San Gregorio, located in the southernmost part of Mexico City, is a pueblo originario (“original pueblo”), a designation given by the government to towns that have held onto their traditions. One of those traditions in San Gregorio is growing produce in the chinampería, an ancient agricultural system comprised of man-made islands crisscrossed by canals. People who farm there are called chinamperos. One of the prized crops in this area is the small, spicy chile chicuarote, which has been grown exclusively in the pueblo for centuries. People living in San Gregorio Atlapulco are so enamored with the tiny chile that they proudly call themselves Chicuarotes.

The squat, bright yellow building with red trim that houses Two Sistas ‘N Da East has the hours of operation – 10:30 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. – painted in big red letters on its side beneath a sign that announces “Soul Food.” But these days, hours are fluid and subject to change, especially in the restaurant business, so we double-checked the hours to make sure. Google told us that the hours of operation had been updated by the business in the last two weeks. We felt good about it. So, it was even more surprising when a hand reached out the door with two fingers extended upward in the peace sign and we heard a voice say “11 a.m., baby.”

As the sun dawns over the city of Palermo, warming the narrow streets still dampened by the night, merchants in the old quarter set up stands with their products: plentiful fruits, vegetables, meat and fish await the Palermitans who prefer to do their shopping here rather than in supermarkets illuminated by cold neon lights. At the Vucciria, one of the city's historic markets, Andrea Vattiato is setting up the fish counter where he has worked for half a century. He displays on ice a selection of the best fish the Mediterranean Sea has to offer, and with the help of a hose he wets the fish.

What is it that’s so dizzyingly addictive about okonomiyaki? It might be the interactive DIY nature of building your own meal and serving it up from a Japanese teppan grill. Perhaps it’s the communal feeling of sitting around with a beer or two and cooking together. However, most likely is the fact that it’s so darn delicious and satisfying. It’s Japanese soul food that has somehow not quite reached the shores of many foreign countries. Okonomiyaki is a flavorful pancake chock full of whatever ingredients appeal, cooked on a Japanese grill (okono means “cook whatever you like” and yaki means grill). In all parts of Japan it's the secret second cousin to ramen in the family of fast food and cheap student eats.

As we shoot dishes in Criolense Kitchen Club, drawing attention as photography often does, we get the distinct impression that locals passing by are noticing the space for the first time. It’s possible they hadn’t noticed this bar/restaurant in Lisbon’s Graça neighborhood because, well, it has no sign. Criolense Kitchen Club shares space with art gallery Hangar, which both outside and in boasts the kind of muted, ship-gray tones and industrial elements one might associate with an edgy art space or perhaps even a workshop. There’s the approximate infrastructure of a restaurant, but the vibe feels more like a private party. It’s the kind of place that inspires the thought, “What, exactly, is going on in there?”

One of the most powerful and restorative culinary combos enjoyed in Mexico is, without a doubt, seafood and micheladas, delicious concoctions made with beer – usually lager – and a mix of sauces, lime and spices, which can go from zero to quite spicy. A michelada is one of those drinks that it is often judged a priori but loved after the first or second taste. The mix of a light beer and the power of spices create a wonderful balance that, when served with fresh seafood, can refresh and restore us on a hot summer afternoon or after a long night out. During weekends, it is very common to see groups of people looking for seafood and beer menus all over Mexican cities.

An old star from the previous century still shines brightly in Port Vell. Renovated in 1992 and again in 2016, La Estrella 1924 is a classic restaurant that serves simple, refined Catalan dishes, thoughtfully prepared from quality local products. The atmosphere is formal but relaxed, quiet and friendly, and time is kept by the discreet sounding of the clocks hanging upon the wall. It feels like eating in someone’s home – and, in a way, it is. Josefa Chiquillo, great-grandmother of the current owner, Jordi Baidal, opened La Estrella in 1920 as a kind of travelers’ inn, located in the Born neighborhood near the old train station Estació de França.

A 16th-century tower stands at the southern edge of the Plage des Catalans, the closest beach to Marseille’s city center. The Tour Paul was one of the city’s lazarets, quarantine stations for sick sailors to prevent disease from entering the city. In ruins after centuries of erosion, the Infirmerie Vielle (“Old Infirmary”) is now being rehabilitated thanks to a successful historical preservation campaign. One hundred yards away, a modern infirmary has had a different fate. It’s been transformed into a homey restaurant. At Maison M&R, healing comes in the form of comfort food, homemade pastries, and a familial welcome. The café’s community vibe is fitting for the village-like Catalans quarter.

