African

In the land of milk and honey, injera may be the staple, but it is not the only kind of bread. In the morning, it's dabo—honey bread—that graces the Ethiopian breakfast table. Unlike the pancakelike injera, dabo is a European-style loaf that is typically slathered with shiro, a chickpea spread. It highlights one of the distinctive characteristics of Ethiopian cooking: sweeteners are very rarely used, but an element of sweetness is introduced through other means, such as sugary coffees and teas; tej, a syrupy honey wine; or this dense breakfast bread, which lends a gentle sweetness to the start of the day.

In Ethiopia, the preparation of berbere takes days—chilies are dried in the sun for three days, then ground in a mortar and pestle, mixed with ground spices, and set in the sun to dry again—and it is usually made in huge amounts. Each Ethiopian family has its own recipe for this universal seasoning, with varying degrees of heat and spiciness. Traditionally, berbere is used to flavor Ethiopian stews, but I also like to use it as a rub for beef and lamb.

The mixture known as nit'ir qibe, which begins with clarified butter, is kept handy in most Ethiopian kitchens to add flavor to meat and vegetable stews. In fact, virtually no meal in Ethiopia is made without nit'ir qibe, which gives the cooking its beautifully layered signature flavors. It also has a much longer shelf life than regular butter—an important consideration in poor man's cooking, where waste is not an option. The butter will solidify when chilled, but it will become liquid again when left at room temperature.

Travel the world's barbecue trail and you’ll find meat on a stick almost everywhere. South Africa's version goes by the Afrikaans name sosatie. Like all good Cape Malay meat dishes, fruit and curry are never far off—the former (usually apricots) interspersed with the meat on the skewers, the latter used to flavor the marinade and sauce. "Cape Malay," by the way, refers to the descendants of Indonesian and Malaysian slaves and indentured servants brought to Cape Town to work in farming. "There is perhaps no other single dish that can be regarded as more genuinely Afrikaans than sosaties," wrote South African poet and food writer C. Louis Leipoldt. Writing in the 1940s, Leipoldt was to Afrikaans food what James Beard was to our own. Like all great food writers, Leipoldt dispensed not only recipes but the wisdom gleaned from considering cooking a manifestation of culture. The following sosaties are based on Leipoldt's.

When I take people out for Ethiopian food for the first time, this chicken stew, called doro wett (also spelled doro we't, doro wat, and doro wet), is a great introduction. It's the first Ethiopian dish I ever had, and I immediately liked the tender meat, the spicy eggs, and the flavorful sauce laced with berbere and ginger. It's a great dish to make for people who haven't eaten African food before, because it's easy to understand and like. Don't be alarmed when the sauce doesn't bind together and thicken like a traditional European-style sauce—it should in fact be liquidy and broken to soak into the injera it is served on.

The traditional Egyptian breakfast of dried fava beans is also the national dish, eaten at all times of the day, in the fields, in village mud-houses, and in the cities. Restaurants serve it as a mezze, and it is sold in the streets. Vendors put the beans in large, round, narrow-necked vessels, which they bury through the night in the dying embers of the public baths. Ful medames is pre-Ottoman and pre-Islamic. It is probably as old as the Pharaohs. According to an Arab saying: “Beans have satisfied even the Pharaohs.” Egyptians gleefully tell you that the little brown beans have been found in pharaonic tombs and have been made to germinate. There are fields of them, and promotional explanations on fake papyrus by the Ministry of Agriculture. Of course, they could have been put there by tomb robbers. There are many types of dried fava beans—small, middle-sized, and large, all of which can be used—and there are very good-quality canned ones. Most expatriates are happy with canned ones, which they improve on with flavorings and trimmings. These need to be turned into a pan with their juice and cooked for 15 minutes.

While bean fritters are thought to have their origin in Nigeria, one can find them throughout West Africa. Inspired by the Black-Eyed Pea Fritters served at the Gambian-Cameroonian restaurant Bennachin in New Orleans, I whipped up this dish.

Black-eyed peas can replace the chickpeas, if desired. For a lighter soup, the rice can be omitted.

Soundtrack: "Hot Lava" by Kudu from Death of the Party This is my attempt to replicate the oh-so-slammin' hot sauce at the Senegalese restaurant Joloff, my favorite eatery in New York City. This version is only slightly hot, but if you really want that fire add one more habanero chile.

There's character to spare in this layered flatbread, called msemmen in Arabic. The dough is rubbed with spiced oil, rolled into a spiral, flattened, and then cooked on a griddle, for a flakiness that's surprisingly substantial. Zadi likes pairing the flatbread with an acidic dish, which is why we recommend it with the <epi:recipelink id="241504"" target="_new">shrimp charmoula</epi:recipelink>; but, as he points out, the bread actually goes well with the entire meal, so plan on leaving it on the table from Start to finish.

"Ingredients are considered 'spices' in Algerian cooking," says Zadi, and this slaw illustrates his point, with olives contributing saltiness, carrots and sun-dried tomatoes adding sweetness, and fennel and parsley lending an incredible freshness. In the dead of winter, when vegetables are scarce, the clean flavors of this salad are as close as you're likely to get to a summertime farmers market.

The fact that Algeria shares culinary traditions with Spain, Italy, and France is evident in many of its dishes, like this skabetch (which is quite similar in spirit to Spanish escabeche). The shrimp is pickled in a gently tangy spice mixture for a subtle play of flavors. Charmoula refers to the North African combination of ingredients in the marinade—though every country, town, and even family that makes charmoula creates its own special blend.

Turnips are appreciated in Algeria not only for their faithful ubiquity but also for how their characteristics change throughout the winter—sweet and mild at the beginning and assertively earthy toward the end. Here, to emphasize their natural nuttiness and complexity, they're gently glazed with butter, then sprinkled with garlicky toasted bread crumbs and abundant poppy seeds.

"There is no typical tagine of Algeria—the country is too big, and the cooks are all too opinionated to agree on a typical dish," says Zadi. Still, this version epitomizes the spirit of Algerian cooking, with many flavors in perfect balance and no single ingredient overwhelming the others. And we found the savory, juicy meat (simmered with blood-orange preserves and apricots) and the spiced toasted pine nuts to be an absolutely delicious combination.

An easy marinade of garlic, lemon, thyme, and a dollop of the North African hot sauce harissa make these green olives memorable. If you can, prepare the olives ahead—they improve with age.

Blanching the root vegetables shortens the stew's cooking time and keeps the flavors bright. Plus, the blanching water makes a great quick stock.

Lightly garlicky and herbed, Moroccan-inspired carrots are versatile enough to accompany almost any meal.

Common ingredients create a Moroccan meal.

B'stilla, a traditional Moroccan recipe, was the inspiration for this savory pie. The dish consists of a spiced chicken filling sandwiched between layers of crisp phyllo pastry.