When we first moved to Marseille, a jewel box of a shop caught our eye while wandering around the Vieux-Port. Its window display was stacked with chocolates: smooth rectangular bars, green and brown olivettes (chocolate-covered almonds) and slabs studded with every kind of nut. When a customer opened the door to leave, the strong scent of cocoa hit our nostrils, luring us inside. The artisanal chocolate shop, named La Chocolatière de Marseille, is run by Alain and Zerrin Semerciyan. All the chocolates are made upstairs, hence the alluring aromas that perfume the shop. Since 2014, the couple has developed a faithful clientele for their delicious wares: slabs (tablettes) of dark, milk and white chocolate traditional to European chocolatiers, orange rinds (orangettes) dipped in chocolate, and the barre marseillaise, a delicacy that can only be found in Marseille.

In happier times in Aleppo, a sweet drink called sharab al-louz ¬– made with almond extract, milk and sugar – was a staple at celebratory events such as engagement parties and weddings, Ammar Rida recalls. That was before he had to leave his job as a lecturer at the University of Aleppo and flee Syria lest he be conscripted to fight in the war that has been ravaging his country since 2011. Today, Rida, a serious man in his late thirties with short salt-and-pepper hair and a stubbly beard, is working to establish a business selling sharab al-louz and other healthy, natural drinks – some traditional to Syria and others he is developing based on his background in food science – at restaurants in Istanbul.

Unlike many other pulses, most bean varieties were not native to the eastern Mediterranean, originating instead in Central and South America. Yet they have adapted well to the climate in Greece (and across the globe) and are now quite popular and an important source of protein here, where they are cooked in a variety of ways. In fact, the bean soup known as fasolada is considered our national dish – it’s humble, affordable and easy-to-cook yet still hearty and delicious. Gigantes (“giants”) are particularly loved in Greece. These large white beans are also known as elephant beans, a nod to their size. Some of the best giant beans in Greece are grown in the country’s northwest, most famously in Prespes and Kastoria, both regions with a PGI (Protected Geographic Indication) for giant beans.

The ancient Romans loved to eat well. Look no further than the food represented in many Pompeian frescoes and mosaics, like the bread, figs, pomegranates and baskets of fruit portrayed at the most famous villa at Oplontis, the so-called Villa of Poppaea, named after the second wife of the Emperor Nero. And from the buried cities of Pompeii, Herculaneum and Stabia, archeologists have uncovered many artifacts of a gastronomic nature, a sign of the culinary prowess of this ancient civilization. In particular, the Romans had a taste for garum, a funky sauce that, as Pliny the Elder describes, was obtained by mashing up fish entrails, layering them with salt and leaving them to ferment under the sun.

The current Praça de São Paulo formed in the wake of a disaster: the square was rebuilt soon after the 1755 Lisbon earthquake, and serves as a model of the architectural style from that time. More recently, this beautiful yet oft-neglected square has been given a new lease on life thanks to another calamity – the Covid-19 pandemic. Over the summer, chef André Magalhães took over the square’s charming red kiosk – the oldest in Lisbon – and overhauled the menu, filling it with traditional drinks, delicious sandwiches and petiscos. And since the start of November, the grocery store Comida Independente has been organizing a successful farmers’ market in the square on Saturdays, bringing Lisboetas in contact with independent producers and one another – a balm in this strange time of social distancing.

We have been watching Covid-19 sweep across the country like an invisible alien death fog claiming hundreds of lives and snuffing out businesses, one by one. Some restaurants intent on survival have changed their menus to delivery-friendly offerings of shawarma, hamburgers and pizza. To save her lunch counter, 34-year-old Naia Gabelia has also chosen delivery, but her strategy is not about what to deliver, but to whom. Amo Ra is located on the 8th floor of the Gorgasali Business Center in the Ortachala district. Since 2018, the restaurant has been serving the Center’s tenants with tasty alternatives to the neighborhood’s limited khachapuri cafés. Amo Ra’s bread and butter, however, was its catering service, prepared by a small staff of talented cooks and served in the spaces at its disposal to rent for events.

In 1949, when the patisserie that Josep Cudié had been working at as head pastry chef for a decade closed, his wife, Antonia Salleras, encouraged him to stop working for others and start working for himself. “Since you’re the creator of all these chocolates,” she said, “why don’t you just open your own business, making the chocolates and selling them to other patisseries?” Fortunately, he took his wife’s advice. Today, Oriol Llopart Cudié, also a pastry chef, is the third generation to run the business and – more importantly – to produce Catànies, his grandfather’s invention. Candied almonds coated with a special praline and bitter cocoa powder, these brown pearls are now one of Catalonia’s most iconic candies.

