Marseille resembles an amphitheater – fitting for a city founded by the ancient Greeks. Encircled by the limestone cliffs of Calanques National Park, the green Garlaban hills and the mountainous Massif de l’Étoile, the port city is open wide to the Mediterranean with its back to the rest of France. This topography makes the city less French, more global, and intrinsically linked to the sea. Profoundly shaped by the goods, people, and cultures that have washed up on its shores for over 2,600 years, the Mare Nostrum has always taken center stage in Marseille. Two villages captain each end of the city’s 26 kilometer, semi-circular coastline. Though both fishing villages evoke yesteryear charm, they differ in look and feel. The northern quartier of L’Estaque retains the working-class ethos of its industrial past and is famous for snack shacks selling fried delights.

Orzo, which in Greek is called kritharaki (or manestra), is a rice-shaped pasta that is particularly popular in Greek and Italian kitchens. Interestingly, its name both in Italian and Greek means barley, which would once have been the most commonly used grain in this region of the Mediterranean. Research suggests that this kind of pasta was a substitute for rice, which as late as the 1960s was relatively expensive and hard to get. Orzo is used in traditional recipes, such as giouvetsi, where it is baked with meat, poultry, or seafood. Its use is very versatile; it can be used in soups and salads, while these days in contemporary Greek restaurants, it is often used instead of rice for dishes like kritharoto, which resembles risotto.

To reach our evening’s destination, we amble our way down Ura Shibuya-dōri (which translates to “Shibuya backstreet”) and pass by a litany of small eateries and charming hole-in-the-wall bars. This quaint neighborhood is just off the main drag, tucked in behind the more mainstream domain of tourist restaurants and the accompanying crowds. Here the streets are filled with stylish people in their twenties to thirties, young families, and salary men looking for a more suburban life beyond the hustle and bustle of Shibuya. As we pass by we notice a mix of great independent locales, from cheap Chinese eateries to fancy tuna restaurants to funky izakayas filled with locals.

n 2005, José Luís Díaz was thinking about retiring after working for many years in great local restaurants. He wanted to leave behind the stress of big kitchens, but still to cook the recipes that he loved with a different rhythm and with more time and care. And so he opened Sense Pressa – an antidote to the pressures and stresses of modern life. Sense Pressa (literally “Unhurried”) is a cozy, modest eatery. The narrow entry adjoins a bar that is flanked by more than 300 wine bottles and leads into a wider room appointed with round tables. The ambiance walks the line between elegant and homey, serene and lively. Each night, Díaz and his team cook around 25 covers (by reservation only) in a single, leisurely seating.

Royaume de la Chantilly’s renowned logo is featured prominently above the entrance, in bright red lettering, flanked by a blue crown and the royal emblem, the fleur-de-lis. Founded in 1917, Royaume de la Chantilly, (“Kingdom of Chantilly”) is certainly considered royalty by the Marseillais when it comes to their signature specialty: fabulously fluffy, perfectly sugared homemade whipped cream. Over 100 years ago, Joseph Ganteaume opened the first store on rue Longue des Capucins not far from the old port. Before refrigeration, people would go to what was then called the BOF, meaning beurre, œufs, fromage (“butter, eggs, cheese”) on a daily basis to purchase dairy products.

Çukur Meyhane, a small, slightly shabby basement meyhane in Beyoğlu’s Galatasaray area, certainly does not look like the kind of place with any shining stars on the menu. On one of our very first visits, the floor seemed to be covered in a mixture of sawdust, table scraps and some cigarette ash. The tiny open kitchen occupies one corner, while the VIP table – where a group of old-timers can be found watching horse races on TV, scratching at racing forms, cursing and cheering – takes up a slightly larger area. A good bit of the other half of the room is home to a giant ornamental wooden beer barrel.

The area around Mis (meaning “Pleasant-Smelling”), Kurabiye (“Cookie”) and Süslü Saksı (“Fancy Flowerpot”) Streets is as eclectic and appealing as these monikers would suggest, at least as far as we're concerned. This corner in the backstreets of Istanbul's Beyoğlu district is home to a trifecta of our favorite local haunts: Müşterek, its sister meyhane, Meclis, and a bar on the floor above, called Marlen. It’s also an area that has maintained the gritty yet lively character of the city's longtime entertainment hub in spite of profound changes that have threatened to strip it of that title.

