The first time we officially met was at our bacchanalian book launch down a Galata side street in 2010. A natty beyefendi with neatly manicured sideburns hovered around the edges of a group as we signed copies of “Istanbul Eats, Exploring the Culinary Backstreets” and clinked Efes cans with friends, readers and party crashers. He found an opening and approached. “Do you know who I am?” He introduced himself as Levon bey, the owner of Mutfak Dili, a small restaurant down in the Perşembe Pazarı hardware market, in the seaside neighborhood of Karaköy. He’d come to thank us in person for reviewing his restaurant and the strange fortune it had brought to him.

The scent of wood slowly burning is imbued with a sense of home and refuge: It calls to mind the fireplace around which people used to congregate at the end of the day, or the barbecues and grills that still commonly serve as gathering points. This feeling can also be concentrated in bites of food, like the almonds or hazelnuts that have been roasted in Casa Gispert’s wood-burning oven, a relic from 1851 that continues to roast to this day. The oldest food shop in Barcelona, Casa Gispert has both stayed stubbornly the same and slowly evolved. We’ll always remember how, 20 years ago, the beautiful shop was darker and more mysterious; locals used to line up around Christmas to buy their raw, roasted or caramelized nuts, dried fruits, spices and chocolates for their dinners and gifts.

We pull off the recently finished section of highway at the Argveta exit in Imereti, follow Google Maps to a hand-painted sign directing us along a bumpy lane to an open iron gate with painted flowers, and park our car as if we live here. The front yard is lush with fruit trees, children’s toys are neatly scattered about, and a hammock under the shade of a large walnut invites us to lounge next to an enormous stone table. Before we sit here and never get up, Giorgi Zhorzhorladze steps out of his neat two-story house trimmed in red bricks, greets us with a warm “Gamarjoba!” (“Hello there!”) and welcomes us inside, to another realm.

Located south of Naples, Cilento is a region that has it all: sea (the Tyrrhenian), mountains (the Apennines), the second largest national park in Italy, and, perhaps most importantly, excellent food. Not only has Slow Food recognized eight products from the region that are worth protecting, but the area is also inextricably linked with the Mediterranean diet. In the mid-20th century, the American physiologist Ancel Keys decided to live in Pioppi, on the Cilento coast, where he had noticed that the inhabitants were living longer than most. It was here that he studied and began championing the Mediterranean diet, which has since been inscribed on UNESCO’s list of Intangible Cultural Heritage.

In terms of popularity, no other dish in Greece can compete with gemista (γεμιστά, which means stuffed in Greek and refers to vegetables stuffed in various ways). I can’t think of even one person I know who doesn’t eat it in some form, whether tomatoes, peppers, zucchinis (and their flowers), onions or eggplants stuffed with some combination of meat, rice, wheat or other grains, seafood, pulses, nuts, fresh herbs and spices. It’s a popular dish across the Mediterranean as well as in the Middle East and the Balkans. Gemista differs from stuffed leaves, like cabbage or grape leaves, which technically fall into the “rolled” rather than the “stuffed” category (even though they are referred to as “stuffed” in English) and thus are given a different name in Greek. Unless further specified, gemista usually involves stuffing tomatoes and green peppers, which are then baked.

The bright spots of dandelion yellow and sleek tabletops at Makana in Istanbul’s Beşiktaş district are a far cry from the cozy interiors of the Uighur restaurants dotting the multicultural streets of Zeytinburnu and Çapa. But after one bite of Makana’s dry-fried lagman, we know: Uighur cuisine has arrived in Beşiktaş. The neighborhood needs it. With three universities in walking distance of its formerly working-class çarşı (downtown), Beşiktaş has become a central location for Istanbul’s more youthful crowds, who have returned with gusto after three months of empty streets and sporadic lockdowns due to Covid-19. Yet compared to other Istanbul neighborhoods, it has had a dearth of original, quality places to eat.

In Total Kheops, the first book in his iconic Mediterranean noir trilogy, Jean-Claude Izzo writes how Marseille is “a place where no matter who, and no matter what color, can descend from a boat, or a train, his suitcase in hand, without a cent in his pocket, and assimilate in the sea of other men...” Crossroads city, transit city, refugee city, promised land. For over 2,600 years – Marseille has the longest-operating port of any coastal Mediterranean city according to AGAM (the city’s Department of Urban Planning) – immigrants have disembarked in the harbor here, creating a cosmopolitan culture that is unique in France.

Considering its prime location between the Acropolis and the neighborhoods of Petralona, Kallithea and Neos Kosmos, the fact that Koukaki has seen a wave of development in the last 15 years is no surprise. Cafés, bars, restaurants, hotels and Airbnbs have sprung up all over the neighborhood, making it an increasingly popular destination for visitors. At the same time, life has become something of a headache for long-time residents – with so many apartments being turned into Airbnbs, property prices have gone up significantly, and the neighborhood has become too noisy and busy, particularly during the high season.

