No neighborhood is complete without that friendly corner shop that often provides the perfect excuse to pop out of the house for a bit. And when that corner shop serves up the most delectable juicy khinkali and fresh drafts served up in freezer-chilled pint mugs, there’s a dangerous temptation to linger and indulge. Kutkhe literally means “the corner” in Georgian, a no-frills basement restaurant at the corner of two frequented streets in Tbilisi’s left bank district of Marjanishvili. Located just two streets down from Fabrika – the multifunctional art and social space that helped gentrify the former overlooked and disheveled neighborhood – we couldn’t help but pop in while out on some errands on a sweltering day, easily lured by the simple chalkboard outside that promised khinkali, beers, kebabs and fries served up in air-conditioned comfort.

For a large part of the world, eating cold noodles is one of the best ways to beat the sweltering heat of the summer, whether the strands are served with a dipping sauce or sitting in an ice cold broth. The history of cold noodles may not be as well studied as the history of the noodle itself, but we can imagine people have been eating cold noodles for as long as noodles have been around when the weather warms up. Somen is believed to be the oldest Japanese noodle (circa the 700s) and is typically served cold with a dipping sauce. In Korea, a cold noodle soup called naengmyeon has been around since the Joseon Dynasty (1392-1897).

Those in Istanbul with a fried chicken craving can turn to faceless American fast food chains (Popeyes and KFC are both in town) or to newly trendy spots popping up in neighborhoods like Beşiktaş and Kadıköy. But those looking for quality and something different have a much better option: Syrian broasted chicken (or simply broasted in local Syrian dialect), served at the many chicken joints that have opened up throughout the city in recent years. Broasted chicken is named after the Broaster pressure cookers brand, first designed in Wisconsin in the early 1950s. Unlike an open-air fryer, this more sophisticated contraption seals the battered bird in what resembles a pressure cooker, releasing steam at the optimal time for a juicier, crispier and less greasy piece.

Alongside chef and restaurateur André Magalhães in his Lisbon restaurant Taberna da Rua das Flores, we stare down a rustic clay vessel piled with a mixture of steaming clams, fragrant cilantro and garlic, wedges of lemon…and not a whole lot more. As recommended by André (“It’s tastier if you use your hands”), we pinch the clams with our fingers and, after eating the meat, use the shells to scoop up the mixture of olive oil, clam broth, herbs and lemon juice that coats the bottom of the dish. It’s savory, rich, salty, tart and fragrant, and as with many Portuguese dishes, we’re left wondering how it’s possible that so much flavor came from so few ingredients.

Nikea, known before 1940 as Kokkinia (sometimes, you’ll still hear this old name used), is an area that feels almost like a different city, perhaps even a bigger village on an island. When you come out of the metro, the road is dotted with houses instead of higher-rise apartment buildings, and it is mostly quiet, with one very notable exception – guys in cars with high-power engines rev up as they move through this area. These are kagouras, a classification of car-obsessed men, usually, that are found to the outer suburbs of Athens, mostly in the south and west. They’re a clear sign that you’ve truly left the center of the city.

Summer in Provençe ushers in a multitude of promises. In Marseille, it means waking to the song of the cicadas, day trips by boat to le Frioul to cool off in the sea and the afternoon rendezvous with friends for an apéro of pastis or rosé on ice. Saturdays bring the bliss of wandering through the markets in search for the perfect melon from Cavaillon, the ciflorette strawberries from Carpentras, or the succulent coeur de boeuf tomato. Perhaps the one market item that signifies the Provençal summer more than anything else is the fleur de courgette (zucchini flower). When this lovely little flower appears, we know it is officially summertime in the South.

Each year in late summer, some of the best athletes on the planet converge on Flushing Meadows Corona Park to compete in the United States Open Tennis Championships. In 2022, the U.S. Open begins with practice sessions and qualifier matches on Tuesday, August 23, and concludes with the men’s singles final, scheduled for Sunday, September 11. The tournament site does provide hungry fans with several cafés and casual bar-restaurants as well as a pair of “food villages.” But when in Queens – where some of the best food in the city is so close at hand – why would we confine ourselves to the boundaries of the tennis center? To energize ourselves beforehand or wind down afterward, here are a few of our favorite nearby dining destinations.

