It’s not every day you see someone’s face peeking out of the belly of a bright blue skipjack bonito (katsuo). You certainly don’t expect them to wear fish-shaped headgear while wrapping dozens of sushi rolls all morning. But this was how Mai Nagamatsu, katsuobushi evangelist and proprietor of breakfast diner Katsuo Shokudo, greeted us on February 3: her head looking like a fish at sea. It was Setsubun, the first day of spring according to the old Japanese lunar calendar, itself based on the traditional Chinese calendar that divides a year into 24 solar terms. (These days, the lunar calendar is more a reminder of cultural practices and traditional markers of seasonal changes than a practical way to keep time.)

In the spring of 2017, the Bywater Bakery opened its doors and became something of an “instant institution.” Part casual restaurant and part impromptu community center, the cafe space hummed with perpetual activity. Deadline-racked freelancers posted up with their laptops, soon to be covered in butter-rich pastry flakes. Neighborhood regulars would crowd tables for a lingering lunch visit over salads or sandwiches. On many busy mornings, New Orleans jazz luminaries (the late-Henry Butler, Tom McDermott, John Boutte, Jon Cleary) might wander in to make use of the dining room’s upright piano, filing the space with impromptu performance and the occasional singalong.

Scan the back bar at the Erin Rose, and you’ll see a jumble of memorabilia that indicates a drinking hole that knows its lane. Layers of “historic” decor plaster the smoke-stained walls from rail to ceiling. A 1970s-vintage Evel Knievel poster hangs above a bobblehead figurine of legendary local clarinetist Pete Fountain. Behind a set of glass shelves holding the barkeep’s basics – thick-sided rocks glasses for double shots or the occasional Sazerac, a staggered lineup of beer bottles that act as a three-dimensional menu – every square inch of vertical surface is covered with in-joke bric-a-brac of various eras. A huge backlit sign from the 50s that reads “PRESCRIPTIONS.” A laser-printed WuTang logo. Hundreds of patches from law enforcement departments from across the globe.

Our first meal at this Lebanese restaurant earned it a spot on our Best Bites of 2019. We were smitten with the food, particularly the mousakhan, sumac-coated chicken. Yet, when the smiling owner, Serje Banna, gave us a tiny foil packet of sumac to bring home, we were touched by his passion to share beyond the plate. During our next visit, after we asked about the bottle of arak behind the bar, he wasted no time pouring us a taste of the anise-based spirit. When his wife, Najla Chami, brought out our order of mahshi selek, she pointed out that Lebanese cooks can swap grape vine leaves with swiss chard. For at Mouné, every meal comes with a lesson in Lebanese cuisine.

Mtkvari, the local name for the Kura River, divides Tbilisi. Until the launch of Fabrika – a disused Soviet-era garment factory turned into a trendy social-space-cum-hostel in 2016 – few gentrified souls from the city’s fancier shore crossed over to the left bank. Fewer still stepped out further than the central Marjanishvili neighborhood, making it past Dezerter Bazaar – the throbbing gastronomic heart from where most of the city’s fresh produce and meats originate. This is also where Leonid Chkhikvishvili buys fresh cuts of meat each morning for his restaurant Duqani Kasumlo, located even further north on the left bank in Didube. Here is a neighborhood where few travelers tread, except perhaps to quickly pass through to catch cheap intercity mashrutkas (mini-buses). But despite its overlooked location, Duqani Kasumlo has acquired semi-cult status for its kebabs in an area better known for its cluster of home improvement stores and the labyrinthine Eliava market, home to hawkers of used car parts and construction materials.

When walking around the Akatlar neighborhood, it’s easy to forget that we’re just a stone’s throw from the glassy skyscrapers that tower over Istanbul’s financial district, Levent. The quiet residential area features a curious number of stand-alone villas. Even the apartment blocks seem to have fewer floors and more space in between buildings. The familiar sounds of gridlocked traffic are conspicuously absent. Like in many Istanbul neighborhoods, the ground floors of most apartment buildings are below street level. Walking along Haydar Aliyev Caddesi, it’s easy to walk right past Santé Wine & More. This would be a shame, since that would mean missing out on a carefully curated selection of Turkish artisan wines.

We climb up, arriving at the edge of the ancient Roman thermal baths of Baiae, which date back to the 1st century BCE. It has been pouring rain, but we see no standing water here. "We take obsessive care of the soil, and the water is cleverly drained just as our predecessors used to do it,” Luigi Di Meo, 61, tells us. Luigi is the owner of La Sibilla winery and vineyards, the grounds of which spreads out around us on this dreary day.

