It all began with some cheese. In 1997, Salvatore Cautero had the idea of setting up a simple shop that sold a selection of latticini (dairy products) and cheeses. That same year, on September 6, Caseari Cautero (a “caseari” is a dairy) opened its doors. The shop occupies a small storefront in the market at Piazzetta Pontecorvo, a busy hub where Naples’ ancient city center meets the newer, hillier district of Vomero. Salvatore is the fourth generation to work in the world of gastronomy – his father, Luigi, sells baccalà cod and stockfish next door. The idea behind his shop was to look for and select niche products made by small, high-quality producers, a sensibility that was passed down from father to son.

On a quiet street in the Campo de Ourique neighborhood, a green awning hangs out front of Pigmeu, giving the restaurant a bit of a French look. But inside, the nose-to-tail menu couldn’t be more Portuguese: As one might guess from the restaurant’s name (it’s a play on the words pig and meu, “mine” in Portuguese), the dishes feature pork and offal as well as seasonal vegetables. Miguel Azevedo Peres is the mastermind and talent behind Pigmeu, which he opened in December 2014. Since his first kitchen job in 2007, Miguel has cooked at various restaurants in Lisbon, including Estrela da Bica, and for a time had the concession for the café at Museu do Chiado. But it was a desire to focus on sustainable meat consumption that led him to go in an entirely different direction with Pigmeu.

Spain, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Portugal, Morocco, Tunisia – one thing that unites this swathe of the Mediterranean is olive oil, whose use in the Fertile Crescent can be traced back to 6000 B.C.E. Olives arrived in the southern part of the Iberian Peninsula around 9th century B.C.E. with the Phoenicians. Ancient Rome saw huge quantities of olive oil from Hispania Baetica (currently Andalucía) being transported throughout the Roman Empire in millions of amphorae (made in Baetica). Spain leads production of olive oil to this day, with 45 percent of the global total. The majority (65 percent) of Spanish olive oil production is sold to Italy, where this oil is mixed with others (normally of the same quality, but not always) and sold under an Italian label.

After the pandemic shook Porto’s restaurant sector like an earthquake, the city’s eateries are trying to rebuild themselves. Those who are still standing have opened their doors again and are now offering more than delivery and takeaway. In this city we live for contact with other people, talking face to face; nowadays that means imagining a genuine smile behind the mask. A well-known Portuguese expression may be one of the best descriptions for what restaurants are currently experiencing in the time of Covid: “Fazer das tripas coração” (“Making heart from the guts”). It means something like turning adversity into fuel, and in Portugal we use it to describe a superhuman effort. Because that’s what we’re all putting in currently, right?

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.

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.

On Crete, endowed with fertile soil and an enviable climate, devotion to the island’s culinary traditions runs deep. This is even the case for people who have family ties to Crete but did not live there themselves, like Dimitris Katakis, who runs To Mitato tou Psiloriti, a small Cretan deli in Athens. In 1950 his grandparents left Crete, despite their great love for their native island, to go to Athens for better job opportunities – the postwar era saw many Greeks move to cities or even abroad in search of a better life. Yet the flavors and traditions of Crete, one of the southernmost points in Europe and the largest island in Greece, stayed with them and were lovingly passed on to their children and grandchildren.

A man leans on the zinc bar, reading La Provence with his café. In wanders a helmet-clad father-daughter duo, searching for sirops (a sweet cordial) to cool off after their scoot. She looks hungrily at the platter of cookies on the bar, freshly baked for that afternoon’s snack. Beside them, the bartender peels a fragrant pile of ginger for the evening’s cocktail rush. At all-day café Le Parpaing qui Flotte, there’s good food and drink to be had at any hour. Neighborhood regulars ease into the day with a coffee. The tasty food draws a steady lunch crowd, and at apéro hour, the outdoor terrace fills up for post-work drinks. As night falls, a younger crowd enjoys some of the city’s best cocktails and tapas.

There’s a Vedic-era (c. 1,000 BC) quote that underlies much of contemporary Indian hospitality: “Atithi Devo Bhava.” This roughly translates to “the guest is equivalent to God,” which is exactly the sense we get when we sit down for dinner at one of the curbside tables at Fusion Indian Restaurant, perched on the edge of Kumkapı Meydanı. Located a short walk downhill from Beyazit and just around the corner from the well-lit, tourist-trawling meyhanes crowding around the square, here we are greeted by servers with smiles on their faces and a menu boasting options to be found in few other places in Istanbul. The sky above shifts from blue to pink as the sun begins to set. The conversations of our fellow diners mingle with the sounds of the city, a convivial polyglot hubbub.