Someone once said that humanitarian workers are like mercenaries, missionaries or madmen. It is a description we have also applied to expats who end up in far-flung places like Georgia. Like the foreigner out in the secluded Kakhetian village of Argokhi, between the Alazani River and the Caucasus Mountains, who has forged his life growing a nearly extinct variety of native wheat and baking it into bread; but he is no madman. He’s a Frenchman. We had first heard about Jean-Jacques Jacob some years ago while visiting the Alaverdi Monastery in Kakheti, when a friend pointed north of the giant cathedral and told us of a Frenchman who had started a farm in the middle of nowhere.

In the historic center of the city, nestled near the vibrant Vucciria market, lies a unique dining experience in Il Vizietto Bistrot. A former abattoir, the space has been transformed into a restaurant that beckons patrons in search of a delicious meal. After all, the name Il Vizietto means “bad habit,” embodying the restaurant's philosophy – a place to indulge, to enjoy, anchored by a carefully curated menu filled with Sicilian staples. Sisters Maria, Karima and Rosaria Ferrante opened Il Vizietto Bistrot in 2020, and the project has survived several challenges, a global pandemic among them. Maria, Karima, and Rosaria Ferrante even considered naming it Bordello – “che bordello” is a common way of referring to a real mess in the local vernacular – an ode to the chaotic process of opening their bistro.

In Neapolitan dialect, “È Pronto ‘O Mangià” means simply: “Food is ready!” It is the perfect name for Mattia Grossi’s trattoria, a small, unassuming space on via Cesare Rosaroll. We are welcomed to this family-owned restaurant with an undeniably warm atmosphere: stone walls lined with old photos and newspaper clippings, smiling waiters, music and chatter. È Pronto ‘O Mangià matches the simplicity of its name: nothing sophisticated, nothing gourmet – just true, homemade Neapolitan cuisine.

In the hills surrounding Marseille, the sound of cicadas echo during the summer months. This afternoon was no different on the terrace of Le Cigalon, a restaurant named for the tiny creature beloved by many and a symbol of Provence. About an hour by public transportation or 25 minutes by car, and located within the city limits of metropolitan Marseille, the restaurant is perched atop a hill in a small village. Opened in 1835, the menu and the hillside view from the terrace have drawn both locals and travelers for generations. Some come for the local specialties on the menu and others make the pilgrimage to visit La Treille, the village featured in films by the celebrated French novelist, playwright and filmmaker, Marcel Pagnol.

Traveling through Oaxaca, the impact of the mezcal boom is evident. In Oaxaca City, mezcalerias can now be found on almost every corner, while in the countryside rows and rows of freshly planted agave can be seen in fields that had previously been devoted to other crops. What’s harder to discern is the worrying impact this boom is having on Oaxacan agriculture and the local ecosystem. This past May, Real Minero and the descendants of Lorenzo Ángeles Mendoza, the brand’s founder, took an important step toward addressing this issue by inaugurating the first agave seed bank in Mexico, which they hope will help maintain both the agave plant’s diversity as well as help to preserve ancient farming methods.

A friend once said that God could never bring all of his people to one place. But then he visited the Aksaray neighborhood in Istanbul, a stone's throw from Sultanahmet's iconic mosques. Aksaray acts as both a landing point for new arrivals and a launching pad for those trying to make it to Europe. The neighborhood provides a culinary roadmap for the city’s immigrant communities and it teems with delicious diversity – with restaurants serving everything from Somali to Georgian fare. Unlike more recent transplants, Ethiopians have been in the city for a long time. Take the old story of Beshir Agha, for example. Born in Ethiopia, he was brought as a slave to the Ottoman Empire but was eventually appointed Chief Harem Eunuch in Istanbul under Sultan Ahmed III in 1716, later becoming the third most powerful person in the palace.

In the heart of CDMX’s Colonia Escandón, near the corner of Avenida Patriotismo and Calle José Martí, customers hover about, looking for a spot to sit or stand at El Rincón Tarasco. They’ve come here in search of carnitas tacos, which this family-owned restaurant has been serving in the authentic Michoacán style – tender, juicy pork meat with a crispy brown finish, giving it a kind of special sweetness – for over 40 years. Waiting for our tacos, we talked with Claudia Zapien about the origins of her family’s taqueria. “We come from a small town in Michoacán called Zacapu. My father, Roberto Zapien, had worked in the meat trade there where it was common to do carnitas, so he started to make them here in his regional style, at this same location, in the year of 1978.”