The Botanical Kitchen

IF I COULD bottle one smell, it would be that of Mumbai’s Crawford Market on a sunny afternoon in May. You may not think that a sweltering Indian city would be top of anybody’s list of desirable aromas, but something special happens at that sticky transitional period between spring and summer. For it is then that the Alphonso mango comes into season. These, the food world’s gold ingots, are widely cited as the best mangoes in the world. They feel warm, almost alive, in your hand, and the marigold skin hints boldly at the promise of treasure within. The flesh is silky, oozing honeyed syrup. Your fingernails will look like a smoker’s for days after eating one of these, for they demand to be sucked greedily from the skin; the ceremony of a knife or spoon would be absurd.

For a fleeting period of a few weeks in early summer, Mumbai’s giant fruit and vegetable market becomes a cavern of marigold, a hallowed treasure trove for these coveted fruits. They line shelves from floor to ceiling, nestle in baskets on the ground, and vendors sliver and proffer them, eager to prove that their mangoes are the best. The sight alone is splendid enough – radiant yellow orbs as far as the eye can see – but the heavy perfume that hangs in the air is something else altogether. The whole country goes somewhat mad for these mangoes during May: take a trip on any form of public transport in India during that time, and you will more than likely be sharing your space with several crates of these fruit, as families transport them to loved ones across the country.

Like the traveller Fray Sebastien Manrique, who found himself captivated by Indian mangoes nearly four centuries ago, I will never cease to be compelled and fascinated by the sheer abundance and variety of fruit in the tropics. Beyond Mumbai’s mango markets I have been wide-eyed over street carts in Bangkok piled high with alien-esque hairy rambutans (whose name is derived from the Malay for ‘beard’), gigantic, razor-sharp jackfruit dangling precariously from trees in Kerala, two-foot-long papayas piled by the roadside in Nicaragua and armfuls of fragrant lychees sold in the market in Myanmar. I have torn the spongy skin off a face-sized pomelo while perched on a kerb in Vietnam, and attempted to consume a foot-long papaya on a juddering overnight train in Rajasthan using nothing more than a pocket penknife. I have eaten strange, custardy durian fruit fresh from the tree and carried a gift of five home-grown pineapples from a plantation in south India all the way to the plains of Bagan in Myanmar, loath to leave these unbelievably fragrant fruit behind despite the demands of my itinerary.

Something of an expensive luxury in Europe, tropical fruit near the equator is an everyday staple. Cooks make use of these fruits in all their forms, from the green papaya salads of Thailand to the pineapple curries of Kerala and Malaysia, from mango kulfi to mango chutney, durian ice cream to iced lychee tea. Tropical fruit is incorporated in both sweet and savoury recipes, providing a sweet end to a meal or a juicy foil to rich meat or fish. The recipes in this chapter aim to add a little of that abundance to your everyday cooking, proving the versatility of the tropical fruit basket in a variety of radiant, colourful dishes.

Pineapple works particularly well simmered in curries or seared in stir-fries, contributing bursts of tart sweetness without losing its shape or texture. It functions well as a meat tenderiser because of its high levels of the enzyme bromelain, which breaks down protein chains – hence the Mexican dish tacos al pastor, in which pork or chicken is marinated in spices and pineapple before being grilled on a spit. This power can actually be problematic: pineapple processors have to wear gloves and face masks so as to avoid the fruit corroding their skin, and it is not uncommon to find your mouth bleeding after eating large quantities of fresh pineapple (equally, this also makes it excellent for your digestion).

Given the prevalence of pineapple nowadays, it is hard to believe that this formidable-looking fruit was once so sought-after that it gave rise to a thriving rental business. Brought back to Europe by Columbus in the fifteenth century, the pineapple soon won over audiences with its flavour, described delightfully by Edward Terry in 1655 as ‘a most pleasing compound made of Strawberries, Claret-wine, Rose-water and sugar well tempered together’. It sparked a frenzy among the gardeners of the wealthy, who grew pineapples on wooden trays placed over pits filled with steaming manure. This was not a quick or easy process, and the pineapple soon became associated with those who could afford such extravagance. Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, well-to-do families would often rent a juicy pineapple for use as a dinner-party centrepiece, symbolising wealth and hospitality. No one ate it, but instead they returned it to the rental business intact for the next family to use (sometimes they would whisk it away to the kitchen, making as if to treat their guests to a sliver or two, and bring back a completely different fruit – as the guests would never have tasted real pineapple, they could be relied on not to know the difference!). Pineapples still retain something of this precious status in Hawaii, where they are such an important crop that there is a ban on bringing hummingbirds into the country, in order to reduce pollination and the amount of pesky seeds in the fruit. Take note, would-be hummingbird smugglers.

The vibrant, glowing colour of the papaya belies a flesh that is actually rather light in flavour. One of the quickest fruit trees to grow, fruiting within the first year (I have spotted them growing like weeds all over southeast Asia), papaya is valued the world over in both its ripe and unripe state. The latter is vital for the famous Thai salad som tam, one of the country’s fieriest dishes, while the former makes an excellent breakfast with a squeeze of lime and perhaps some fresh passionfruit or berries. The texture of ripe papaya is addictively fudgy, almost buttery, and functions well in savoury summer salads in the same way that you might use watermelon. Like pineapple, it also works as a meat tenderiser owing to the enzyme papain – in tropical countries, freshly butchered meat is sometimes wrapped in green papaya skins. It is said that you cannot make jam out of either papaya or pineapple because of their high enzyme content, but I once made a pineapple, vanilla and papaya jam with great success and would encourage you to do the same for a morning taste of the tropics on your toast.

