On my way out of Oaxaca center and on to the city of Santa Catarina Minas, a good friend suggested I make a pit stop to visit “Frida.” Me: “Wait! Frida? Frida Kahlo the Mexican art icon? But she died in 1954!” Him: “You'd better go and try her chile encuerado.” So here I am, having stopped in Ocotlán, only 32 kilometers south of Oaxaca city, to sample Frida’s “naked” chiles. I find my way to Mercado Morelos in Ocotlán’s main square, and immediately head for the many eateries in the medium-sized market’s food aisle. A sign is painted with flowers, roots, hummingbirds, butterflies and other insects – with these tell-tale motifs of the tormented artist, there can be no mistaking La Cocina de Frida.

Hamburgers and ketchup, hot dogs and mustard. Many of us who grew up in the United States learned these food pairings early in life, at ballparks, backyard cookouts and birthday parties. In our case, we encountered falafel and tahini sometime later, probably at the urging of adventuresome schoolmates. Ahmed Foda – or just "Foda" for short – serves his falafel, too, with the familiar ground-sesame twang of tahini. But at Foda Egyptian Sandwiches, his year-old Astoria food cart, the fritters are called tameya (tah-May-ah) and rely on fava beans rather than chickpeas. This is what distinguishes the Egyptian style of falafel from that of its Levantine neighbors.

If it weren’t for the dozens of brightly lit signs and paper lanterns promising libations of every sort, you might mistake the two narrow alleys alongside the train tracks on the northeast side of Shibuya station for a derelict apartment block. In reality Nonbei Yokocho (AKA Drunkard’s Alley) is one of Tokyo’s few remaining yokocho (side street) bar districts. Like the much larger and better-known Golden Gai in Shinjuku, Nonbei Yokocho is a collection of aging and tightly packed microbars. Each watering hole is scarcely more than a few square meters, and if longtime regulars aren’t taking up the scant floor space, newcomers may try any number of doors before they find an empty seat.

San Diego de la Mesa Tochimiltzingo may not be the prettiest pueblo around, but people who know their mezcal certainly know about this town in the state of Puebla. Just three hours southeast of Mexico City, the pueblo is tiny and unprepossessing, tucked into the Atlixco Valley in the Sierra Mixteca. Almost all of its 1,000 residents work in mezcal. No one can say for certain when mezcal production started there. When we asked, several mezcaleros (mezcal makers) debated for a while before agreeing it was some time in the 1800s. After more discussion, they finally zeroed in on the year 1864, though how and why they settled on the date remains a mystery. Mezcalero Silvistre Reyes admits, “No one really knows.”

One of Lisbon’s best views is just steps away from Largo da Graça in Saint Andre, one of the city’s seven hills. The famous overlook offers views of most of the city and even some of the Tejo river. Most days it’s filled with a mix of tourists making good use of their selfie sticks, wanderers minding their own business and street musicians busking for small change. But locals – or, at least, locals who like to eat well – prefer to hang out a few meters back, at one of the neighborhood’s iconic restaurants. O Pitéu da Graça could also be described as having an excellent view – but only if you like looking at fish. Yes, the thing to see here is the menu’s crowded fish section.

In the summer of 2020, a close friend of Ioli Vrychea and Panos Stogiannis – Athens restaurateurs with plans for a new spot – arrived at the Tainaron Blue Retreat on Greece’s southern Mani peninsula. He sat down at the hotel restaurant and, after quickly falling in love with the meal he’d been served, knew he had found the chef Ioli and Panos were looking for. The friend was so enamored that he convinced the pair to make the drive down south to Mani to introduce them to the person who made the food, Stavriani Zervakakou, a 40-year-old chef with roots in Mani. The bond was instant. She quit her job at the resort and made the move to Athens.

A few blocks from the fragrant street stands of Noailles, another multicultural bazaar unfolds indoors. An aproned man fries up falafel balls to stuff into sandwiches. At a wooden cart besides him, a girl pushes sugar cane into a whirring juicer that pours out the sweet nectar in a glass. Down the hallway, two women finger bolts of colorful Egyptian fabric and glittering ribbons. The Souk de Nour d’Egypte is a feast for the senses. Every inch of the soaring space is filled with something delicious or decorative. In the front half, wooden carts brim with spices, ice cream and other foodstuffs, leading to a long counter laden with baked goods, cooked dishes and a medley of salads.

In 2013, Anthony Bourdain and the Parts Unknown team arrived in Batumi, the capital of Adjara, to shoot the first segment of their Georgian adventure. The show’s producers invited Zamir Gotta, a Russian sidekick unfamiliar with the city, to join him. They visited a casino, strip club and mediocre restaurant for khashi, tripe soup, which failed to impress Bourdain. When the episode aired, local social media users flamed with disappointment over the Batumi portion in particular: “Casinos and strip clubs! That’s not Batumi!” While they aren’t the places we would have taken Anthony Bourdain, they are most certainly Batumi, along with the rainy summers and stifling subtropic air, the new five-star hotels and crumbling Khrushchyovkas (Soviet apartment buildings), a McDonald’s housed in an award-winning modern structure and a chacha-spouting fountain that dried up shortly after it was built in 2012.