Tucked away on the fourth floor of a nondescript building in the heart of Istanbul's Beyoğlu districts lies a hidden gem that we just discovered, despite the fact that Antakya Mutfağı has been in business for twenty years. Here, the Kar family serves up the cuisine of the southern province of Hatay, which boasts some of Turkey’s richest food. Can Yaşar Kar, the restaurant’s founder, is a furniture-maker by trade who decided to open the place as a hobby and serve faithful renditions of Antakya classics. Historically known as Antioch, Antakya was among the most important cities of its kind during the Roman Empire, and is known for a wealth of historic structures, an iconic archaeology museum, and its cosmopolitan, multi-confessional population. Antakya Mutfağı is now run by his son Sofo, who graduated from university with a degree in international relations but decided that he wanted to helm the restaurant.

When Leyla Kılıç Karakaynak opened up a tiny restaurant on Kallavi Street in Istanbul's Beyoğlu district in 1996, she couldn't have predicted that she would end up practically running the whole street. That small restaurant, Fıccın, is now spread across six buildings on the same block-long pedestrian-only street and has become an Istanbul institution. The restaurant shares its name with its signature dish, a meat-filled savory pastry that is among the Circassian specialties on the menu. Karakaynak's family hails from North Ossetia, and while Fıccın serves up a number of classic Turkish staples, it's the regional dishes that you can't miss, including Çerkez tavuğu, a simple yet sumptous paste of shredded chicken and walnuts, and Çerkes mantısı, comforting, pillowy dumplings served under yogurt.

If Istanbul's old city represents its ancient and imperial history, the center of the city's Beyoğlu district is the heart of its modern past, present and future. As tumultuous as the first century of the Turkish Republic, Beyoğlu is in a constant state of flux. It is the heart of culture and entertainment in Istanbul, and still carries the air of the cosmopolitan area it once was. Its impressive array of gorgeous turn-of-the-century European-style buildings is matched by no other area of the city. While a recent process of crass commercialization has turned many people away from Beyoğlu, it is making a resurgence, evident by thriving meyhanes and watering holes such as Marlen and the recently-opened Sendika, a sleek, enthralling space with a bar/restaurant below and dance floor above where DJs spin five nights a week. For us, Beyoğlu is always the place to be, positive or negative changes notwithstanding.

Sausages and beer might not sound much like a Tbilisi affair, but this most Bavarian of combinations is what has been served up steadily for more than five decades in one of the city’s oldest watering holes. Nodar Vardiashvili and his shop have survived the collapse of the Soviet Union as well as the tumultuous decade of civil war and economic devastation that followed. Through the roiling changes that transformed the wider region and the skyline of Tbilisi as better economic years returned, little changed in the metal-clad, bunker-like establishment in the neighborhood of Nazaladevi that has been slinging sausages and pouring beer (and sweet fizzy lemonades) since 1964.

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.

Back in the day, according to legend, a man named Köpoğlu spent all his money on rakı, the Turkish spirit made from grapes and anise, and was left with no money to buy food. Hungry, pockets empty, he went home and grabbed a couple of eggplants, some tomatoes and garlic from his garden and threw them onto the coal fire of his grill. He then mixed together garlic and yogurt as a sauce and combined it with the grilled vegetables to eat alongside his rakı, inventing one of the most famous meze dishes in Turkey and Mediterranean. Today in Turkey, we can be sure that summer is here when eggplants and tomatoes appear together in abundance on market shelves. Especially when topped with garlic yogurt, these two vegetables make an exceptionally fresh and tasty combination.

It’s Friday at Little People’s Place in the Tremé, and that means fried fish. Rodney Thomas carries a tray laden with freshly battered shrimp and catfish fillets out the bar door to his provisional fry station, a well-worn propane burner with a heavily seasoned cast-iron dutch oven on top. The oil inside the dutch oven begins to shimmer and circulate, and Thomas drops a pinch of the seasoned fish fry into the cauldron-like pot to see if the oil is hot enough. A quick sizzle confirms it is, and Thomas begins to nimbly slip the shrimp and catfish into the hot oil, which bubbles vigorously. A few feet away under the plywood awning that covers the entrance to the bar, a group of men are watching daytime television on a small flatscreen TV sitting on an outdoor table – today it’s Divorce Court – while slowly sipping beers.

In Italy, family is everything. And in Palermo, every family has a fisherman. These concepts are present on Trattoria Piccolo Napoli’s red, blue and white sign, which sports a caricature of a perplexed sea bass and a promise of home cooking. Open the wooden doors to find a three-generation seafood restaurant a stone’s throw from the city’s old harbor with a fantastic fresh fish display, with part of a swordfish sitting high on the icy altar, below a bowl of lemons.