Similar to the papaya in its egg-yolk hue, the persimmon is native to East Asia. There are two main varieties: Fuyu and Hachiya. The former has been developed by Israeli growers in the Sharon valley, hence we often find it sold under the name ‘Sharon fruit’. It resembles a squat, sunshine-coloured tomato and, like papaya, is delightful enjoyed simply with a squeeze of lime, or tossed into zesty salads. Its flavour lies somewhere between papaya, peach and mango, making it an excellent substitute for recipes using any of those fruits. The Hachiya persimmon, often sold as the ‘kaki fruit’, is larger and more bulbous, and must be left to ripen until it is almost as fragile as a water balloon, with a jellied interior that can be scooped out and eaten with a spoon. The name ‘persimmon’ derives from an indigenous language of the United States, and means ‘dry fruit’. You can understand why if you ever try to eat a Hachiya persimmon before it reaches that ripe, water-balloon stage: high tannin levels render it astringent and unpleasant, like licking the inside of a banana skin. The Japanese make hoshigaki (dried persimmon) by hanging these fruit, peeled, from strings until they form a dry outer skin, and then massaging them daily for at least a month to bring the natural sugars to the surface and cause a highly prized white bloom to appear on each fruit. They are eaten as a nutritious snack or used to make the famous Japanese sweets, wagashi. Persimmon leaves are also brewed to make a tea or to wrap sushi – try this if you’re ever lucky enough to get your hands on some. The soft flesh of the Hachiya persimmon is excellent in recipes that normally use ripe banana: think persimmon bread or persimmon pancakes.

Like the pineapple, the banana is so ubiquitous in our modern culinary landscape that it is hard to believe it was once an exotic discovery or a sought-after rarity. Early explorers likened the taste of the banana to a combination of parsnips and butter, and food shortages during the Second World War saw this likeness exploited, when resourceful bakers would replace scarce bananas with plentiful home-grown parsnips, often boosted with a splash of banana essence. It is said that (real) bananas and chocolate were the foods most missed by the British during rationing.

Unfortunately, sliced parsnip sandwiches or parsnip cakes may soon become a necessity. Panama disease, an infection that wipes out banana plants, is spreading rapidly across the tropics. The trees on which we grow modern banana crops are genetically identical and so at great risk of extinction, should the infection continue to spread. While modern scientists work tirelessly to fight this threat, let us appreciate the versatility of the humble banana and its eminent usefulness. The leaves are excellent for wrapping rice, meat and fish for cooking (here) or for use as eco-friendly plates, as they do in South India. The flowers (which resemble some kind of space-age alien hanging from the tree) are a common ingredient in fresh southeast Asian salads, adding a delightful crunch reminiscent of artichoke. Even the core of the trunk is used in the Burmese dish mohinga. Yet in the UK we apparently throw away 1.4 million perfectly edible bananas every day, despite the fact that the blacker they are, the better they perform in baking. I therefore make no apology for the number of banana recipes in this book, many of which are expressly designed to give you something delicious to do with those overripe fruit beyond the classic banana bread. You’re welcome – now please stop throwing them away.

The grapefruit, and its associated tropical cultivars, remains a somewhat underutilised fruit in the kitchen. Beyond breakfast, where it is often served simply and unimaginatively bisected across its middle (bonus points if you are in possession of a serrated knife or spoon with which to tackle it), the grapefruit has not captured our hearts in the same ways as many other members of the citrus family. This is in spite of decades of selective breeding and cultivation. Originally an accidental cross of two citrus species – pomelo and sweet orange – the grapefruit comes from Barbados, where it grows in clusters on the tree like grapes, hence the name. It has a reputation for being bitter, despite most of its bitterness having been progressively bred out of the fruit, which perhaps explains its somewhat languishing status as a fruit for cooking with – or perhaps it is a result of its less-than-glamorous association with the depressing ‘Grapefruit Diet’, which claims to harness the fat-burning potential of the fruit’s enzymes. Yet few ingredients can match grapefruit for unparalleled freshness and an explosion of sweet-tart flavour, and its potential deserves to be exploited more, particularly in salads where it contrasts perfectly with earthy grains, salty cheeses or buttery avocado. It has a wonderful affinity with basil, a combination exquisitely refined by Yotam Ottolenghi in his recipe for grapefruit, basil and sumac salad in his book Plenty More.

Pomelo, so much more than just ‘a large grapefruit’, as it is often infuriatingly described, gives toothsome texture and a pop of refreshing citrus to southeast Asian noodle dishes and salads. The name comes from the Dutch, combining the words for pumpkin and lemon, and as this substantial citrus starts to become more prevalent on our supermarket shelves, I urge you to experiment. The appearance can put people off, but pomelos are in fact incredibly easy to prepare (tips).

Similarly, lychees tend to have little role in our repertoires beyond being eaten as a snack or dessert around Christmas, when they are in season. Perhaps this is because of their fiddly nature (an eighteenth-century explorer described them having a thin rind ‘like the Scale of a Fish’), but I increasingly come across shelves of tinned lychees in our shops – let them tempt you to get a bit of that delightful lychee flavour (an addictive, refreshing combination of rose and passionfruit) into your cooking. They work particularly well in rich, coconut-scented curries, like the one here.

While some of these fruits might initially appear alien or challenging, with a little preparation know-how and a good staple recipe, tropical fruits can become part of any repertoire. This chapter has perhaps the boldest flavours in the book. It is a celebration of riotous colour, sun-soaked fruits and the hedonistic messiness that often accompanies the consumption of tropical bounty – as anyone who has ever eaten an Alphonso mango will know.

Tips & tricks

*The large, foot-long papayas you sometimes see (particularly in Asian grocery shops) are much better value and much more flavoursome than the mini, mango-sized versions popular in supermarkets (developed by growers in Hawaii in 1919 and aptly named ‘Solo’, as they are just the right size for one person!). The large versions are more expensive, but you get much more flesh for your money, they have a far superior texture, and they are easier to peel and prepare, too (simply cut into long slivers, slice off the peel in one strip and scoop out the seeds with a knife).

