As anyone familiar with Greek folk religious traditions and habits can tell you, communication between Greeks and their saints has traditionally been quite direct – saints are addressed with respect, of course, but also in a friendly and familiar manner. I myself have witnessed several people – almost always of the older generations – have a proper “conversation” (more like a monologue) with the saint of their choice. Each saint has a particular day on which they’re celebrated; in some places, large festivals are thrown in their patron saint’s honor, with people of all ages dancing and drinking wine until the early morning hours. Throughout the year, it’s common for Greeks to make special “deals” with their saints.

Sold by roving vendors, street carts and bakeries, spread with a triangle of soft cheese or tossed to circling seagulls from the ferry, the humble simit has become a quintessential symbol of Istanbul – and of Turkey more broadly. But there’s more to this sesame-coated bread ring that it may at first appear, as demonstrated by the reactions last autumn to a piece of unexpected news from abroad. “Hang out the flags!” Turkish food-delivery giant Yemeksepeti tweeted exuberantly when the Oxford English Dictionary announced in October 2019 that the word “simit” had been officially added as an entry, saving future translators from having to employ awkwardly inadequate substitutes such as “Turkish bagel” when writing in English about the popular snack. Amid the general celebrating on social media, however, one group of Turks was decidedly not pleased.

It was a scorcher of a summer day in 2002, and we were pushing our broken Russian motorcycle and sidecar through crowded Plekhanov streets with a gnarly case of cotton mouth. Dripping in sweat, we limped up to the kiosk by our building and slipped some coins to the lovely Irma for a lifesaving cold bottle of Borjomi mineral water. She reached into her little fridge and passed a bottle to our trembling hands. We twisted it open, took a deep three-gulp pull and grabbed our neck in a panic, alcoholic vapors steaming from every pore of our body. Gasping, we handed the bottle back to her. “This is not Borjomi,” we wheezed. She sniffed it and jumped back. “Oh sorry. That is my husband’s spiritus,” she explained, replacing it deep into the fridge with a real bottle after checking it first.

It may be on the outskirts of Naples, in the residential suburb of Fuorigrotta, but there’s still something about Pizzeria Cafasso that attracts clients, from famous directors to your average Joe (Giovanni, in this case). Certainly one big draw is it’s proximity to the San Paolo football stadium, one of the few things in Naples that is not dedicated to San Gennaro, the protector of the city for over a thousand years. It’s believed that San Paolo, or St. Paul, who was born in what is today Turkey and died in Rome, first made landfall in Italy in this spot, which is why the stadium was dedicated to him.

With the heat wave pushing the thermometer past the 90s, Marseillais are hitting the city’s beaches and cafés, where they cool off with limonade (sparkling lemonade), citron pressé (a glass of fresh-squeezed lemon in which you add water to your liking) or citronnade. The latter is lemonade in French, but in Marseille, it often means the bracing, whole-lemon beverage sipped across the Maghreb. Normally, we go to Chez Yassine for our citronnade. When the snack bar was closed for Eid al-Adha (the “Festival of Sacrifice,” one of Islam’s two main festivals), we ended up at Saf-Saf, another Tunisian spot down the street. It was listed on the menu as fait maison (homemade) citronnade, so we were surprised when the waiter brought over a sleek bottle.

With almost year-round sunny weather the norm in Athens, most venues have some sort of outdoor seating. Even during the coldest months of January and February, many people still choose to sit outside – if weather permits – with heaters beaming down on them. The options are seemingly endless – you can teeter on the sidewalk, hide away in a courtyard or relax in a luscious garden, with each setting providing a different vibe. Though it’s difficult to name the best spots, here are some of our favorite restaurants and bars with outdoor seating that we gravitate towards in the summer months (and particularly this summer, as the pandemic has forced us all outside). We tried to pick something for every kind of occasion, whether you’re looking for a terrace with a view, a hidden downtown oasis or an escape to the leafy suburbs.

In Kadıköy Kooperatifi, located on a residential street in Moda, a peaceful, almost sacred atmosphere reigns supreme. It’s a modest and sober place – quite different from the retail experience we’re accustomed to nowadays – but by no means dull. For months we had heard bits and pieces about the shop – a cooperative selling goods sourced directly from small producers across Turkey – before we finally decided to see it for ourselves, right before the pandemic hit Turkey. What we found was a small space that, despite the peace and quiet, was more bakkal – the corner store that plays an integral role in neighborhood life – than exclusive organic shop.

Sandwiched between Cours Julien and La Plaine, Rue Saint-Michel is stuffed with a smorgasbord of epicurean shops. Each window display is an edible advertisement: wheels of cheese at Art de la Fromagerie and mushroom-stuffed raviolis at Pâtes Fraiches et Raviolis Cédric Bianco tempting passersby behind the glass. The signless number 26 is more nondescript. From across the street, the mural of handymen above the storefront makes it seem like a hardware store. The jars of pickled vegetables beside the door say otherwise. Go inside, and you’ll find one of Marseille’s best épiceries.