If we had to describe the landscape, idyllic would be the first word to come to mind. But while the sunflowers initially command our attention, our eyes soon drift downward, where tomatoes of different shapes and colors, from yellow to red, orange green to black, are growing bigger and ripening. Brothers Miguel and Diogo Neiva Correia, the two farmers behind Hortelão do Oeste, are showing us around this immense vegetable garden. It’s a hot late August day in most of Portugal, but at the farm, which is located one hour north of Lisbon, near Runa, in the municipality of Torres Vedras, it’s cool and breezy. Miguel and Diogo are meticulous, telling us all about the tomatoes, peppers and corn in great detail.

Even with a wealth of international brands and supermarkets, Istanbul neighborhoods are by and large dominated by small shops specializing in certain food products. Greengrocers sell fresh, seasonal produce; fishmongers offer a glimmering array of fish, particularly in the winter months; and bakeries boast a staggering variety of breads and pastries. There are even shops specializing in honey or organ meat. Most neighborhoods, no matter the quarter of Istanbul, also have a local yufkacı, a quintessentially Turkish store specializing in yufka and other unlu mamüller, flour-based products. Yufka, paper-thin sheets of unleavened dough, have ancient roots within Turkish cuisine. The food is listed (albeit under the slightly different name “yurgha”) in the 11th-century Dīwān Lughāt al-Turk, the first comprehensive dictionary of Turkic languages.

I fell in love with the island of Kimolos the first time I set foot on it about 15 years ago, while sailing in the area. It’s small enough to get around on your own two feet and has an enchanting simplicity – I could easily picture myself retiring on the island, in a small whitewashed house with a wood-burning oven in the yard, raising a couple of goats and growing tomatoes and grapes. Part of the Cyclades, Kimolos sits right next to the larger island of Milos and small uninhabited islands like Polyegos, Agios Efstratios and Prasonisi. It has been continuously inhabited since at least the late Neolithic Age (5300-4500 B.C.), while legend has it that the island was named after its first inhabitant, Kimolos, the husband of Side, who was the daughter of Taurus.

Like a lot of us, the Galicia family was looking forward to 2020. Farming along the city’s southern canals for generations, they are stewards of the chinampa agricultural system, one of the oldest on the planet. For the past eight years they have been slowly converting their man-made plot – built on top of the city’s shallow lakebeds – into a fully organic farm. When they first started they could barely afford a hose to water the plants. Now they have their own DIY biodigester (a device that turns decomposing matter into natural gas), several biofilters on a small side canal that runs along their property and a large greenhouse that covers one section of the harvest during Mexico’s hottest months.

At Tai Er Suan Cai Yu (Tai Er Chinese Sauerkraut Fish), there are four rules: 1. You can only have four people max at one table at a time, and no latecomers will be seated. 2. No baby chairs allowed. 3. They will not adjust the spiciness level. 4. No takeout (although this restriction has been lifted during the pandemic). Take into account these restrictions, and also the fact that queues of diners can mean a wait of close to one hour during peak mealtimes, and you wonder why anyone would go to this restaurant. In reality, Tai Er is one of China’s biggest domestic success stories with over six million fans on WeChat and Weibo (China’s Facebook and Twitter equivalents) and 120 locations throughout China.

On June 1, when Portugal entered the third phase of its lockdown exit, normalcy was still an elusive feeling. It was a mild Monday in Porto, the country’s second largest city, and the bars and restaurants that were open had few patrons. But as summer unfolded and cases remained low in northern Portugal, the city seemed to come back to life, with residents slowly recovering their routines, including going out to eat and drink again. Outdoor seating and terraces are especially popular, for obvious reasons. Canti, a bar on Largo Mompilher that was scheduled to open in March, finally flung open their doors in June but saw little demand for their indoor tables. “We have followed the government restrictions in our room inside, but everyone wants to stay in the outdoor area,” says Tiago Caetano, one of the owners. “Luckily we’re in the summer season,” he adds.

Cecina is a food for the road. In its most common form, the salted and dried meat can last for months, which explains why it was a main source of sustenance for travelers, sailors and soldiers in colonial Mexico. Nowadays, cecina is still known as a thin cut of cured meat – almost always beef – that can be eaten completely dry, similar to beef jerky. Yet in central Mexico, specifically in the state of Morelos, cecina is normally salted (tiny cuts are made in the meat and fine salt is added) and then sun dried and air cured for two or three days (the thin sheets are usually laid out on tables or hung over wires), before being grilled over charcoal.