*Papaya seeds (likened by cookery writer Tom Stobart to ‘a heap of caviar’) apparently have a laxative effect. A friend once proudly brought a papaya salsa to a dinner party of mine, claiming that the seeds added an irresistible nutty flavour so she had left them in. I was apprehensive but suffered no noticeable effects. Still, perhaps something to bear in mind before you go gorging yourself.

*Have a look for Alphonso or Pakistani mangoes in season (May to June). Asian grocers will usually sell them by the box, although sometimes the major supermarkets get in on the act, too. Expect to pay anything from £8 to £14 per box, but they are absolutely worth it. Judge their quality by sticking your face into the box and inhaling.

*Blitz disappointing, stringy mangoes into smoothies to salvage them. (I often freeze the flesh in cubes, then add it straight to the blender, where it has the added benefit of making the smoothie nice and cold.)

*Pomelos look daunting to prepare, but they are no trickier than oranges. Slice in half vertically (with the stalk end on the top), then cut lengthways into quarters. Prise off the spongy peel with your fingers, then simply tear the pomelo flesh into chunks, peeling off the thin pith. I often do this in a ‘one-piece-for-the-bowl-one-piece-for-my-mouth’ manner.

*Some southeast Asian recipes call for green papaya or mangoes. Rock-hard, underripe supermarket mangoes make a good substitute (grate them using a box grater or julienne peeler), but you can also use tart apples such as Granny Smith, cut into matchsticks.

*The best way to gauge the ripeness of a pineapple is with your nose. Smell the base of it – the oldest and sweetest part of the fruit. If you get a waft of that irresistible candyfloss aroma, buy it. Any sign of grey-blue mould in the furrows on the skin is a bad sign, so watch out for this, too. If you do find yourself with an underripe pineapple, try dipping it in chilli and salt for a snack or refreshing starter, as they do in southeast Asia, or use it for cooking in the recipes in this book.

*Persimmons apparently make a good hangover cure. A good reason to try the recipe can be found here.

*Tinned lychees make a good substitute for fresh in salads or curries, and are one of the few fruits that survive the canning process relatively intact. Major supermarkets sell these, or you can find them in Asian grocers. Just be sure to drain off all the syrup.

*If you are lucky enough to find fresh longans or rambutans, use them in much the same way as fresh lychees. They are less sharp and more fragrant, with slightly more chewy flesh. I’ve never got as far as using them in a recipe, though – I tend to just sit there with a bagful and meditatively peel and chomp until, before I know it, they have all disappeared.

Although the season for Alphonso mangoes is cruelly fleeting, there is hope for those of us who believe true happiness is a turmeric-yellow mouth and a trickle of mango juice down the forearm. The canned purée – available in most Asian grocers and the World Food aisle of some supermarkets – captures the sunny sweetness of the fresh mango, and is conveniently suited to swirling through thick Greek yoghurt for a luscious ice that tastes of tropical summers. A hint of cardamom and a spritz of lime enhance the musky Alphonso aroma, but you can omit the cardamom if you’re not a fan.

This recipe makes 1.5 litres of sorbet, but it’s easily halved if you don’t have space in your freezer. You can also buy 400g cans of Alphonso mango pulp, so use this if halving the recipe.

Put the sugar, cardamom and lime zest in a large bowl and rub together with your fingertips until the sugar is fragrant and starting to moisten and turn light green.

Add the mango pulp, yoghurt, lime juice and salt. Whisk everything together and taste – remember, it will taste slightly too sweet, but freezing dulls flavour, so err on the side of slightly over-sweetened. However, add a little more lime juice if you want it more tangy.

Place the mixture in the fridge for at least 4 hours, before churning in an ice-cream machine until thick and set. You may need to do this in two batches, depending on the size of your ice-cream maker. Freeze for at least 2 hours before serving. Eat within 1 month.

This curry delivers a double whammy of mango – good news for those who are as mad about this luscious botanical as I am. As well as using the fresh fruit, it also contains amchoor, a powder made from sun-dried, unripe mangoes that is used predominantly in Indian cooking to deliver a hit of acidity. The earthy chickpeas and iron-rich spinach are balanced perfectly by a thick, fragrant sauce, and chunks of fresh mango deliver a welcome burst of sweetness. It’s also a very good, simple curry for a weeknight or for vegetarian or vegan guests. If you can, make this with Alphonso or Pakistani honey mangoes in late spring or early summer.

Heat the oil in a large casserole dish over a medium heat and sauté the onion for about 10–15 minutes, until softened and golden. Add the cumin, cardamom pods and cinnamon sticks and cook for 1 minute or so, until fragrant. Add the tomatoes, salt, amchoor, ground coriander, garam masala, chilli powder, turmeric and sugar. Part-cover the pan with a lid and cook for 10–15 minutes on a medium–low heat, until the tomatoes have softened and thickened.

Add the chickpeas, stock or water, and half the coriander. Cook over a medium heat, covered, for 25 minutes, until the sauce has thickened. If too runny, cook uncovered for a few minutes more. Add the spinach and cook for 1 minute or so, until it wilts into the sauce. Season the sauce to taste – you may need more salt if you used water as opposed to vegetable stock. Stir in the mango, and serve immediately, sprinkled with the remaining coriander and with steamed basmati rice.

During a hair-raising trip through the stunning scenery of Vietnam on the back of a motorbike several years ago, we stopped for lunch at an unassuming little hut by the sea. It was there that I began a love affair with stir-fried pineapple. The Vietnamese often incorporate it in light seafood dishes, but it also works beautifully with an assertive blend of ginger, chilli and brown sugar. Substitute the fish sauce with soy sauce for a wonderful vegetarian or vegan main course.

a small bunch of Thai basil or basil, leaves picked, or 20g roughly chopped coriander leaves

Heat a large wok or frying pan over a medium-high heat and toast the cashews in the dry pan until golden – about 5 minutes. Toss them regularly and watch them like a hawk so they don’t burn. Set aside.

