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Strips of fillet or sirloin sear hard in a hot pan and lift out so they don't overcook. Onion and mushrooms cook in the same pan with butter; brandy or wine deglazes; mustard, stock and soured cream make the sauce. The beef returns at the end to warm through, off the heat to keep it pink.
A wide shallow pot is brushed with beef fat, the warishita sauce (soy-mirin-sake-sugar) is poured in, then thinly sliced beef and a colourful array of vegetables, tofu and shirataki noodles are added in batches as people eat. Each piece dips in raw egg yolk before going in the mouth. A portable hob at the table is traditional but not required.
Each vegetable cooks separately and gets dressed with sesame oil, garlic and soy. They arrange in colourful piles around a mound of rice; an egg fries on top. Gochujang sauce on the side. Diners mix vigorously before eating.
Sticky rice is soaked, steamed and pressed around small Asian bananas (Chuối sứ), wrapped in banana leaves and grilled until the rice forms a chewy crust. A coconut cream sauce thickened with a little cornflour and salt is spooned over the split-open bundles, and toasted peanuts and sesame finish the top. The contrast of crisp-burnt outside, soft hot banana, and cool coconut sauce is the whole point.
Plain steamed rice (often last night's leftovers) is the base. A hot temper of mustard seeds, urad dal, chana dal, cashews, dried red chilli and curry leaves is bloomed in coconut oil, then fresh grated coconut is folded in and warmed through. The rice is tossed through everything off the heat, so the grains stay separate and pick up flavour rather than soften.
Brined vine leaves are soaked for 20 minutes to leach the brine. Filling: short-grain rice is par-cooked for 10 minutes with onion in olive oil; off heat, dill, mint, parsley, pine nuts, currants and lemon zest are stirred through. Each leaf is given a teaspoon of cool filling and rolled into a tight cigar. The rolls are packed tight in a heavy pot lined with broken / extra leaves. Olive oil, lemon juice and stock are poured in to barely cover. Weighed down with an inverted plate. Slow-simmered for 50-60 minutes. Cooled in the liquid; served at room temperature.
Chicken thighs (or lamb) are browned, onions and tomato cooked down with garlic and a single whole chilli, then the meat simmers in stock until tender. A loose peanut paste is stirred in for the final 20 minutes, kept thin enough to ladle. Sweet potato or pumpkin softens in the sauce. A spoon of lime juice at the end balances the richness.
A sweet rice that's about generosity rather than complexity: hot basmati glossed with melted butter, fattened with cashews, sweetened just a little with sugar and softened raisins, and (in the traditional version) studded with droma, small starchy wild roots harvested in central Tibet that look a bit like miniature sweet potatoes and taste vaguely chestnut-like. Without droma the dish is still recognisably dresil, just simpler. Yak butter is the real-thing fat, tangier and stronger than supermarket butter; ghee is the closest accessible substitute. The sweetness is restrained, Tibetan sweets in general aren't very sweet by Western standards, which is part of why dresil eats well alongside salty butter tea. Smell is warm butter and toasted nuts. Easy to make: it's essentially a stir-through. The first thing eaten on the first morning of Losar (Tibetan New Year) in many Central Tibetan households, with each family member taking a small bowl as part of the day-one rituals, and a quiet dish despite being a celebration food.
Firni is Afghanistan's set rice-flour pudding, served at Eid and at the end of long family lunches, scented with cardamom and rosewater and topped with crushed pistachios. The technique is simple but precise. Very finely ground rice flour (traditionally soaked basmati ground by hand, but shop-bought rice flour works well) whisks into cold milk to a slurry, gets stirred slowly into warming sweetened milk, and cooks until thick and creamy. Cardamom and rosewater at the end. Pour into shallow dishes (small individual ones, ideally) and chill until the surface sets to a light skin. Scatter with crushed pistachios or almonds and serve cold. Make it the day before so it has time to set properly.
Tomatoes and peppers get tops cut off and centres scooped out. The tomato flesh is reserved and chopped. A rice filling cooks half-done in a pan with the chopped tomato flesh, onion, garlic and herbs. Vegetables fill; tops go back on. Potato wedges arrange around them in a tray; everything bakes slowly in olive oil and the reserved tomato juices until the rice is cooked through and the potatoes are golden.
Aged basmati is rinsed and soaked. A whole-spice tempering of cinnamon, cardamom and cloves is bloomed in coconut oil with sliced onion and a slit green chilli. The drained rice is toasted briefly in the spiced oil, then half-coconut-milk and half-water is poured in for a covered steam. The grains finish white-cream coloured, faintly sweet from the coconut and warm from the whole spices.
