Cambodia.

Everything starts with kroeung. A cook pounds lemongrass stalks, fresh turmeric, galangal, kaffir lime peel, garlic and shallot in a stone mortar until the mixture stops looking like chopped vegetables and turns into a damp, fibrous paste that stains the pestle yellow. Yellow kroeung is the everyday version; red kroeung adds soaked dried chiles, and green kroeung leans on fresh herbs. Unlike a Thai curry paste, kroeung is built for aroma rather than heat, which is why Khmer curries taste perfumed and rounded where their neighbours taste sharp. Blenders work, but they shred rather than crush, and the difference in fragrance is real — a splash of water and patience gets you most of the way there.

The second pillar is prahok. Freshwater fish caught during the Tonlé Sap flood season are salted, sun-dried and packed into jars for months until they break down into a grey, powerfully savoury paste. It is Cambodia's salt, stock cube and umami source in one. Used correctly it disappears into a dish and leaves only depth; used heavily, as in prahok ktis or raw prahok dips, it is unmistakable and is exactly what Cambodians abroad miss most. Alongside it sit fish sauce (tuk trey), dried and smoked fish, and fermented shrimp paste.

Sour and sweet do the work that chile does elsewhere. Sourness comes from tamarind, lime, green mango, unripe fruit, tomato and pickled vegetables; sweetness from palm sugar, which tastes caramelly and faintly smoky rather than simply sweet. A samlor — the general Khmer word for soup, and the true centre of the daily meal — is balanced across sour, salty and sweet before anyone thinks about heat. Chiles are usually served on the side so each person can adjust.

Rice is the meal, not the accompaniment: the Khmer for eating is literally to eat rice. Around a bowl of steamed jasmine rice, a family sets out a samlor, something grilled or stir-fried, a plate of raw vegetables and herbs, and a dipping sauce. Broken rice, cheaper and softer, is breakfast food. Noodles come mostly as num banh chok, the fermented rice noodles sold from shoulder baskets in the morning.

The regional map follows water and border. The Tonlé Sap lake basin is prahok and freshwater fish country. The Kampot and Kep coast in the south brings crab, salt flats and the peppercorns that made Cambodian pepper famous. The northeast highlands cook simpler, smokier, more grilled food. And in the cities, a century of French presence left baguettes, pâté and coffee with condensed milk sitting comfortably beside curry — Khmer red curry is more often eaten with bread than with rice, and nobody finds that strange.