Chicken soup around the world: one bird, many cures

Ask people almost anywhere what they want when they feel ill, cold or sad, and a surprising number of answers involve a chicken, a pot of water and a few hours. Chicken soup may be the closest thing the world has to a shared language of care.

What makes it fascinating is how differently that language is spoken. The same bird turns up thickened with egg and lemon in Greece, stuffed with rice and ginseng in Korea, sharpened with ginger in the Philippines and loaded with potatoes in the Andes. Here are five bowls worth knowing.

Jewish chicken soup and matzo balls

In Ashkenazi Jewish kitchens, chicken soup is a clear, golden broth simmered with onion, carrot and celery, often finished with dill or parsley. A little rendered chicken fat, schmaltz, gives it a gentle shine. Its reputation as a remedy is so strong that it is affectionately nicknamed "Jewish penicillin", and the medieval physician and philosopher Maimonides is often quoted recommending chicken soup to the sick.

The famous companion is the matzo ball, made from ground matzo (the flat unleavened bread of Passover), eggs and fat, rolled and poached until it swells. Matzo balls are a fixture of the Passover table, when leavened bread is set aside. They also inspire one of the friendliest debates in food: should they be light "floaters" or dense "sinkers"? I'd say the right answer is whatever your grandmother made.

Samgyetang: heat against heat

Korea's samgyetang (known in Japan as サムゲタン) is one of the most beautiful soups I know of. A small whole chicken is stuffed with glutinous rice, garlic, dried jujubes and a root of ginseng, then simmered until the meat slides off the bone and the rice inside turns soft and porridge-like. It usually comes to the table in its own heavy pot, still bubbling, with salt and pepper for you to season it yourself.

The surprise is the season. Samgyetang is traditionally eaten on boknal, the three hottest days of the Korean summer, on the idea of fighting heat with heat: a steaming, restorative bowl to replenish a body worn out by humidity. Japan has a similar instinct, with its custom of eating eel on the hottest days of midsummer (for how Japan eats through the year, see our piece on the seasons of soup). For more of Korea's soups, from seaweed to ox bone, try our guide to Korean soups.

Avgolemono: egg and lemon

The Greek name says it plainly: avgolemono means egg-lemon. A chicken broth is cooked with rice or orzo, then eggs are whisked with lemon juice and slowly loosened with ladles of hot broth before everything goes back in the pot. Done carefully, the eggs never scramble. Instead they turn the soup pale and silky, creamy without a drop of cream.

The flavour is the thing. Bright, tart and comforting all at once, it tastes like a cold remedy and a sunny day in the same spoonful. The same egg-lemon mixture is used as a sauce across Greek cooking, but as a soup I think it is at its best.

Tinola and ajiaco

Tinola is a Filipino home classic. Chicken is cooked with a generous amount of ginger, plus garlic and onion, and seasoned with fish sauce. Wedges of green papaya or chayote go in for body, and at the end a handful of leaves: chilli-pepper leaves, or sometimes moringa. The broth is clean and warming, with ginger leading the way. The dish is old enough and loved enough to appear in José Rizal's 1887 novel Noli Me Tángere, one of the founding works of Filipino literature.

Ajiaco comes from Bogotá, high in the Colombian Andes, where evenings turn cool. Its signature is three kinds of potato. The small yellow papa criolla dissolves as it cooks and thickens the soup, while firmer varieties hold their shape. Chicken, corn on the cob and an herb called guascas complete it. Guascas gives ajiaco its distinctive grassy flavour, and without it, Colombians will tell you, the soup isn't quite ajiaco. Capers and cream come on the side, so each person can finish the bowl to taste, often with avocado and rice alongside.

Why it comforts

Scientists have tried to measure whether chicken soup actually helps with a cold, and the results are modest and much debated. I'm happy to leave that question open, because the comfort seems to come from several places at once.

There is the steam, which warms your face before the first spoonful. There is the broth itself: salty, savoury, easy to swallow when nothing else appeals, with a gentle body from the bones. Ginger, lemon, garlic and herbs bring brightness. And there is memory. Chicken soup is rarely something you make for yourself; it is usually something someone made for you.

If you meet any of these soups on a menu, a few tips:

• Samgyetang: pull the chicken apart in the pot, stir the rice into the broth, and salt it a little at a time.
• Avgolemono: eat it right away. Reheating can split the egg.
• Tinola: take a sip of the broth before adding anything; the ginger should sing on its own.
• Ajiaco: add the capers and cream yourself, a spoonful at a time.

Vietnam has its own entry too: chicken pho, clear and fragrant with star anise. And Mexico's chicken pozole shows the bird in a festive mood.

I think the reason every culture has a chicken soup is that the recipe is really about attention. A bird simmered slowly, skimmed, seasoned and handed to someone who needs it: that is less a dish than a gesture, and every kitchen in the world seems to have worked out how to make it.