In these days of viral Instagram videos and WhatsApp chainmail, Turkish ice cream has become synonymous with fez-clad pranksters swooping and slinging a mound of sticky Kahramanmaraş dondurma (ice cream) out of the hands of questionably amused tourists. But Turkey’s dondurma tradition goes far beyond these attention-seeking tricks. Beloved institutions offering more than simple (though delicious) chocolate or pistachio – like Kadıköy’s Dondurmacı Ali Usta, the countless Mado operations, Dondurmacı Yaşar Usta and Bebek’s Mini Dondurma – will never lose their loyal customer base. With such a wealth of frozen creams, it’s no surprise that gelato only arrived on the scene in Turkey in the mid-2000s, when the first Cremeria Milano opened its doors at the Tünel terminus of Istiklal Avenue (it now has some 18 locations throughout the country).

Black ice cream is not an easy sell, but Jose Luis Cervantes, AKA Joe Gelato, is a persuasive guy. It’s not just his million-dollar smile or easygoing nature, but also the passion that he clearly feels for his gelato. “Before I went to Italy, I knew about the concept of gelato,” says Jose, “but I had no idea how good it would be. I had only tasted what was available in Mexico at time. I went there and felt the fat in my mouth, the sugars, I can’t explain it – I love it. I love the whole culture around gelato.”

Naples’ Forcella district is known throughout Italy for the starring role it plays in the drama that is the city’s underworld; many Camorra (Neapolitan mafia) members call the neighborhood home. Today, this district is experiencing a moment of redemption both artistic and cultural. The former can be seen in the murals and old, repurposed cinema houses, which have become venues for art exhibitions. The latter has unfolded with the renovation and reopening of the 110-year-old Trianon Viviani theater, which is focused on putting “Canzone Napoletana” – Naples’ homegrown musical genre – back on the map. But for many, Forcella is famous for being home to another Neapolitan institution: Gelateria Al Polo Nord.

Generations of inhabitants of the modern-day Italian peninsula may have learned the art of aromatized ices and frozen fruits and puddings from the East (China, Persia, etc.) – perhaps it was the Ancient Romans or Marco Polo or the Crusaders who introduced some variation of these cold treats. But it is the Italian Francesco Procopio who is considered to be the father of modern gelato. In 1660, he created the first machine to mix sugar, ice and fruit to make “cream.” With less fat, less air, no egg and a slower churning process than traditional ice cream, gelato has taken over from Spain’s traditional orxateries. As Barcelona residents melt under soaring August temperatures, biding their time for a holiday getaway and continuing to battle the Covid variants, the one thing that provides some relief is the city’s stellar gelato scene.

Evi Papadopoulou is no stranger to the culinary arts. A well-regarded food journalist who has written articles on pastries and desserts in the top Greek gastronomy publications, she is also a classically trained chef. She studied at the culinary school of renowned Italian pastry chef Iginio Massari and followed that up with specialized training in making artisanal gelato at Francesco Palmieri’s prestigious laboratory in Puglia, Italy. In July of 2014, Papadopoulou opened Le Greche, a gelato parlor tucked away on Mitropoleos Street, right off Syntagma Square. The parlor itself is straight out of an Alphonse Mucha painting and has an Art Nouveau feel, with its airy, muted color palette. Since it opened, the shop has accumulated quite a cult following – and for good reason.

Back in our college days, in the mid 2000s in Mexico City, we spent hours talking with our fellow students about the foods we missed the most from home. When we, the “Oaxacan delegation,” brought up piedrazos, everyone in the room laughed. They could not fathom something with such a name – piedrazo literally means to be hit with a hard stone in Spanish – as being edible. We had no idea that our beloved snack, a true classic in Oaxaca, was totally unfamiliar to the rest of our friends. A piedrazo is a piece of very, very hard crunchy bread (hence the name) with pickled carrot, onions and potatoes, dunked in a fruit- and chile-based vinegar and dusted with chile powder and – if you’re feeling fancy – quesillo (fresh Oaxacan cheese).

Outside of Kristal Ocakbaşı, a small grill joint tucked away on a side street in the Pangaltı neighborhood, Obama sat greeting the regulars who streamed in to watch a soccer game while feasting on kebab. “What’s the news, Obama?” asked one man with shoulder-length white hair. “Selam aleykum, Obama,” said another. One woman patted him on the head and baby talked to him, calling him by the affectionate nickname “Obiş.” Though we’d never heard such fond regard for the American president, Obama – the tanker-sized street dog of Eşref Efendi Sokak – took it in stride, yawning lazily. It was just another Monday night among his adoring constituents.