Pastitsio (παστίτσιο) is rightfully among the most beloved and classic dishes of the Greek cuisine. Its name, deriving from the Italian noun pasticcio, means a mess or a big mix-up. “Ma che pasticcio!” cry the Italians, meaning “But what a mess!” It’s also a musical term with a similar meaning: A pasticcio or pastiche is an opera or other musical work that draws from different composers. Likewise, from architecture to fine arts and literature, the term refers to works that directly imitate the style of one or more artists. Pasticcio, the dish, is also comprised of different elements and ingredients. The term was first used in Italy during the 16th century to refer to a Renaissance-born category of hearty pies or, more accurately speaking, pasties (because they are pies that are also covered on top with pastry).

With December about to lift its wintry head and amble into Istanbul on the heels of a rainy November, there’s no cure for chilly weather and pandemic brain quite like the classic, cozy offerings at any beloved esnaf lokantası (tradesman’s restaurant). From sautéed beef over roasted eggplant purée to white beans in tomato sauce to moussaka and stuffed peppers, there’s a reason the most established of these establishments have a steady stream of loyal customers: reliably good food at a reliably good price. The esnaf lokantası is the bread and butter of Turkish dining, and any worthy Istanbullu will know their neighborhood’s favorite haunt. The problem with Beşiktaş, a formerly working-class district that has become a hub for Istanbul’s student life, is that scores of longstanding eateries have been shuttered.

Giant sacks of organic Moulin Pichard flour are stacked high at the entrance of Pain Salvator. In the back of the boulangerie, the open kitchen hums – a baker rolls out dough as another one pulls out beautifully browned loaves from the oven with a giant wooden paddle. A third clad in a flour-dusted apron stacks the freshly baked goods on a metal cart, rolling it beside the counter in anticipation of the midday rush. For owner Nicolle Baghdiguian-Wéber, being able to glimpse the bakery in action is intentional, the “real effort that goes into making bread,” she explains. Unlike others who “display their breads behind glass like in a pharmacy,” she wants her customers to see “flour on the floor, hands in the dough, the hard work.”

The loss of the world’s first baijiu-themed bar, Beijing’s Capital Spirits, to hutong landlord issues last year refocused the spirit’s lens on Shanghai, where bars are incorporating the grain alcohol into their drinks program. Baijiu may be the most-consumed spirit in the world – thanks mostly to China’s massive population – but its name has only recently started to make waves outside the country. This growing recognition is in part thanks to the trend of mixing baijiu into cocktails. At Healer Bar, this blending of Eastern flavors with Western drinking culture is a deliberate choice that is meant to educate as well as inebriate.

Chirosfagia (Χοιροσφάγια, meaning “pig slaughtering”) is an old custom with ancient roots that takes place all around Greece during the winter season. Rural households – especially those involved in agriculture – typically bred a pig that was destined to be slaughtered before Christmas (between late October and Christmas Eve, depending on the region). Also known as gourounochara (which surprisingly translates as “pig happiness”), it’s a practice that guarantees a good Christmas feast. Although less widespread than before, this tradition still takes place, particularly in villages and on islands, and the slaughtering ceremony is usually a separate festivity on its own, involving music, feasting and drinking. No part of the pig goes to waste: The best cuts are set aside for the Christmas table while other parts are cured or preserved in different ways.

In the history of Neapolitan cuisine, the most important revolution, the one that transformed the culinary habits of people across southern Italy, is certainly the flourishing of dried pasta. Until the second half of the 17th century, Neapolitans were nicknamed mangiafoglie (leaf-eaters) – the volcanic land surrounding the city was incredibly productive, resulting in a large variety of vegetables that formed the basis of the local diet. But by the end of the 17th century, the ideal climatic and economic conditions converged in that bend in the sea between Naples and the Sorrento coast, where the towns of Gragnano and Castellammare di Stabia are located, to allow for the rise of dried pasta.

On the bottom of Janashia Street and Melikishvili Avenue in the lower Vera district, next to the staid Hotel Sakartvelo, there used to be an unremarkable joint, about the size of a matchbox and tucked into a cozy square, selling khachapuri and muddy coffee. It was the kind of place nobody missed when it closed, as we knew someone else would come along and open another uninspired khachapuri café, rinse and repeat. An Iranian couple tried breaking the jinx by opening an Italian-inspired café named Piccolo, but they eventually closed. Last year Shinichiro (Shin) and Yukiko (Yuki) Ito took over the spot and kept the name, although they offered something Tbilisi had not yet seen – Japanese street food.

When we published our first gift guide in 2017, our aim was simple: to share a highly-selective (and relatively short) list of products – some serious, others lighthearted – that our correspondents and guides eat and use, made by people they know. But in this unprecedented year, which has left so many of us grounded and brought travel almost to a halt, the ability to experience new places has been severely curtailed. Moreover, the various lockdowns and anti-Covid measures have hit the food industry particularly hard – the culinary masters that we celebrate on our tours and trips and in our coverage have by and large seen a precipitous drop in business.