Add half the oil to the pan and sauté the tofu cubes over a medium-high heat for about 5–10 minutes, until golden brown on all sides. Remove with a slotted spoon and set aside.

Add the remaining oil to the pan. Sauté the pineapple over a medium-high heat, stirring frequently, for about 5–10 minutes, until golden and sticky. You may need to turn up the heat a little if the pineapple looks like it is steaming rather than browning. Add the greens and cook for a further 1 minute, until they are softened. Lower the heat slightly and add the garlic, chilli and ginger. Cook everything, stirring frequently to prevent it from burning, for 2–3 minutes, until fragrant. Return the tofu to the pan.

Mix together the fish sauce (or extra soy sauce if making a vegetarian or vegan version), soy sauce and sugar in a small bowl or jug. Add the mixture to the pan and let it bubble and coat everything, stirring for a couple of minutes. Stir in the lime juice and cook for another 30 seconds. Tip in the cashews and stir well. Remove from the heat.

Serve the stir-fry with the basil or coriander scattered over, and extra lime wedges alongside. Serve with some steamed jasmine rice or boiled rice noodles.

I asked my best friend and her husband to test this recipe for me. She told me a few days later that they had made it, enjoyed it for dinner, and put the remaining portions in the fridge for lunch the next day … only to devour them half an hour later. I couldn’t ask for a greater compliment.

You can use almost any herbs for the dressing, as long as the total quantity is around 35g – mix and match according to what you have. Coriander, parsley, dill and chives all work well, and grapefruit mint, if you can find it, works fabulously, echoing the citrus notes of the juice. This is one of my favourite meals in January, when I need a little green and some sharpness to counteract the excess of Christmas – it is packed full of zingy flavours, balanced out by the salty depth of the halloumi, and proves that grapefruit should not be confined to the breakfast table.

1 teaspoon finely grated grapefruit zest, plus 2 tablespoons juice (from the grapefruit for the quinoa, above)

Place the quinoa in a large saucepan over a medium heat. Shake the pan occasionally as the quinoa toasts. Once it begins to pop vigorously, add the peas or broad beans, 480ml of water and the salt. Bring to the boil, cover, lower the heat and simmer gently for 12 minutes.

Turn off the heat and leave the quinoa covered in the pan for 5 minutes before fluffing it up with a fork. It should be quite dry – if it is wet, drain off any excess water and leave the grains to sit in a sieve or colander to dry out a little.

Meanwhile, zest the grapefruit and set the zest aside. Cut of the top and bottom to expose the grapefruit flesh. Stand the grapefruit on one of its cut ends on a chopping board and use a sharp, serrated knife to slice off the remaining skin and pith. Holding the fruit over a sieve placed over a bowl, use the knife to slice between the membranes of the fruit and cut out the segments of flesh, dropping them into the sieve. Squeeze the remaining membrane into the sieve at the end. Discard the skin (squeeze it, too, to catch any juice).

Make the dressing. Put 2 tablespoons of the grapefruit juice in a mini chopper or food processor along with a teaspoon of the grapefruit zest (keep the rest for later) and the other dressing ingredients. Blitz well to make a creamy, green paste. Check the flavours – you may want a little more grapefruit or lime juice, or honey or maple syrup. The dressing should be quite sharp. Set aside.

When the quinoa is ready, transfer it to a large bowl. Stir in the remaining grapefruit zest, the avocado and the rocket or spinach leaves. Stir in half the dressing. Roughly chop the grapefruit segments into 2cm pieces or so, then gently stir them into the quinoa mixture.

Heat a medium saucepan over a medium-high heat. Add the pistachios and toast, shaking the pan regularly, until they start to smell nutty and turn slightly golden (1–2 minutes). Throw in a generous pinch of salt and trickle in the maple syrup, swirling the pan so it bubbles and coats the nuts. Stir everything well to coat, then pour the sticky pistachios onto some baking parchment and leave to cool.

Put the pan back on the heat and add the halloumi slices. Fry them over a medium-high heat for 1–2 minutes on each side, until golden.

Divide the quinoa equally between four bowls, then top with the halloumi. Drizzle the remaining dressing over the halloumi. Roughly chop the candied pistachios and scatter them over. Serve immediately.

Sometimes, you read a menu description that sends you into paroxysms of longing and desire, and has you practically gaping at the waiter as you urge him, wide-eyed, to come over and take your order instantly so that the kitchen can quicken the transition of your food from plate to mouth. There was once a wonderful Malaysian restaurant in York that offered, as a vegetarian option, ‘Classic Malay pineapple and aubergine with palm sugar curry’, described as a ‘sweet coconut milk thick curry’. The rest of the menu became irrelevant to me upon reading those words. I ordered this every single time. Now that the restaurant sadly no longer exists, I have been forced to create my own version, which is – to my delight – just as appealing and delicious as the original. It is a perfect main course for vegans and vegetarians (use the soy-sauce option), but I defy even the most ardent carnivore not to love it.

1 tablespoon dried shrimp, soaked in 200ml water for 1 hour (reserve the water) or 2 tablespoons light soy sauce

3 kaffir lime leaves (fresh, or frozen and thawed; avoid dried), shredded (tough centre stems discarded)

First, make the spice paste by blitzing everything together in a mini chopper or food processor. Add a little of the shrimp soaking water (or plain water, if using soy sauce) to help everything blend evenly to a paste. Set aside.

