squares are rolled around a thin stick on a little comb called a pettine, leaving ridged quills with a seam down one side. Their ridges grip sauce well, and the classic spring dressing is sweet peas in cream; the trattoria version adds prosciutto, which this one leaves out, with a little shallot and Parmigiano instead. The dish is silky and mild, a Sunday-lunch first course. Chef's tip: a clean gnocchi board and a pencil-thin wooden dowel make perfectly good garganelli if you don't own a pettine.
Schlutzkrapfen come from the farmhouse kitchens of South Tyrol, around Bressanone and the Val Pusteria, and are a fixture of autumn menus once the first snow dusts the Dolomites. A firm dough of rye and wheat flour wraps a soft filling of spinach and fresh quark, folded into half-moons and served in foaming brown butter with chives and cheese. The rye gives them an earthy, slightly sour bite that sets them apart from Italian ravioli further south. Chef's tip: roll the dough thinner than you think and keep the unused part covered, as rye dough dries out quickly.
From December to February the farms around Treviso, in the Veneto, harvest radicchio tardivo, the late red chicory with long, curled, wine-coloured leaves, and towns across the province hold festivals in its honour. Cooked into a risotto, it softens and turns from crimson to a deep purple-brown, and its bitterness mellows into something sweet and nutty against the creamy rice. Local cooks splash in red wine, which adds depth and colour; for an alcohol-free risotto use an extra ladle of stock and a teaspoon of red wine vinegar. Chef's tip: keep back a handful of raw strips to scatter on top for crunch and colour.
Curry laksa, or curry mee, is the coconut-rich laksa of Kuala Lumpur and the west coast, a hawker breakfast as often as a lunch, ladled from huge pots into bowls of noodles. The broth is a fried spice paste of chillies, lemongrass, galangal and candlenuts loosened with coconut milk, so it's spicy, creamy and fragrant at once. Stalls top it with chicken, cockles or prawns; ours is all vegetable: tofu puffs that soak up the soup like sponges, soft aubergine, long beans, crunchy bean sprouts and mint. Chef's tip: once the coconut milk goes in, keep it at a gentle simmer; a rolling boil splits it and leaves the broth greasy and grainy.
Kangkung grows in wet ditches and paddy edges right across Malaysia, and every zi char stall and kopitiam kitchen has a pile waiting for the wok. Ordered beside rice and a curry at lunch, or as one of several shared plates at night, it arrives glossy, hollow stems still crunchy, leaves just collapsed. Hawkers often fry it with belacan; this version gets its savoury punch from garlic, shallots, red chilli and a spoon of fermented soybean paste (tauco) instead. It's done in under five minutes. Chef's tip: dry the washed greens thoroughly in a salad spinner, because wet leaves cool the wok and steam instead of sizzle.
Every warung and night stall from Medan to Makassar has its own nasi goreng, but the starting point is always yesterday's rice, a pounded paste of shallot, garlic and chilli, and a glug of kecap manis that turns the grains glossy and caramel-brown. Indonesians eat it for breakfast as readily as for a late supper, crowned with a fried egg and served with cucumber, tomato and a heap of crackers. This vegetarian version keeps all the smoky-sweet depth without the usual shrimp paste. Chef's tip: get the wok properly hot and add the kecap manis down the side of the pan, not onto the rice, so it sizzles and caramelises before you toss it through.
Nasi kerabu comes from Kelantan on the north-east coast, and in Kota Bharu it is a breakfast and lunch staple, sold in the morning markets in mounds of startlingly blue rice. The colour comes from butterfly pea flowers. Around the rice sit 'ulam', raw herbs and vegetables sliced as fine as thread: lime leaves, lemongrass, long beans, bean sprouts, cucumber, mint and basil, with nutty toasted coconut on top. Kelantanese stalls dress it with budu, a fermented fish sauce, so this version uses a sharp tamarind, lime and chilli dressing instead. It's light, crunchy and full of perfume. Chef's tip: slice the herbs as thinly as you can with a sharp knife; the finer the shreds, the more they scent every mouthful of rice.
Ask any Malaysian cook what lives in the fridge door and the answer is usually a jar of sambal tumis. 'Tumis' means to sauté, and the paste of soaked dried chillies, shallots, garlic and spices is fried slowly in plenty of oil until it turns dark and jammy. From Johor to Kedah it goes on nasi lemak, gets stirred through fried rice and noodles, and is spooned beside eggs, tofu or roti. Most versions lean on belacan (shrimp paste); here a little toasted nori brings back that savoury, faintly sea-like depth. Chef's tip: make a double batch; covered with a film of its own oil it keeps for two weeks in the fridge and months in the freezer.
Quinotto is quinoa cooked like a risotto, a dish from the new Andean cooking of Cusco and Lima that marries Italian technique with the grain of the high Andes. Quinoa is toasted with onion and garlic, simmered in stock with white wine, then finished with mushrooms, butter, cream and grated cheese until creamy and loose. It has a pleasant pop and nutty flavour that rice never has, and a gentle warmth from ají amarillo. Serve it as a main with a green salad. Use a hard cheese made with vegetarian rennet. Chef's tip: quinoa has little starch, so the creaminess comes at the end; stir in the butter, cheese and cream off the heat and serve straight away while it still flows.
