Settling into our first cross-country journey in Turkey many years ago, we were pleasantly surprised by the comforts of Turkish bus travel. The young garson wore a proper uniform and dribbled cologne onto our hands every hour or so. Tea was served regularly, accompanied by one of our early Turkish culinary discoveries, Eti brand pop kek – those unctuous and delicious cakes frosted or stuffed with everything from raisins to chocolate – the Anatolian Twinkie. Call us heathens, but we love them. We’ve tried many traditional Turkish cakes, but none we encountered measured up to the beloved pop kek. That is, until one recent visit to Fatih Sarmacısı, an Ottoman-era shop making our new favorite cake, sarma (the word means “wrapped” or “rolled up” in Turkish).

Old Carnide feels like Lisbon’s land that time forgot. Just a 15-minute subway ride from the tourist bustle of downtown, tucked away behind a sprawling mega-mall and phalanxes of high-rise apartment blocks, it’s a neighborhood of cobbled lanes and pastel-painted 18th-century homes, where children play beside the cream-colored medieval church and graybeards argue soccer and politics under shady lime trees. Come lunchtime, however, and the sleepy, village-like calm is shattered. Cars honk for parking spaces, and packs of besuited business types, chatty troops of workmates, extended family groups and multiple couples suddenly emerge onto Carnide’s narrow streets with one thought in mind: food.

The refrigerators are spilling out onto the sidewalk. That’s the first thing we notice at Galaktokomio, a dairy shop in Ambelokipoi. We step inside and, unsurprisingly, more of these large refrigerators line one of the walls of this tiny shop. The opposite wall is filled with shelves of pasta, trahana, almonds, flour, honey, tahini and other edible goodies, while a freezer filled with frozen pies, which look homemade, looms at the back. But their most precious gems are in the refrigerators: dairy products, including some of the best yogurt in Greece. As we stand, enthralled by the contents of these gleaming cases, Vicky approaches us. The polite and professional shopkeeper, she begins to unravel the story behind this small shop in one of the most densely populated areas in Athens.

Leticia Ochoa walked around Queens’ Corona Plaza, her young son in tow, chatting with each of the food cart vendors clustered around the corner of National and Roosevelt. It was a Sunday morning in February, and the sun was shining. Ochoa works as a community organizer and had helped broker an agreement between the 110 police precinct and the local vendors: if they didn’t block walkways, the police wouldn’t bother them. As far as Ochoa could tell, the peace seemed to be holding. People flowed in and out of the plaza, stopping by the carts to buy aluminum containers laden with morcilla (blood sausage), salchipapa (salty, fatty sausages and French fries) and papa con cuero (pork skin boiled in savory broth with potatoes). No one seemed to be in a rush.

When we first step into Mitja Galta, a long line of matrons gaze down at us from the wall to our right. Lola, Antonia, María, Fina… the photos of these women, with their names written on them, are placed one right next to the other on a ledge. Together they watch the dishes served at the tables opposite them, like protective goddesses. They are the mothers of the owners, team members and friends who contributed their favorite recipes last year for the restaurant’s special International Women’s Day menu, which ran over the course of a week in March (the holiday is celebrated on March 8). These personal variations on traditional dishes were named after their creators.

Last June, Georgian lawmakers invited a Russian legislator to address an international assembly of Christian Orthodox devotees from the Speaker of Parliament’s chair. This, predictably, did not go over well. Thousands poured into the streets and gathered at the Tbilisi parliament building demanding explanations, resignations and reform from a government many believe is much too cozy with the country that invaded Georgia in 2008, occupies some 20 percent of its territory and quietly moves the border whenever it feels like it. The protests were violently broken up by riot police, who shot rubber bullets into the faces of demonstrators. Russian President Vladimir Putin immediately imposed a ban on all direct flights from Russia to Georgia because Russians, he insisted, were in physical danger in Georgia, which wasn’t the case at all. Shortly after the ban, the BBC reported how welcomed Russian guests felt in Georgia. However, the relationship between the two peoples is rather complicated.

Unusual takes on ramen abound in Tokyo, from carefully balanced chocolate and lamb creations for Valentine’s Day to algae-tinted blue broth, but few leave you with cravings and daydreams lasting for weeks. Adding a quality twist on ramen is a challenge – simplicity is one of the dish’s most vital elements, as with most Japanese cuisine. Yet friends Yamada and Sumida struck gold with one perfectly measured twist: smoke. Tucked away near Rikkyo University in a quiet area filled with student-friendly restaurants and cafés, their modest ramen joint Kemuri (which means “smoke” in Japanese) serves their latest experimental dishes without straying from the joy of good ramen at its best – quality ingredients cooked to perfection.