Pork belly is simmered until tender, prawns are poached briefly, and vermicelli is cooked just al dente. Everything cools to room temperature, then rice paper rounds are dipped briefly in warm water and rolled around lettuce, herbs and the protein with the pink of the prawns showing through the wrapper. The peanut-hoisin sauce is the make-or-break: it should be thick, sweet and lightly garlicky.
Vermicelli noodles cook briefly and get tossed with sesame oil to stop sticking. Tofu pan-fries until golden. Rice paper rounds soak in warm water until pliable; everything stacks on each round and rolls tightly. The peanut sauce blends in seconds.
Jhal muri (literally "spicy puffed rice") is the most democratic snack in Bengal: assembled in seconds from a tin trunk by a muriwala, tipped into a rolled-newspaper cone, and eaten standing on a pavement for the price of a few rupees. The base is muri (puffed rice), and everything else is built around the principle of contrast. Raw mustard oil is the soul of the dish, sharp and nasal and slightly bitter; without it you have a salad, not jhal muri. The vegetables stay raw and crunchy, onion, green chilli, cucumber, tomato, chopped into tiny dice so each spoonful gets one of each. Peanuts and chana chur (or sev) add fat and crunch; black salt and chaat masala add the funky-tangy depth that makes Indian street snacks addictive. The lime goes in last so the puffs don't soften. This is a dish where technique matters less than ingredient quality: muri must be crisp (refresh in a dry pan if it's gone soft), mustard oil must be the proper pungent kind, and the lime must be fresh. It is everywhere in Bengal, tea-time at home, train platforms, the Maidan on a winter afternoon, and there is no recipe in any cookbook that quite captures the feel of it being mixed in front of you in a paper cone.
Saudi Arabia's national dish, the one platter you'll meet at almost every gathering from family lunch through wedding banquet. You brown chicken pieces or lamb shoulder hard in a heavy pot, then build a base of onion, garlic and ginger softened in the same fat, with tomato and a spoonful of baharat (or a dedicated kabsa spice mix) blooming until the kitchen fills with cardamom and cinnamon. The protein simmers in tomato and stock until it's tender and pulling away from the bone, then long-grain rice goes in to cook absorption-style in the same liquid, drinking up every layer of flavour the broth carries. You finish with almonds toasted in butter, raisins plumped briefly, and a fresh salsa of tomato, onion, chilli and parsley spooned on the side to cut the richness. Eaten communally from the centre platter, with hands or a long spoon.
Kabuli pulao is Afghanistan's national dish, the centrepiece of every wedding, Eid and important Friday lunch: a layered pilaf of long-grain rice, slow-braised lamb, sweet carrot strands and butter-plumped raisins, all steam-finished together in one pot. You brown lamb shoulder hard, then braise it in spiced stock until the meat slips off the bone (that stock becomes the rice's cooking liquid). Carrots cut into matchsticks fry slowly in butter and sugar until they are golden and glassy. Raisins plump in butter. The rice parboils, then layers in the pot: lamb at the bottom, rice piled on top in a dome, drizzles of stock through the dome, lid clamped on tight. Twenty-five minutes of steam-cook and the rice emerges grain-separate and fragrant, ready to mound onto a platter with the carrots and raisins scattered across the top.
Oxtail simmers slow with aromatics until the meat is falling-tender. The cooking liquid thickens with toasted ground rice and peanut butter, gets coloured with annatto, and becomes a deep golden sauce. Vegetables join briefly at the end so they keep their texture. Bagoong on the side is non-negotiable.
Saffron is bloomed in warm milk to draw the colour and aroma. Basmati is rinsed, soaked and drained. Whole spices, sliced almonds and cashews are toasted in ghee, then sultanas and pomegranate seeds are folded through. The toasted rice goes on top with milk-spiked water and the saffron milk, and the pot is covered to steam. Finished with a scatter of more nuts, fried onions and pomegranate seeds.
Walnuts are toasted and ground to a paste. Onions are softened slowly with turmeric and saffron; chicken thighs are seared, then poached in a stock that the walnut paste loosens into. Pomegranate molasses, sugar and lemon balance the sauce as it darkens; chicken returns to absorb flavour. Slow-cooked until the oil splits out, the sign Fesenjan is ready.
Aged basmati rice is soaked briefly and ground to a coarse paste (the Lahori way; modern shortcut is rice flour). Milk is brought to a boil, the rice paste whisked in carefully to avoid lumps, and the mixture cooked over low heat for 25-30 minutes with constant stirring as it thickens to a custard. Sugar, cardamom, saffron and a hint of rose go in at the end. The firni is poured into small earthenware bowls (the traditional vessel; the porous clay draws moisture out and intensifies the flavour). Chilled, topped with nuts.