Make the curry. Heat the coconut oil over a medium-high heat in a large frying pan or wok. Fry the cinnamon, cloves, cardamom and star anise for 1 minute until fragrant, then add the spice paste, curry powder and salt and cook for 5 minutes, stirring regularly, until fragrant and starting to dry out. Add the pineapple and aubergine and cook for 5–10 minutes, until starting to soften, stirring well to coat everything in the spices.

Pour in the coconut milk and add the lime leaves. Simmer for 10 minutes, then add the green beans and simmer for another 5 minutes, until the sauce has reduced and thickened (add a little water if it looks too thick). Grind the coconut in a mortar and pestle or spice grinder, then add it to the curry. Simmer for another 1 minute or so. Add the tamarind and sugar to taste – the sauce should be tangy and hot, but quite sweet. Simmer for a final 1 minute, then serve with lime wedges and sprinkled with chopped coriander or Thai basil leaves. Serve with steamed jasmine rice.

The juicy, mild sweetness of papaya works fabulously in this salad of bright, Mexican-inspired flavours, and adds a pop of vivid orange colour. I could eat this every single day – it is an irresistible blend of sharp, creamy and crunchy, and the blackened corn and tortilla chips elevate it to something rather special. I recommend using the large papaya (about 30cm long) that you can find in some supermarkets and Asian grocers, as they have a better flavour and texture than the smaller, pear-shaped ones. If you can’t find good papaya, watermelon makes a decent substitute (remove the seeds where possible). Vegans can simply omit the feta, perhaps substituting for some smoked tofu.

Place the red onion in a small bowl with the salt, sugar and lime juice, stir well and set aside while you prepare everything else, stirring occasionally.

Heat a medium frying pan over a high heat, then add 1 teaspoon of the rapeseed or olive oil. If you’re using canned corn kernels, drain well and pat dry on kitchen paper. If you’re using frozen, simply pat dry. Tip the corn kernels into the hot pan, then add the paprika, a good sprinkling of salt and a generous grinding of black pepper. Cook over a high heat, stirring occasionally, until the corn starts to blacken slightly and smell smoky. Don’t stir too much – allow it time to char a bit. It may also start to pop, so watch out for flying corn missiles around your kitchen! You may have to do this in batches, depending on the size of your pan – you want an even layer on the base of the pan but no more, otherwise the corn will steam rather than blacken.

Once the corn is done, tip it into a large mixing bowl and set it aside to cool. Once cool, add the papaya along with the coriander, jalapeño, feta and tomatoes. Slice the avocado in half, remove the stone and cut the flesh into 1.5cm dice. Add those to the bowl, too.

Slice the tortillas into small triangles (roughly the same size as nachos) and spread them out on a large baking sheet in a single layer. Drizzle with the remaining rapeseed or olive oil and sprinkle generously with salt to season. Put the baking sheet in the oven and cook the tortillas for 5 minutes, or until they are golden, but not brown. Remove from the oven and leave to cool.

Tip the red onion slices into the bowl with the rest of the salad. Add the dressing and toss everything gently. Just before serving, add the tortilla chips and give it one final stir.

Yes, it may be called ‘roast duck Thai red curry with lychees’ in this book, but in my house this is referred to simply as ‘delicious duck curry’, which hopefully tells you everything you need to know about it. Pairing the dense, rich flesh of duck with the delicate perfume and soft spring of lychees is a luscious marriage (and one that I have experienced several times in Thailand), but even more so when the whole is draped in a sweet, spicy and deeply fragrant coconut cream. You can use fresh lychees, but I don’t think it’s worth the faff of peeling and stoning them (and I inevitably spray lychee juice in my eye whenever I try). The canned variety work excellently, and can be found at most Asian grocers and even big supermarkets. You could substitute with fresh or canned pineapple, if you prefer.

4 kaffir lime leaves (fresh, or frozen and thawed; avoid dried), finely shredded (tough centre stems discarded)

4 teaspoons light muscovado, palm or coconut sugar, plus extra to taste if necessary

a small bunch of Thai basil, leaves picked, or 30g roughly chopped coriander leaves, for sprinkling

Rub the duck legs well with the salt and place them in a single layer in a shallow dish. If you have time, chill them in the fridge overnight, or for a few hours, uncovered. This will help you to get really crispy skin. If you don’t have time to refrigerate the duck legs, simply rub the salt into the duck legs when you are ready to cook.

Place the duck legs on a wire rack above an oven tray lined with foil, then place them in the oven and roast for 10 minutes to crisp the skin. Lower the oven temperature to 190°C/170°C fan/gas mark 5, add a cupful of water or stock to the oven tray, then roast for 90 minutes, until the duck is tender and cooked through.

Meanwhile, make the curry. Heat the coconut oil over a medium-high heat in a large frying pan or wok, then add the shallots and sauté them for 5–10 minutes, until golden and starting to soften. Add the garlic, lemongrass and lime leaves and cook for another couple of minutes until softened and aromatic.

Lower the heat to medium. Add a couple of tablespoons of the coconut milk and the curry paste, sugar and turmeric, and sauté for a couple of minutes until fragrant – add a little more coconut milk if it starts to stick. This will help to release the aromatics in the paste and prevent the paste from burning.

Add the stock and remaining coconut milk, then simmer for 15 minutes, until the sauce is thick, creamy and aromatic. Stir in the cherry tomatoes and spinach and cook for another 10–15 minutes, until the tomatoes start to break down. Lower the heat, then add the lime juice. Taste and check the seasoning – you may want to add some fish or soy sauce to make it more salty, depending on the brands of curry paste and stock you use, and you may want to adjust the lime juice and sugar.

Stir in the lychees to briefly heat through. Keep the sauce warm until the duck is ready.

When the duck legs are ready, place one leg on each of four plates. Divide the sauce equally between the four plates, pouring it over the duck legs. Sprinkle with the Thai basil or coriander leaves. Serve with steamed jasmine rice and lime wedges.

