Cumhuriyet Avenue bridges the central Istanbul districts of Beyoğlu and Şişli, and is flanked on its eastern side by a number of large complexes including the city’s expansive Military Museum, the iconic Hilton and Divan Hotels, a towering officer’s club, and a public theater and convention center. In contrast, its western strip consists of a lengthy row of multistory apartment buildings, mostly modern but with a few gems from the turn of the century, housing tourism agencies and foreign consulates. Behind these lie the Harbiye quarter, home to a collection of smaller, charming historic buildings, most of which have seen much better days. It is a generally safe area if a bit seedy, with a number of questionable nightclubs on basement floors.

Cal Pep is a name you’ll find across Barcelona, but it takes on a different meaning depending on which neighborhood you’re in. In Gràcia, the name Cal Pep is synonymous with an old bar-bodega, dedicated almost entirely to the business of drinking (Carrer de Verdi, 141). The Cal Pep in Born is a famous seafood restaurant in Born (Plaça de les Olles, 8), with lines snaking out the door. In Sants, Cal Pep is affixed to a charismatic bodegueta (small bodega). Narrow, long and dimly lit, this particular Cal Pep has the atmosphere of a wine temple – including wooden casks and a vintage fridge – that has been frozen in time, with most of the original decorations from 1927 still intact.

A fish vendor on our Born on the Bosphorus walk splashes water on his wares to keep them looking fresh. The neighborhoods that line the strait are all connected by the waterway but each is a world unto itself, like this multicultural fishing village.

Surely Plateia Viktorias is one of the last places you’d look if you wanted to find a typical seaside taverna. The square, once a meeting place for Patission Avenue’s haute bourgeoisie in the first half of the 20th century, was filled with refugee tents and sleeping bags just a few years ago. Today it still boasts the city’s largest concentration of refugee help centers, and women with head scarves push prams through it, while Syrian and Afghan lads lounge on its ledges playing with their cell phones. We first noticed the eatery, at the very end of a two-block pedestrianized street called Hope (Elpidos), while on our way to lunch at the Victoria Art Project, an initiative born during last summer’s Documenta 14 art festival to foster creativity in the neighborhood.

Several thousand years ago, or so the story goes in Naples, Lucifer and Jesus had a massive showdown in the rarified kingdom of heaven. After a raging session fueled by sibling rivalries, and which likely included satanic petulance and the occasional errant lightening bolt, God, as any parent of battling children can grasp, had had enough of the celestial brawling. One can almost imagine Jesus yelping, “He started it,” as Lucifer tosses a fireball in his direction. So God cast Lucifer into the depths of hell – consigning him to an eternity of fire, brimstone and heat. (In the original pagan legend, this quarrel was between Bacchus and Pluto; after Christianity swept across the region, Neapolitans changed the names of the main characters, but the story remained the same.)

Japanese cuisine is often the art of quiet subtlety, and to that end, salt is one of its greatest supporters. The freshest of fish can be highlighted with a splash of the correct salt; cold sake drunk from fragrant cedar vessels is well enhanced with salt on the rim; and even tempura is frequently not dunked in sauce but instead sprinkled with salt by serious connoisseurs of fried delicacies. Salt plays a very significant role in Japanese culture and religion. It is a sign of purification. Thus most sushi restaurants mound salt on both sides of the entrance to show the place is clean and pure. Sumo wrestlers will throw salt into the ring before a match. Japanese people frequently throw salt over the entrance to their homes to purify their households. We’ve even seen people with packets of salt in their car.

The diverse bay of the Sado River estuary, with its old port towns, cork oak groves, ancient rice fields, beaches and wildlife, is only around 45 minutes south of Lisbon, but feels a million miles away from the Portuguese capital. The history of this region – which includes the slightly gritty main city of Setúbal – goes back to Roman times, and it has had a strong connection to the ocean ever since. Fish salting has been key to Setúbal’s economy from the first century onwards, with port activities developing in the 15th century and later more industrial development, particularly fish canning, in the 19th century.