Vatha kuzhambu is what a Tamil kitchen cooks when the vegetable basket is empty: tamarind, sambar powder and a handful of sun-dried sundakkai or manathakkali berries fried crisp in sesame oil. It simmers down to a glossy, almost black gravy that is sour, a little bitter, hot and faintly sweet, and it keeps for days, so it travels in tiffin carriers and turns up at Brahmin home lunches all over Thanjavur and Chennai. Mix a spoonful into hot rice with a little sesame oil, and eat it with a plain poriyal or appalam to calm the heat. Chef's tip: fry the dried berries in the oil first and lift them out the moment they puff and darken; added at the end they stay crisp and bitter-nutty instead of turning leathery.
All over Malaysia, nasi lemak is what people grab before work: a pyramid of banana leaf or brown paper from a roadside stall, opened at a desk or on a car bonnet, with fragrant rice steamed in coconut milk, a dab of sticky red sambal, crunchy peanuts and cool cucumber. Stalls usually add fried anchovies and boiled egg; our meat-free plate keeps the morning ritual but swaps the anchovies for thin batons of tempeh fried until they shatter, and the sambal is cooked without belacan, so the depth comes from slow-fried chillies, tamarind and palm sugar. Eat it for breakfast, brunch or a lazy supper. Chef's tip: give the sambal the full time on a low flame; it is ready only when a shiny red oil floats free around the edge.
Satay smoke drifts along Javanese streets every evening, where sellers fan charcoal grills set up on the pavement and serve skewers with peanut sauce, rice cakes and sliced shallot. Tofu and tempeh are naturals for it: they drink up a sweet-savoury marinade of palm sugar, tamari, coriander and garlic and pick up dark, sticky char at the edges. The sauce here is cooked until smooth and glossy, sweeter and milder than the grainy dressing on gado-gado, made for dipping. Chef's tip: soak the bamboo skewers for 30 minutes and brush the satay with marinade as it grills — the sugar caramelises into the dark, slightly burnt edges that make satay taste like satay.
Bisi bele bath means 'hot lentil rice' in Kannada, and it's Karnataka's great comfort dish, served in temples, weddings and Bengaluru tiffin rooms. Rice and toor dal are cooked soft with vegetables, then simmered with tamarind, jaggery and a freshly roasted spice powder of lentils, coriander seed, chilli, cinnamon and coconut until it's thick, glossy and spoonable. A generous ghee tempering with cashews and curry leaves goes over the top. Eat it piping hot with crisp potato chips or boondi raita. Chef's tip: make it looser than you think; it thickens fast as it stands, and the right texture is soft and flowing, like a thick porridge.
Lawar is the dish of Balinese ceremonies: before a temple festival or a family rite, the men of the banjar gather at dawn to chop and mix it by hand in huge quantities. Many versions include meat, but lawar kacang, made with long beans, is common at home and at Balinese warungs, and it shows off base genep, the island's master spice paste of shallot, garlic, galangal, kencur, turmeric and chilli. Mixed with toasted grated coconut, it's crunchy, fragrant, sour and hot, and is eaten with rice the day it's made. Chef's tip: mix the lawar just before serving and with your hands, squeezing gently, so the spice paste works into the beans; made too early, it goes watery and dull.
Every table in Manado, North Sulawesi, has a bowl of dabu-dabu: diced tomato, shallot and red chilli with calamansi juice and lemon basil, sometimes dressed with hot oil. It is spooned over grilled food, fried tofu and the pumpkin porridge tinutuan, and its cool juiciness makes very hot chilli easier to take. Unlike Bali's sambal matah, it is built on tomato and stays chunky and wet. Chef's tip: salt the tomatoes and leave them 5 minutes before mixing, so they release juice that becomes the dressing.
Telur balado is a fixture of the nasi Padang counter and of West Sumatran home cooking: hard-boiled eggs fried until their whites blister and turn golden, then smothered in balado, the coarse red sambal of chilli, shallot and tomato that the Minangkabau cook with almost everything. The fried skin of the eggs grips the sauce, and the sambal is bright and fresh rather than long-cooked. It's a cheap, quick weekday lunch with rice and greens, and it travels well in lunch boxes. Chef's tip: grind the balado coarse, not smooth — the Padang version should look rough and glossy, with visible flecks of chilli skin.
Kappa puzhukku is the cassava dish of central Kerala, eaten in homes around Kottayam and Thrissur, and also served at the start of the Thiruvathira festival. Cassava is boiled twice, roughly mashed with coconut crushed with green chilli, shallots and garlic, then finished with a coconut-oil tempering. It's soft and starchy, with crunchy coconut and a lot of chilli heat, filling enough to be a meal with a fiery chammanthi or a ladle of moru curry. Chef's tip: when you peel the cassava, pull out the woody string that runs down the middle; it never softens.
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