This is neither sushi nor poke, but is inspired by both of those wonderful things, as well as the addictive interplay of textures that I so love about Japanese food. I have used persimmon for the salsa, both because it is a sadly underrated fruit and because its mellow crunch works perfectly with other Japanese flavours. Indeed, the persimmon holds a rather special place in Japanese culture so although its pairing with tuna may seem unorthodox, I think this works well. You want the Fuyu persimmon or ‘Sharon fruit’ here – the one that resembles a squat, bright orange tomato – rather than the more bulbous Hachiya persimmon. Luckily, the former are far more common in our shops anyway. You can also use mango or papaya, depending on the season.

Please don’t hate me or be put off by the long list of ingredients: every step is very simple and mostly involves mixing things together in bowls, and you can make the sesame cream and salsa in advance (just be sure to bring them to room temperature before serving). Feel free to omit some of the elements, though – the tuna, rice and salsa on their own will be just lovely. Vegetarians can substitute the tuna for some pan-fried tofu.

2 ripe Fuyu persimmons (often called Sharon fruit), stalks removed, flesh cut into 1cm dice

For the salsa, mix all the ingredients except the avocado and coriander in a medium bowl, and set aside for 30 minutes while you prepare everything else, stirring occasionally.

Place the rice in a medium saucepan with a lid. Rinse it a couple of times with cold water, then drain, return it to the pan and add 400ml of water. Bring the water to the boil over a high heat, then immediately turn the heat down to its lowest setting, cover the pan with the lid, and cook the rice for 25 minutes. Then, turn off the heat and leave the rice, without lifting the lid of the pan, for another 10 minutes, until the rice has absorbed all the water. (If there is any left in the pan, drain it of.) Fluff up the rice with a fork and stir in the vinegar, salt and sugar. Taste and check the seasoning – you may want a little more vinegar, salt or sugar.

While the rice cooks, whisk together all the ingredients for the sesame cream in a small jug with 2 tablespoons of water. Taste and adjust – you may want a little more vinegar, soy or sugar. Set aside.

Meanwhile, prepare the dressed carrots. Put the carrot matchsticks into a small bowl and toss with the lime juice, rice vinegar and sugar. Set aside to macerate, stirring occasionally, while you prepare the remaining elements.

Prepare the tuna. Put both types of sesame seeds on a small plate and shake to spread them out evenly. Press the tuna steaks onto the seeds, first one side then the other, to coat them in the sesame. Heat the rapeseed or olive oil in a frying pan over a high heat, then sear the tuna for about 3 minutes on each side (timings will depend on the thickness of your steaks, but you should be able to see them cooking from the side, which will help you to judge when they are cooked through). I like my tuna slightly rare, but cook for longer if you prefer it well done. Alternatively, you can use a meat thermometer, which should show 60°C. Remove the tuna from the pan and place it on a chopping board to rest while you assemble everything else.

Divide the rice between two bowls, then top with a couple of spoonfuls of persimmon salsa, the dressed carrots and the edamame beans. Slice the tuna steaks into thick strips and lay the strips across the top, then drizzle everything with a generous amount of sesame cream. Serve immediately, with a sprinkling of yuzu powder (if using) and lime wedges to squeeze over.

This is inspired by a Bill Granger recipe, one that has the rare accolade of being something that both my mum and I make on a regular basis (she doesn’t have time to ferment her own water kefir and prove her own sourdough, so our repertoires tend to differ substantially). His way of cooking salmon is revelatory: briefly marinate in fish sauce and sugar, then simply sear on each side for 1 minute over a very high heat. The result is a crispy, caramelised exterior while the inside remains deliciously tender and succulent. It combines beautifully with the crunch of fresh greens, the aniseed notes of basil and the sweet freshness of pomelo. Use a pink grapefruit, segmented, if you can’t find pomelo.

For the salmon, mix together the fish sauce, caster sugar and ginger in a shallow dish. Add the salmon and set aside in the fridge to marinate while you make the salad – turn the fish occasionally to coat it in the marinade.

Make the salad. In a large bowl, mix together the lime juice, fish sauce and caster sugar, then add the onion and stir well. This will soften the onion and remove some of its raw harshness.

Fill a small saucepan with water and bring it to the boil over a high heat. Add the sugar snap peas. Cook for 1 minute, then drain and refresh under cold, running water. Pat dry with kitchen paper and add the sugar snaps to the bowl with the onion.

Add the cucumber slices to the bowl with the onion and sugar snaps. Add the avocado, chilli, basil, mint and sesame oil.

Peel the thick rind off the pomelo. Peel off the thin, white membrane, breaking the juicy segments into 2cm pieces and adding them to the rest of the salad. Discard the pith and membranes. Toss the salad together.

Heat a large, non-stick frying pan over a high heat. Add the cashews and cook for about 5 minutes, shaking the pan regularly, until they start to toast and become golden. Tip the nuts onto a plate to cool, roughly chop, then add them to the salad. Keep the pan hot.

Remove the salmon from its marinade using a slotted spoon and fry the pieces for 1 minute on each of their four sides (so 4 minutes in total, turning after each minute). The salmon should become slightly black and crispy on all sides. Allow the fillets to rest on a plate for 1 minute, then break them into chunks using a spatula (or your fingers, if you can handle the heat!) and add the chunks to the salad. Toss everything together gently, then divide between two plates. Serve with extra lime to squeeze over, if you like.

