“Caliente!” Juan calls out, and we all duck to avoid the steaming hot pan as it floats across the kitchen. He holds one side with a folded up towel, the other with a pair of pliers. Kitchen might be a bit of a misnomer. The small stall sits on the sidewalk, with a temporary tin roof overhead and brand new white tarps tied tightly to the back to protect against Mexico City’s afternoon thunderstorms. Each day for the three weeks leading up to Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead holiday, Tito Garcia, the stand’s owner, and the rest of the crew, will make hundreds of pan de muerto sweet rolls, as part of the Jamaica Market’s holiday romería.

Pies go back a long way in Athens. Harry’s Kitchen, a tiny pie shop on Axarlian, a small pedestrian street near Syntagma Square, does not – this hole in the wall only opened around a year ago. Yet the pies that Harris Satiridis, the shop’s namesake, and his wife, Yiouli, put out have already gained a reputation as some of the best in Athens. You could easily miss Harry’s Kitchen, it’s that small, but you won’t miss the queue of people outside, waiting to get their hands on one of the very tasty-looking pies in the small display case. And after biting into one, you’ll better appreciate why pies have been enjoyed in Athens since antiquity.

On Sunday around lunchtime, the streets of Sanita can get almost eerily quiet. Where normally children play, scooters zoom past, shopkeepers haggle loudly with old ladies, and neighbors stick their heads out of their windows and discuss the latest gossip, suddenly nobody is to be seen or even heard. Sanita is still a very traditional working-class neighborhood in the heart of Naples, and tradition has it that on Sunday afternoon everybody feasts: The whole family gathers around mama’s table for an hours-long lunch. If you happen to wander Sanita’s deserted streets at that time of the week, you’ll constantly catch whiffs of familiar smells: frying garlic, roasting onions, and meat simmered in sauce for many hours. And, more and more often, the tempting, spice-scented smell of curry.

On our Culinary Secrets of Downtown Athens tour, we tuck into a large portion of yogurt served the traditional Greek way, on a plate with honey and walnuts. Few words do justice to the taste of the yogurt, which is so thick that at points it is almost solid, and the honey and walnuts are the perfect accompaniment.

Anise-based liqueurs are as ubiquitous as outdoor terraces across the Mediterranean. Long prized for its medicinal benefits, anise is the ideal antidote to the region’s sweltering temps, especially when sipped in tall glasses with refreshingly chilled water, as is common practice. From Turkey’s rakı to Italy’s heavily sweetened sambuca, each country has its own recipe. France has two, anisette and pastis, with the latter having licorice root thrown into the mix. Born in Marseille, pastis is the republic’s most popular aperitif, but both beverages are poured at bars around town, whose shelves are stocked with bottles from a variety of producers. There’s one brand, though, that deserves special attention: Cristal Limiñana, one of the city’s last distilleries.

On sunny afternoons in the sleepy neighborhood of Narvarte, crowds of adults huddle around the glass counter at La Gaspacheria, eyes aglow as they consider possible toppings. While the scene evokes children at an ice cream parlor, the ingredients before them strike the uninitiated as a strange mix. Jicama. Hot sauce. Onion. Cheese. Orange juice. Even among chilangos, who famously love to cram their favorite ingredients together in ever stranger combinations (tortas de chilaquiles and tortas de tamales, for example), the idea of mixing orange juice, mango and raw onion gives pause.

The first thing we noticed when we ducked into Koali on a late summer afternoon was the sudden change in ambiance, a veritable culture shock from the sloping, hookah bar-lined street we had just walked down. Keroncong and pop sunda classics, the kind of music you might expect to hear in a beach hut in Bali, drifted softly from the speakers. Each table bore the name of a major Indonesian city, and the walls, otherwise sparsely decorated, were covered with scrawled sayings in Bahasa Indonesian. The sound of liquid hitting a flaming hot wok and the enticing smell of coconut and lemongrass confirmed our suspicions – we had stepped into another world.

