New Orleans is the last communal city in America. Our seasons are Mardi Gras, festivals, football, second lines and crawfish, and we share them together. And it is no accident that our Carnival season and our festival season are bridged by crawfish season: the ultimate act of communal eating. From late January to early June, give or take, folding tables covered in newspaper are laden with bright red crustaceans, corn, potatoes and smoked sausage, staples of the boil. We stand around the table, peeling and pinching the tails to extract the spicy meat, sucking the heads to taste the boil liquor, drinking ice cold beer, listening to music and telling stories.

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.

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.

Visiting the Jamaica plant and flower market is one of our favorite activities in Mexico City; we love getting lost in its green alleys and never fail to emerge with at least one new plant and a beautiful bouquet of flowers. And of course, we’re always on the lookout for new places to eat. Our favorite barbacoa joint is in this market, but when we want a different experience we head to the huarache alley, where several stalls offer this tasty Mexican specialty.

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.

Olivos Comida y Vinos is like an independent movie playing at a small cinema on a quiet street in Sants, a neighborhood just outside of Barcelona’s center. It leaves you with the impression of having had an unexpected, intimate connection with something personal and precious. They don’t have customers – they have fans. Decorated with plants and flowers in a comfortable setting of simple, natural materials, Olivos is full of thoughtful details (enough space between tables, no table cloths for green eating) and super-friendly service. The exquisite food follows a sustainable “slow food” philosophy, where products should be local and obtained in both a clean and ethical way, and everything is cooked with a highly professional hand. In Barcelona, where mainstream culinary trends, big hospitality groups and huge investments in interiors and PR are frequently the rule that moves the masses, the independent, honest spirit at Olivos is a treasure.

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.

Thirty-year-old João Cura and his wife, 29-year-old Sofia Gomes, may be young but they have long had a wish to open their own restaurant. Yet it was never totally clear where or when they would fulfill this dream: both are originally from Coimbra, a city in central Portugal, and worked for years in Barcelona. The couple finally found a perfect spot, in Porto of all places, to open Almeja, which fittingly means “to want or to wish for something very much” in Portuguese. Talk about a dream come true.

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.

On April 26, 1926, Eusebio Joaquín González was serving as a domestic servant to a pair of ascetic preachers named Silas and Saulo in Monterey, Mexico, when he had a vision –God changed his name to Aaron and instructed him to strike out on his own. He and his wife Elisa traveled to Guadalajara, where Aaron found work as a shoe salesman, and they started a church in their apartment. When their congregation grew large enough that it was time to build a temple in the city, once again a name was revealed to Gonzalez in a vision: Church of the Living God, Column and Support of Truth, Light of the World. It came to be known as Iglesia La Luz del Mundo.