When it comes to buying wine, everyone has different tastes and priorities. Maybe you’re looking for a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino from 1945 (assuming you have €6,000 lying around) or a Château Lafite Rothschild from 2012 (a relative bargain at €880). Or maybe you’re looking to spend only a few euros on a bottle of good wine to drink with friends at a barbecue. Whatever the case, you’re sure to find what you’re looking for at Enoteca Partenopea, which has one of the widest selections of wine in the whole of southern Italy. In 1951, Raffaele Mangia (nomen omen, or “the name is a sign,” as the Latins would say) founded what would become the wine shop, although it was initially a trattoria where you could also buy wine.

When it comes to native grape varieties, the Greek vineyard is among the richest in the world. Presently there are 33 PDO (Protected Designation of Origin) varieties and 100 varieties with a PGI (Protected Geographical Indication) spread across the country, from the northern border to the outermost islands. While some of these indigenous varieties are extensively cultivated – assyrtiko and xinomavro come to mind – others remain unknown and even on the brink of extinction. But there are passionate winemakers across the country who are working to spotlight these lesser-known and almost forgotten varieties, people like Dionysia and Sakis Britzikis, the wife and husband behind Abelon, a family-owned winery and vineyard in the western part of the Peloponnese.

Fruit orchards and vineyards line the driveway, and the impressive mountains of Montejunto contribute to the scenic view. More than eye candy, however, the peaks also influence the climate, making this area one hour north of Lisbon a paradise for grapes. As we reach the end of the dirt road, a friendly dog, whom we later learn is named Noruega, and cousins Joana and José Vivas are there to greet us. We’ve come to Quinta do Olival da Murta, a sprawling property in Cadaval, to learn more about the natural wines made by Joana, José and three other cousins of theirs, and how they have opened the grounds to other natural winemakers, fostering a collaborative community of like-minded individuals.

It was a cool, balmy evening in the center of Istanbul’s Şişli district, and summer was on the verge of slipping into fall. If you were sitting down outside, you could enjoy the calm, gentle breeze, but you’d break out in sweat the minute you started walking, thanks to the thick layer of humidity. We opened a bottle of shiraz on a small back patio where a smattering of trees and bushes offered respite from the dense, urban maze and the skyscrapers that dominated its horizon just a stone’s throw away. This 2015 shiraz was bottled in the northwest province of Tekirdağ in Thrace, one of Turkey’s top wine regions. At 50 TL a bottle, we expected a competent, drinkable red, only to be blown away at first sip by the wine’s lively personality.

Editor’s note: Inspired by our Wine Clubs in Tbilisi, Lisbon and Athens and the grape harvest season, we have asked our correspondents to share the stories of winemakers and wine shops that are making a splash in their city for our Wine Week 2020. We are in Terjola, Imereti, sitting at a cozy front-yard table under a womb-like gazebo of intertwined grape vines, and our host Gia Chubinidze has brought another pair of bottles for us to try. We had already gone through a host of whites and were moving on to his reds. “This one had 14 days of skin maceration,” he declares of his 2019 otskhanuri sapere with a nose of black pepper and licorice. It is outstanding wine, like everything he has poured for us, but then Gia is no ordinary winemaker.

Hnin “Snow” Wai is on a mission to introduce Burmese food and culture to New York. Together with her husband, Snow (Hnin means “Snow” in Burmese, so she likes to be called “Snow” in English) is the co-founder of DeRangoon, a Burmese catering company based in East Elmhurst, Queens. The couple began vending at the Queens Night Market in 2017, and Snow’s tea leaf salad recipe was included in “The World Eats Here: Amazing Food and The Inspiring People Who Make It At Queens Night Market” (The Experiment, 2020). Earlier this year we spoke to co-authors John Wang, the Queens Night Market founder, and Storm Garner, a filmmaker and oral historian, about the cookbook, which showcases 88 diverse recipes directly from Queens Night Market’s vendor-chefs, many of whom are first- and second-generation immigrants.