I could eat this dish for every meal: a soft tangle of earthy noodles, the creamy sweetness of crab and the assertive rasp of citrus and galangal. I recommend the pink-fleshed, grapefruit-sized pomelos here, but the big yellow ones will do, too (if so, you may want slightly less – a quarter instead of half). Bottled yuzu juice is available in many major supermarkets now – use lime juice if you can’t find it, but it is definitely worth seeking out for this dish. You can vary the herbs according to your taste, and use cooked prawns instead of the crab, or tofu if you are vegetarian. If you can find grapefruit mint (often sold at garden centres), I highly recommend using its fragrant leaves.

First, whisk all the dressing ingredients together in a small jug. Taste and adjust – you may want it a little sweeter, or more sour, so add sugar or lime juice accordingly. Set aside.

Bring a pan of water to the boil. Cook the soba noodles according to packet instructions (usually 4–5 minutes), then drain well in a colander and rinse under cold running water. Set aside in the colander to drain and dry a little.

Heat the rapeseed or olive oil in a small frying pan over a medium–low heat. Add the garlic, chilli, spring onions and sesame seeds and cook for 3–4 minutes, stirring regularly, until the garlic, spring onions and chilli are fragrant and starting to soften. Do not let the garlic brown or burn. Add the crab meat and cook for another 1 minute, stirring to combine everything, then remove from the heat and set aside.

Put the drained noodles in a large bowl. Pour the dressing over and toss well to coat the noodles. Add the fennel to the noodles in the bowl. Remove the tough outer skin and pith from the pomelo segments, breaking the flesh into small, roughly 1cm pieces. Add the pieces to the bowl with the fennel and noodles.

Gently toss the noodles with the fennel and pomelo, then add the crab mixture, avocado and herbs and toss again gently to combine. Divide between two bowls and serve immediately.

For some unknown reason, this is one of the most popular recipes on my blog. Perhaps all hotels in Bali serve these pancakes to their guests, so there are always swathes of British holiday returnees frantically googling ways to keep that holiday spirit alive. I certainly enjoyed them for breakfast a few times during a trip to Bali several years ago. So, in the spirit of bringing a little feelgood Indonesian magic to your kitchen, here is my recreation of those lovely, thick pancakes, studded with chunks of ripe banana and golden with brûléed sugar. Incidentally, thin slices of pineapple also work beautifully instead of (or as well as) banana, for a slightly sharper sweetness.

You do need a good non-stick pan of the correct size for this recipe, otherwise it will be difficult to set the bananas in the pancake. Don’t use bananas that are too ripe, or they will be difficult to slice thinly.

2 large bananas (not too ripe), sliced on the diagonally as thinly as possible (about 3mm)

Sift the flour into a large bowl. Make a well in the centre and crack in the egg. Pour in a little of the milk, then whisk the egg and remaining milk, incorporating a little more of the flour with each whisk, adding more milk gradually until you have a batter. Whisk in the salt, cinnamon and melted butter.

Heat a medium non-stick frying pan (about 20cm diameter) over a medium-high heat. Add a knob of butter and swirl it around the pan. Sprinkle 1 teaspoon of the sugar over the base of the pan, then arrange a quarter of the banana slices over the base of the pan (you can do this in concentric circles if you’re feeling stylish, or just scatter it over). Cook for 2–3 minutes, until the bananas start to caramelise (check by lifting up one of the slices with the tip of a knife), then scatter over a quarter of the coconut and cook for another 1 minute.

Pour over a quarter of the pancake batter and tip the pan gently to cover the banana pieces and coconut evenly. Cook for 2–3 minutes, until the batter is almost set, then flip over the pancake carefully using a palette knife or spatula, and cook for another 1–2 minutes, until golden.

Keep the pancake warm in a low oven while you repeat to make the remaining three pancakes. Serve warm with maple or coconut syrup.

This cake is based on a classic Danish recipe (pronounced ‘drummer-kay’), which literally translates as ‘dream cake’. It normally features a plain sponge topped with ludicrous quantities of butter, brown sugar and coconut (dreamy indeed), but I’ve paired this decadent topping with a light banana sponge, livened up with a spritz of fresh lime. The combination of lime, banana, coconut and brown sugar conjures up a tropical beach, and also gives you something excellent to do with those bananas starting to turn brown in the fruit bowl.

Pre-heat the oven to 190°C/170°C fan/gas mark 5. Grease and line a 20x20cm square cake tin with baking parchment, leaving an overhang on at least two opposite sides that you can later pull up to help get the cake out of the tin.

Lightly mash the bananas with the lime zest and juice – don’t mash too much, there should still be some chunks of banana.

Beat the sugar and eggs in an electric mixer until thick and creamy. Pour in the melted coconut oil and whisk briefly. Fold in the flour, baking powder and salt, then the mashed banana and the milk and mix until just combined – do not over-mix. Pour the batter into the cake tin and bake for 35 minutes, until the cake has risen and started to turn golden and firm up.

While the cake is in the oven, make the topping. Place the butter, brown sugar, coconut sugar (if using) and milk in a saucepan over a low heat and heat gently until the butter melts. Increase the heat and bring the butter mixture to the boil, then add the coconut and the cardamom (if using), lower the heat slightly and simmer for 1 minute, to infuse, then remove the pan from the heat.

Once the cake has been baking for 35 minutes, remove from the oven and turn the oven up to 220°C/200°C fan/gas mark 7.

Little by little, add the butter topping to the surface of the cake, spreading it out with the back of a spoon with each addition, to cover the cake evenly. When the oven is up to its new temperature, return the cake and bake for a further 5–10 minutes, until the topping is bubbling and caramelised. Remove the cake from the oven, pull it out of the tin by lifting the baking parchment, and leave to cool on a wire rack before serving.