Despite its name, Tabernáculo by Hernâni Miguel is not a church. It is a sanctuary and haven of sorts, though, a place where the local community gathers weekly for African and Portuguese food, wine and live music. Ministering to this congregation is Hernâni Miguel himself, one of the vibrant Bica neighborhood’s best-known characters. “Estás boa?” Miguel asks passersby on Rua de São Paulo as they pass his place. And “viva!” is the jovial response Miguel exchanges with old and new patrons who enter through the purple, crushed velvet curtains of Tabernáculo. The architecture of the restaurant reveals Roman-style archways and a 15th-century cave that doubled as a wine cellar in times past and which inspired the place’s name (Tabernáculo means tabernacle in Portuguese).

Mercedes Gibson arrived in New Orleans in 1969 with, as she puts it, “ten dollars, ten children and a tank of gas.” The Franklin, Louisiana native’s eyes light up as she recounts the story while we sit at Mercedes Place, the working-class barroom she has owned and operated in the Lower 9th Ward’s Holy Cross neighborhood for thirty-two years. The neighborhood, named for the all-boys Catholic high school a few blocks away that has been left to molder since Hurricane Katrina, is starting to see signs of bloom. A flower shop has opened a few blocks away, a glimmer of hope in a section of the city too often underserved.

The brown wooden door at Fatsio looks like the entry to an old house, but two small signs give a clue as to what’s inside. The first reads, “Restaurant Fatsio – Manager Georgios Fatsios, Established 1948 Constantinople by Constantinos Fatsios” and below the hours are listed simply: “Daily from 11am until 6pm”. Inside are velvet curtains, old family photos, tables set properly with well-ironed white linens and vintage dinnerware with their logo, Fatsio, printed on each plate. Everything is well-preserved and the place holds an old-school finesse and elegance that is rare to find these days in an affordable lunch spot like this. What can also be found inside is a living link to another time and place, that of Istanbul when the city still had a sizable Greek community.

Amanda Tong’s hands are grey with liquid porcelain as she slowly shapes a small pitcher on her potter’s wheel. Marbled clay rises and flattens under her strong hands, larger than you’d expect from her slight stature. Behind her, Jun Matsumura scrapes tendrils of clay off a partially-dried vessel, sharpening its elegant curves. Cantonese pop music plays from speakers on the shelves. Both of them are quiet, focused entirely on their work. On a sunny spring afternoon, ceramicists Amanda and Jun agreed to let us watch them work at their studio in rural Saitama, about an hour outside of central Tokyo. We’re here to chat about their ceramics practice; specifically, what goes into making utensils and vessels for the Japanese tearoom.*

On a neighborhood back street, hemmed in by cars on both sides, sits a house-turned-secret dance club, a girl selling Maruchan soup-in-a-cup under a pop-up tent, and La Chubechada – a tiny storefront with a cutout window just big enough for Maria Guadalupe to poke her head out and take your order. When your drink comes up and she hollers out your name, you better be quick on your feet to go pick it up. For tourists venturing out of the center of Mexico City, La Chubechada feels far from the trendy spotlight and more than a little intimidating, but upon arrival the place hums with a neighborhood vibe – kids hanging out and getting tipsy on the sidewalk with their friends, locals stopping by to say hello.

Wearing a light beige cape down to their feet with an R embroidered in golden threads on the left side of the chest (an outfit which would make even Harry Potter jealous!), a group of young adults hug each other, pose for photos, and take selfies with their smartphones. They are getting ready to step into the theater of the Ateneu do Porto, a room with rococo decor, dark red velvet curtains, and wood carved in adjoining designs painted in gold, which has hosted some of the most important national and world artists here in the second largest Portuguese city. By the clothes and the pomp of the event, one could predict that something important is happening.

Gabriel Oktay Cili is a man of many talents. When we visited him on a winter day in January, he had a crowd of visitors packed into his tiny, tunnel-like shop on the main tourist drag in old Mardin, near the Syrian border with Turkey. Each had a cup of cardamom-laced Assyrian coffee or tea in hand and each was waiting for Gabriel to attend to them. For a half hour, he sold silver jewelry to one couple visiting the city and pierced the lip of a woman who worked in a restaurant down the street. He fixed the gold necklace of another with an ancient blowtorch and fitted a young man for a custom silver bracelet.

Stepping into Otomisan in Boyle Heights feels like a step back in time. It’s a cozy diner with just three red booths to the right of the entrance, and a counter with five stools to the left. Along the walls are a mixture of old Japanese paintings, photographs of family and friends, and more recent news clippings about the restaurant. There is usually at least one table of Japanese customers chatting with the current owner. Boyle Heights sits just east of downtown Los Angeles and is known for having a large Chicano community and some of the best Mexican food in the city, but it once was also home to a large Japanese community, due to the neighborhood’s proximity to Little Tokyo, just across the L.A. river.