These days, plenty of traditional restaurants in Lisbon display in their windows a homemade sign reading “Há Lampreia.” We have lamprey. This simple message is usually illustrated by a pixelated photograph of said creature, almost always taken from Google. While lamprey, an eel-like fish, is one of the ugliest in mother nature’s portfolio, many people are delighted to look at it. That’s because lamprey, the ingredient, has a lot of fans in Portugal, especially in the areas around the rivers (Minho in the north, and Tejo in the center) where it is usually caught during its spawn migration period, from January to April.

In life, it’s never too late to try changing course. It’s not always possible, it’s not always easy, but when you succeed, what satisfaction. Seventy-year-old Raffaele Cardillo, with his smiling face and white beard, can attest to that. After 20 years spent working as a lawyer, shuttling between courts and meetings with defendants, and puzzling over lawsuits and problems to unravel, he decided to give up his law career and transform his passion – cooking – into a real job. Spending his evenings at the stove was a favorite pastime, the way he relaxed after a long day in court.

From the leaf-thin fried liver of Edirne to mumbar, the spicy rice-stuffed intestines of eastern Turkey, Turkish cuisine is rich with organ meat delicacies. Sakatat, as offal is called in Turkish, is approached with a fair bit of reverence (and sometimes caution). But even the most die-hard işkembe (tripe soup) lover might shy away from şırdan, a uniquely Adana specialty. In appearance, this dish is more than a little… well, phallic. Made of the abomasum, the section of the sheep’s stomach responsible for producing rennet, this organ meat is cleaned (thoroughly!) and stuffed with rice and spices before being slow cooked in a rich red broth.

Introduced during Ottoman times, the kafeneion – the old-fashioned kind of coffee house – has long been a fixture in Greece. By 1860, Athens already had more than 100 establishments that were serving what has been called both Greek coffee and Turkish coffee (name debates aside, we can all agree that it’s more or less the same thing, a small cup of strong coffee with a thick sludge at the bottom). They were (and still are) the domain of men, who would congregate there to talk politics and socialize over coffee as well as more substantial fare, usually simple meze and ouzo or tsipouro. Although the traditional Greek kafeneion still exists in many Athenian neighborhoods, it’s slowly dying out.

Growing up in Oaxaca, la gelatina rosita (“pinkish jelly”) was a biweekly ritual – every other Saturday, our mother would return from the market with this special dessert. It was so ingrained in our routine that we couldn’t imagine life without it. In fact, on a family trip to Mexico City, we were shocked to learn that gelatina rosita wasn’t readily available. Did they know what they were missing? It was only when we were older did we learn the proper name of this precious Oaxacan specialty: nicuatole. Some say its etymology can be traced back to Nahuatl (one of the many Indigenous languages spoken in ancient Mexico), specifically the words necuatl (“agave honey”) and atolli (“liquid corn”). While this may be true, it doesn’t quite portray what nicuatole is, not really.

With a simple façade, the unassuming Fonda Margarita sits next to a carwash and wouldn’t attract much attention if it weren’t for the line out the door and around the block by the time it opens at 5:30 a.m. Construction workers come at the crack of dawn, office workers arrive in shifts and sleepy teenagers meander in just before they close at 11 a.m. “We’re traditional,” says owner Richard Castillo when we ask him why his restaurant, which only serves breakfast, is so popular, “and there aren’t many traditional places left in Mexico City. We still cook using clay pots and 100 percent coal-fired grills.”

Some of Marseille’s most majestic buildings surround the Estrangin métro stop: the American consulate, the ornately sculpted Caisse d’Epargne bank, and the Napoleon-style Préfecture. Between them sits an equally iconic institution, Café de la Banque. Yet while its high-profile neighbors deal in banking and bureaucracy, this spot serves something more essential: a dependable place for delicious food and drink. Named for the surrounding banks, this non-stop café is a neighborhood fixture that hums all day. Regulars fill the old-timey interior and one of Marseille’s best patios for a morning café, the perpetually packed lunch service, and post-work beverages. In a city whose Mediterranean identity often sets it apart from the rest of France, Café de la Banque serves up a comforting slice of classic French café culture.

Back in 1966, when it opened on Avenida da República, one the main roads connecting the new avenues of Lisbon with the city center, Galeto caused quite a commotion. Lisboetas flocked to the huge snack bar, seduced by both the design – it was styled like an American diner – and the menu, which in those days seemed wildly innovative. Locals used to more conservative Portuguese fare were suddenly introduced to club sandwiches, burgers, mixed plates that brought together some wildly disparate elements and even Brazilian feijoada. Eating at the long counters while perched on a comfy seat was quite different from sitting on a stool at an everyday tasca. When combined with the avant-garde décor, swift service, and long hours (it was open late, until 3:30 a.m.), it felt like Lisbon was catching up with the dining habits elsewhere in Europe or the U.S.