On a recent trip to Vientiane in Laos I ordered ‘fried bananas and coffee’ in a delightfully cosy little backstreet café festooned with dangling pot plants (and a healthy population of mosquitoes, but let’s not dwell on that). If dipping sweet, crispy bananas fresh from the fryer into a cupful of espresso sounds strange to you, consider the fact that both coffee and bananas contain similar flavour compounds (clove and floral notes). Also consider their very similar growing territories across the world, and suddenly the combination might not seem so strange. The two of them pair beautifully in this cake, the coffee cutting through the richness of ripe banana, butter and brown sugar. This is best as a pudding cake, eaten on the day it is made with some vanilla ice cream.

Put the coffee granules in a small cup and add the boiling water. Stir to make a thick, dark liquid, almost a paste, ensuring there are no lumps (add a tiny splash more water if there are still lumps). Set aside to cool a little.

For the topping, first place the banana slices over the bottom of the prepared cake tin in a single layer. Then put the butter, sugar and cinnamon in a small saucepan over a medium heat, and heat until melted together. Add the 2 teaspoons of coffee mixture, leaving the remainder to use in the cake batter. Stir vigorously with a wooden spoon until it is thick and dark. Pour this evenly over the bananas (you can spread it out using a spoon, but be careful not to dislodge the bananas).

Make the cake. Using an electric mixer or electric hand whisk, cream the butter and sugar on high speed for about 3–4 minutes, until pale and creamy. Gradually add the eggs, whisking well between each addition. Add the remaining coffee mixture and salt, mix briefly, then sift in the flour and baking powder and fold the mixture together with a spoon until just combined and you have a smooth, thick batter.

Pour the cake mixture over the bananas in the tin and level the top with a spatula, then bake for 30 minutes, until a skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean. Leave the cake to cool in the tin for 5 minutes, then invert it onto a cooling rack or plate and leave it to cool a little more before serving warm in slices, preferably with scoops of vanilla ice cream.

Honey mangoes start to arrive just as the Alphonso season ends. They come from Pakistan and, like Alphonso mangoes, will rarely be found in the supermarket. You’re most likely to obtain these treasures from an Indian grocery shop, where they are sold by the box. The tell-tale sign that these are something special – a far cry from the tough, green supermarket specimens – is the aroma that greets you as you stand within a 3-metre radius of them. ‘Honey’ suddenly seems a very accurate name for these fruit: the scent of them hangs thick and heavy in the air, sweet and musky, almost sickly, but in a beautiful way, with notes not only of honey but also of toffee and butterscotch. The juice is likely to dribble down your wrist as you eat one. Should you want to elevate their deliciousness to extreme and sublime heights, try making this cheesecake: a smooth, cream cheese and coconut batter, a buttery biscuit base enriched with the heady perfume of crushed cardamom pods, and the sweet flesh of those honey-sweet mangoes (you can alternatively use Alphonsos). If good, flavoursome mangoes elude you, you can use 100g dried mango (preferably a Thai or southeast Asian brand) instead. Place it in a bowl, pour over enough boiling water to cover, then leave for 1 hour. Drain, pat dry and chop it into 1.5cm dice. Use as the recipe directs for fresh mango.

1 large, ripe mango or 2 small, ripe Indian/Pakistani mangoes (in season), peeled, stoned and flesh cut into 1cm dice

Pre-heat the oven to 200°C/180°C fan/gas mark 6. Grease and line a 20cm springform cake tin.

Melt the butter in a small saucepan over a medium heat, then stir in the blitzed biscuits and cardamom. Press the biscuit mixture into the bottom of the cake tin, using the back of a spoon to flatten gently to form a crust. Bake the crust for 10 minutes, until golden and aromatic. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool while you make the filling.

Mix the Quark or ricotta, cream cheese, icing sugar, lime zest and coconut essence or vanilla extract together in a large bowl using an electric mixer or electric hand whisk. Set aside.

Soak the gelatine leaves in a bowl of cold water until softened (about 5 minutes).

While the gelatine soaks, put the lime juice in a small saucepan along with 2 tablespoons of water. Place the pan over a medium heat until the liquid starts to steam, then turn off the heat. Squeeze the softened gelatine sheets in your hand over the sink to remove any excess water, then add to the lime juice and water mixture in the pan. Stir to melt the gelatine completely in the liquid.

Have the electric mixer or whisk ready, and pour the gelatine mixture slowly into the cheese mixture, whisking continuously to incorporate, then, using a spatula, quickly fold in the diced mango. Pour the filling over the biscuit base and place the cheesecake in the fridge for at least 6 hours to set.

When you’re ready to serve, sprinkle the cheesecake with the desiccated coconut and finish off with the mint leaves to decorate.

The wonderful Dishoom restaurant in London used to have a pineapple and black pepper crumble on its dessert menu, which inspired my version many years ago. I was recently devastated to discover that it is no longer on the menu, which makes this recipe even more important: if you haven’t yet tried the heady combination of tangy, buttery pineapple buried beneath a lightly spiced, crunchy crumble, you now can address this significant gap in your gastronomic life. Enjoy with cold, cold ice cream and perhaps a cup of chai.

First, prepare the crumble. Using your fingertips, rub the flour and butter together until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. Stir in the sugar, cardamom, coconut, sunflower seeds and pistachio nuts, and mix well. Add the water or milk and mix gently so the mixture turns ‘pebbly’. Refrigerate while you prepare the fruit.

For the filling, heat the butter in a large frying pan over a high heat. Add the pineapple and cook, stirring frequently, for 5–10 minutes, until the fruit starts to turn golden and loses some of its juice. Then, lower the heat slightly, add the sugar and cook for a further 5 minutes, until the pineapple is caramelised. You may need to do this in batches depending on the size of your pan – if the pineapple is too crowded, it will steam rather than caramelise. Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the cinnamon, ginger, pepper, vanilla and lime zest.

Tip the fruit into a medium baking dish and top it evenly with the crumble mixture. Bake the crumble for 35 minutes, until the fruit is bubbling and the crumble is crunchy and golden. Serve with vanilla ice cream.