Georgia’s winemaking tradition has been making headlines since scientists announced, after 8,000-year-old jars bearing images of grape clusters and a man dancing were excavated in a dig south of Tbilisi, that the country is home to the world’s oldest wine. But long before this discovery was made public, filmmaker Emily Railsback and award-winning sommelier Jeremy Quinn were traversing Georgia to research the rebirth of these ancient winemaking traditions, which were almost lost during the period of Soviet rule. Railsback chronicled their deep dive into the world of family vintners and grape sleuths in the documentary Our Blood Is Wine, an official selection of the 2018 Berlinale International Film Festival.

Naples has a lot of iconic eateries and shops, but one of the lesser-known city icons is the kiosk of the fresh-water-seller. Scattered throughout the city, the banks of the acquafrescai – some of which are very famous – sell various mineral waters and refreshments. These kiosks were born to provide relief in the summer months, and for that reason they are widespread in other southern Italian cities, particularly in the Sicilian cities of Palermo, Catania and Syracuse, where the coolness of a granita, a semi-frozen dessert made from sugar, water and various flavorings, counters the oppressive heat.

On our Tbilisi Market walk we stumbled – literally – upon the biggest catfish we’ve ever seen. The fishmonger said it was caught in Poti, on the Black Sea shore, likely from the Rioni River.

The peripheral neighborhoods of Barcelona – untouched by tourism and with cheaper rents – are a land of opportunity for chefs seeking an affordable place to set up shop. These areas in turn attract gourmet gold seekers in pursuit of a brilliant meal at a friendly price. In the residential streets of Sants, not too far from the city’s main train station, one restaurant shines particularly bright, with its eclectic style, influences and, of course, flavors: MinE. MinE is a combination of combinations, beginning with the owner and head chef, Martin Parodi. Born in Buenos Aires, Parodi is the son of a Japanese father and an Italian mother. He grew up in Barcelona, studied in France and then worked in a number of European countries.

Mexican diners offer a place for many in the capital to go for simple eats, often for people struggling to make ends meet. The key is to look for a crowded lunch bar lined with clients downing food before they have to head back to work. For example, if you find yourself strolling down 5 de Febrero, a few blocks south of the Zócalo, about to hit the new, city-funded arts district along Regina and San Jerónimo, consider Panadería La Joya. One of the classic greasy spoons downtown, La Joya stands out not for its innovation or hip atmosphere, but for its spot-on, tried-and-true renditions of Mexico’s hits. The place feels timeless. We tracked down the oldest worker, there for 40 years, and he admitted he had no idea when or who began the place.

Horchata, a unique and deliciously refreshing concoction made from chufas (tigernuts), water and sugar and served chilled, is beloved across Spain. In Barcelona, there’s really only one place to try the stuff: Horchatería Sirvent. The faithful line up here in droves during the summer months, waiting with ticket in hand to sip the best horchata in town.

The sleepy residential neighborhood of Melissia, which lies northeast of downtown Athens and under Mount Pentelikon, is a rather unlikely place to visit. The suburb doesn’t have any notable sites, and apart from Kozi’s, a lovely South African meat restaurant, there’s not much in the way of distinguished restaurants. So in 2012, when Ornel ‘Oli’ Mingo opened Psarokokkalo in the suburb, everyone though he was crazy. “People told me that there’s no way clients will come here to eat. But I saw potential. The rent was relatively cheap and there was some space for tables outside,” he explains. Fast-forward six years and Psarokokkalo (which means “fish bone” in Greek) has tripled in size, taking over the adjacent shop, and is now a beloved seafood taverna that attracts customers from all over Athens.

Way before brunches, special bowls, latte foam art and white marble counters took the city by storm, restaurants like Petite Folie, Lorde, Saraiva’s, Bacchus and Belcanto were the coolest cats in Lisbon. You wouldn’t walk in not wearing a nice jacket or a dress. You would never go straight to your table – first, you would sit at the bar, greet your favorite waiter, who knew you by name, and order your usual drink, which he would already be preparing. But those days are gone, like most of those restaurants – the ones that aren’t, such as Michelin-starred Belcanto or the newly reopened Saraiva’s, have changed dramatically.