In the 1980s and 1990s Bairro Alto was the epicenter of Lisbon nightlife: Bars here had the best DJs, and interesting restaurants were opening more often in this neighborhood than in any other in town. Although Bairro Alto lost some of its more compelling spots over the years, it’s still a party district and on a recent upswing, with promising new restaurants cropping up. Among these is Zé Varunca, a notable ambassador for the food of Alentejo, one of Portugal’s best regional cuisines. Having limited resources, Alentejo cooks learned how to go far with a little, deliciously using, for example, stale bread as a staple ingredient along with chouriço or other sausages, pork fat and sometimes a bit of meat.

Opening a pizza joint in a city that’s world renowned for its pies requires some gumption. Maria Rosaria Artigiano, 56, the energetic owner of Pizzeria ‘Ntretella, which opened a few years ago, certainly has it; so does her brother, the brilliant chef Gennaro Artigiano. The beautiful restaurant they built together has quickly become a “new classic” in the panorama of Neapolitan pizzerias. Gennaro, 57, owns Locanda Ntretella, an old restaurant in the Spanish Quarter known for its excellent cuisine. Yet he is a restless man, always on the lookout for a new challenge. So in 2013, when he heard of an old carpentry shop in the heart of the Spanish Quarter, he visited the space and realized it would be a perfect place to open a pizzeria.

Ramen joints are often easily recognizable, either by large windows illuminating slurping customers, a vending machine dispensing meal tickets at the doorway, or the brightly lit signs; usually it’s some combination of the three. When it comes to Ura Sablon, however, one might easily pass it by. The narrow entrance is tucked away between a storage locker and an air conditioning unit; a small notice, illegible unless up close, is attached to a traffic cone; and the paper lantern reading “tsukemen” – a kind of dipping noodles – could easily have ended up there by chance.

Tortas are modest in appearance – they resemble flattish cupcakes with minimal adornment – but they taste like breakfast at grandma’s to many homesick Filipinas. And tortas are a common bond between Nora Galleros, Jeanette Uy and Khaterine Gadingan – Khaty, to her friends. Nora, Jeanette and Khaty grew up in the Southern Philippines, on the island of Mindanao, and think back fondly to the food of their home city, Gingoog (Hee-ngo-og).

We’re more used to seeing big bins of pomegranates in cities like Istanbul and Tbilisi, but we also caught sight of them in Queens. Our culinary walk takes in the area’s markets both big and small.

Avli is one of those places you have to be introduced to by someone who’s already been there. Although a sign does exist above its narrow metal door, there’s so much graffiti on either side of it, you could walk right by even if you had the address firmly in your hand or mind. Once inside, if you’re the first customer, you still might think you’ve made a mistake. Avli means “courtyard,” but this one is narrow, much more like a back alley. Blue doors and shuttered windows the same shade as the Greek flag pierce the right wall, the left has a few potted plants and three plump alley cats comfortably ensconced on the old-fashioned rush-seated taverna chairs.

Editor’s note: Tara Milutis, an American filmmaker based in Istanbul, shares the inspiration behind her new short film “Meet Me in Yusufpaşa,” which tells the story of Istanbul’s Yusufpaşa neighborhood, where food knits communities together and expresses the experience of migration and assimilation. When I first visited Istanbul in the spring of 2016, I was warned against going to areas in the Fatih district that were away from standard tourist paths. “Fatih is dangerous” and “That’s where ISIS fighters stay when they’re coming through Turkey” were some of the remarks I heard when expressing my interest in exploring this part of the city.

Anthony the Great is the patron saint of pigs, hence why paintings of him often depict one at his feet. Some say that a pig accompanied him during his hermetic desert life in the 3rd century. Some say he used pork fat to heal skin disease – one of the acts that is linked to his sainthood. Regardless of its reason, all swine-related matters fall under Antoine le Grand’s guardianship. Which is why many charcutiers (pork butchers) in France bear his name. Case in point: Marseille’s Au Grand Saint-Antoine, a name that confuses some locals since it’s the same as the ship that brought the devastating 1720 plague into the city. The charcutier-traiteur actually began as the Fromagerie de l’Est in 1922, a cheese shop that dabbled in charcuterie and chickens.