If Noailles is known as the “belly of Marseille” for its fragrant food stalls, street food and markets, its neighbor Cours Julien is where locals fill their bellies sitting down. The street-art-splashed buildings house a smorgasbord of restaurants from every corner of the world, including the Ivory Coast, India, Palestine and Peru. Those on the tree-lined cours (avenue) for which the quarter is named get most attention thanks to their lively patios. Yet, there is gastronomic gold to be found on the side streets. We must have passed by Kaz Kreol a dozen times. Sandwiched between snack bars on the climb to Cours Julien, we had assumed it was another fast-food joint.

Barbacoa – pit-roasted lamb or goat – is a Mexico City weekend essential. Stands pop up all over the city on Saturdays and Sunday selling the soft-as-butter meat on a warm tortilla, topped with a sprinkling of cilantro and raw onion and one of the many smoky salsas that generally accompany this dish. Even more, barbacoa broth is a well-known hangover cure, among the ranks of menudo (tripe soup) and pozole (hominy and meat soup). Before the city’s Roma neighborhood became the hip, bohemian mecca that it is now, Moises and Norma Rodriguez opened El Hidalguense, an unassuming spot on one of the neighborhood’s quieter streets. Now, 30 years later, it is known far and wide for roasting some of the best barbacoa in the city.

Ask anyone from the Eastern Turkish city of Bitlis where büryan kebabı comes from, and they’ll proudly tell you that the slow-cooked meat dish hails from none other than their hometown, near Lake Van. Pose the same question to folks from Siirt, just 100 km south, and they’ll insist anyone making it from a city other than theirs is doing it all wrong. Büryan kebabı refers to lamb (or mutton) slow cooked in an underground tandır oven until pull-apart tender. The meat, crackling with skin and fat, is sliced or cut into chunks and served atop fluffy, warm bread. The fat from the meat soaks into the bread below, making it glisten.

A skinny palm tree on Whittier Boulevard casts a shadow that bisects the short silhouette of a bench. On the sidewalk it forms a spectral cross, conjuring an image of the bottom of a vaso veladora hovering in front of Café Santo in Montebello. Originally used to hold prayer candles in Oaxaca’s Catholic churches, these votives – with a cross etched into the bottom – are commonplace mezcal drinking glasses in the Mexican state. They make a fitting symbol for the café’s Oaxaca-native proprietor Marlon Gonzales and Café Santo itself, L.A.’s premier Oaxacan coffee shop. The best thing about coffee is that it’s never just coffee. Or actually, the best thing about coffee is caffeine.

Almost every Chinese holiday comes paired with a festive dish. At Tomb-Sweeping Festival, there are bright green qingtuan (glutinous rice dumplings) to celebrate the arrival of spring. During Dragon Boat festival, we have zongzi, stuffed sticky rice steamed in bamboo leaves, to commemorate the poet Qu Yuan. And during Mid-Autumn Festival, we chow down on mooncakes as we gaze at the full moon. But Chinese New Year doesn’t come with just one dish. It is a feast that lasts for days, starting with “bao”-ing or wrapping dumplings on Chinese New Year’s Eve (for snacking on well into the night) to the tangyuan (more glutinous rice dumplings) eaten 15 days later on Yuanxiao or Lantern Festival.

Despite the bitter January cold, surging cases of Omicron and roaring inflation, Istanbul seemed its usual vibrant self on a recent Friday night: Our first choice restaurant was fully booked, even in its expanded space, and the new neighborhood ocakbaşı where we ended up bustled pleasantly, with every seat taken at the large counter encircling the grill. But appearances can be deceiving. “Meyhanes are still full, but people are eating less, drinking less; they can’t afford to consume like they did before,” says chef Aliye Gündüzalp, one of the owners of Müşterek meyhane in Beyoğlu.

Take a rich chicken bone stock and toss in a handful of whole ground spices and herbs. Add a whole chicken leg, braised until the meat is almost sliding off the bone. Slip in a bouquet of cooked vegetables – the bare minimum being carrot, broccoli, bell peppers, eggplant and potato – and serve alongside rice. This is a classic Hokkaido soup curry, a spicy, vibrant soup-and-rice dish guaranteed to warm even the cold, dead bodies of your enemies. But this isn’t its final form. Like the Choose Your Own Adventure books of the 1980s, you can customize almost every aspect of your bowl.

Bhanchha Ghar (Bahn-sah Gar) is the only four-time winner of New York City’s annual Momo Crawl. Early one afternoon, more than a thousand event goers fanned out from the block-long, pedestrian-only Diversity Plaza, at the western edge of Jackson Heights, and called on dozens of nearby restaurants, cafés, trucks and carts. Each dished out at least one style of momo, a filled dumpling best-known from Tibet and Nepal. Several hours later, after momo-crawlers had returned to the plaza and the popular vote had been tallied, Yamuna Shrestha, the owner of Bhanchha Ghar, once again proudly raised the Momo Belt high. The decorated yak-hide belt returned to its glass case, mounted on the back wall of the upstairs dining area, where it overlooks an open kitchen and a handful of tables.