While the pandemic has forced many restaurants in Lisbon to shutter their doors, even if only temporarily, and fight for their survival, it left chef Marlene Vieira with a related yet slightly different dilemma: Her latest venture, Zunzum Gastrobar, was scheduled to open in March, before being postponed indefinitely due to the Covid-19 lockdown. The delay worried Vieira – so much work had already gone into the project. As the city started coming back to life, the chef assessed the situation and felt it was better to open in the beginning of August rather than waiting for September, when the reopening of schools and other measures might bring new challenges to everyday life. “Now it’s a relaxed time, people are on holidays or feeling less stressed,” she says.

We met Tega at a friend’s dinner table shortly after moving to Tbilisi in 2002. Tall, debonair, with dark puppy eyes and an ever-present Colgate smile, Tega made it a point from that first meeting to take us under his wing and introduce us to the best Tbilisi had to offer. That was how we first ended up at Salobie, near the ancient capital of Mtskheta. “This place is famous for its beans,” he said. “And its name is Beans!” he chortled (lobio means “beans” in Georgian, and salobie is “house of beans”). The restaurant felt like something between a museum and a summer mountain resort. We were in the original dining room, built next to a giant 300-year-old wooden house from Racha.

In the midst of lockdown, it sometimes felt as if we would never eat in a restaurant again. While we dreamed of visiting our favorite spots, greeting the owners warmly and sitting down for a long, satisfying meal, we never let ourselves imagine a future in which new restaurants opened, especially bold and exciting places like Kafeneion SI TI SI. Yet chef Alexandros (Alex) Tsiotinis let himself dream – the idea for this modern kafeneio (a traditional kafeneio being an all-day venue serving coffee, booze and mezes) was, in fact, born during lockdown. The owners of Senios, a meze restaurant located downtown, came to him with a proposal to join forces. Alex accepted and quickly began crafting a menu featuring his own takes on typical kafeneio mezes.

The linguistic variations in Spain’s 17 autonomous communities are as diverse as the local culinary specialties. In Barcelona, we can find examples of both. Take La Esquinica (“The Little Corner”), an iconic tapas bar with a fantastic terrace in Nou Barris, a neighborhood with a large immigrant population. Here, many of the tapas’ names (as well as the name of the bar itself) end in -ica or -ico, a traditional suffix used in the Teruel province of the Aragon region that functions as a diminutive and has become emblematic of the area. Jose María Utrillas, who hails from Aragon, established the bar in 1972, on the corner of Montsant and Cadí, although his brother-in-law Paco managed the placed. But in 1997, after their building was plagued with structural issues, they moved the bar to its current location.

If you ask a Marseillais where to cavort on the coast, most will respond, without hesitation, “the Calanques”: turquoise coves tucked between towering limestone cliffs that can only be reached by foot, boat or paddle. Spanning Marseille and Cassis, this national park gets all the glory – and tourist campaigns – for its jaw-dropping grandeur. But, north of the city, you’ll find more intimate calanques that also merit a visit: the Côte Bleue. Unlike the barely inhabited Calanques National Park, the “Blue Coast” is dotted with fishing villages anchored in blue coves, each one appearing to have been carved into the limestone hills. Some of the secluded ports are connected by hiking trails that weave between beach pines and the Mediterranean.

Rione Luzzatti is an ugly neighborhood. That’s not particularly surprising to anyone who has read My Brilliant Friend, the first of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels (or watched the television adaptation) – the two main characters, friends Lila and Elena, grew up in this neglected and working-class area. Built following a simple design after the Second World War and comprising anonymous white buildings, Luzzatti today is defined by decaying structures and poorly kept public spaces. Yet when I first crossed it with my Vespa (well before Ferrante’s novels put it on the radar), I felt that it was a real place, a neighborhood of busy people, of workers. In short, I liked it, even if it was ugly!

Edirne has more meat to offer beyond the glistening liver that bears its name. Deniz Börek Salonu has crowned the top of Saraçlar Caddesi since 1986. Every morning, lines of salivating citizens hurry to work with crunchy poğaças or sit down to enjoy steaming heaps of stuffed pastry. While there are many börek places in Edirne, few are able to produce the consistently delicious product that Deniz is known for. Imagine, if you will, savory labyrinthine baklava sheets of golden-brown pastry, stuffed like sausages. The bready tubes are baked, set on a hot table in a window, then viciously chopped into strips with a knife that looks like it should belong to a 19th-century werewolf hunter.