Our trip to Taquería Los Parados in Roma Sur last month began like any other: we gathered up four friends and began the trek to this beloved taco spot. But the dark, moody sky threatened rain, and in anticipation of a gushing downpour, we piled into a cab minutes before the first giant, icy cold rain drops began to pelt down. As was so often the case on July and August evenings in Mexico City, we were at the mercy of the Aztec rain god Tlaloc. Our destination, Los Parados, is one on a short list of taco joints usually shouted at full volume to rally the hungry boozers after a Roma-Condesa bar crawl. On this night, however, it was the taxi itself getting sloshed.

In a 2007 essay for the New Yorker packed to the brim with wonderful imagery arousing multiple senses, the novelist Orhan Pamuk recalls sneakily wolfing down a hot dog at a büfe near Taksim Square in 1964. His older brother Şevket catches him in the act and proceeds to rat on him to their mother, who did not allow the boys to partake in street food on the basis that it was dirty and gleaned from dubious sources. Hot dogs and hamburgers were new arrivals in Istanbul back then, as were street vendors selling lahmacun and sucuk ekmek. The city was undergoing a renaissance in terms of fast food and street food, delicacies eagerly sought after by youngsters like Pamuk but reviled by their concerned mothers.

“His name was Mr. Antonio, and they called him the captain,” says 35-year-old Giusy Aiese, launching into the story of La Taverna del Buongustaio. “He was a wine producer from the province of Caserta, and he established a wine-making cellar here in the Fascist period, around 1930.” As we listen to Giusy recount the history of the tavern, we can’t help but think about hers: she comes from a family tree brimming with lovers of Neapolitan cuisine. Her 65-year-old father, Gaetano, a genius in the kitchen, has run La Taverna del Buongustaio since 1996, the year he bought the restaurant from Francesco de Micco, another excellent cook and, funnily enough, Gaetano’s wedding witness.

They withstood the phylloxera and the strong Atlantic winds, and are slowly fighting back against urban expansion, so it’s no surprise that a glass of wine made from grapes grown in Colares tastes like no other. The smallest wine region in Portugal, Colares is also probably one of its most distinct. Located on the coastline of Sintra between the hills and the Atlantic, the region owes its fame to the amazing wines produced in the sandy soil so close to the ocean. It’s also the western-most wine region in continental Europe and has fought like no other the vile phylloxera, the plague that wiped out most European vineyards in the late 19th century.

At the corner of Psaron and Salaminos streets, in a quiet neighborhood of Piraeus, there’s a place that looks straight out of a 1960s Greek black-and-white movie. Its name, eidikon, means “special,” and it’s the last of its kind: a bakalotaverna, or grocery store and eatery, all in one. The shop opened in 1920, when the three Papakonstantinou brothers from Gardiki, an impoverished village near Trikala in central Greece, came to Athens in search of better prospects. The building was the tallest in the area. It had large windows, and in good weather, one could even see the sea on the horizon.

We counted ourselves among the cogniscenti on our first visit to Mangal Kebab, a decade ago, when we passed up pizza in favor of pide (Pea-day). Sharing the same section of the menu and baked in the same oven, but elongated rather than round, the Turkish flatbread suggested a well-laden canoe, until it was sliced for portage from the kitchen, with a chewy crust that curled around seasoned ground lamb. Over the years we’d also become acquainted with the kebabs, and the mangal – the grill, just behind the counter, that gave the restaurant its name. Mangal Kebab is a come-as-you-are neighborhood restaurant that seems easy to get to know, even though we don’t know the language.

There has always been a bit of a rivalry between the two main cities of Portugal, Lisbon and Porto, which is well illustrated by an old running joke among some tripeiros (the name given to the people of Porto): whenever someone asks what is the best thing about Lisbon they will reply, “The highway sign that says ‘Porto.’” But it’s a healthy rivalry for the most part – football aside. Lisboetas, Lisbon locals, in general even tend to recognize that the food might actually be better in Porto and its surroundings, especially traditional dishes. While Porto does not benefit from the same multicultural influences that helped shape Lisbon’s restaurant scene, it is home to some very talented cooks with a knack for doing so much with so little.

We are so heartbroken to report the passing of Nunu Gachechiladze, fondly known as our “Pickle Queen” at Tbilisi’s Deserter’s Bazaar. We first met Nunu two years ago, while mapping out our market walk with Justyna Mielnikiewicz. In our decade and a half of life together in Georgia, Justyna, a Polish native and pickle expert by default, had never been impressed with local pickled cucumbers, finding them too salty, too mushy or simply bland. Some sort of cosmic force directed us to Nunu. How else to explain that out of all the pickle makers at the bazaar, we were drawn deep into a hidden corner of the labyrinthine market to where Nunu stood behind stacks of her creations?

Throughout Italy, Naples is known as the “city of coffee” – the Neapolitan caffè is synonymous with high-quality brew. And within the city, there are a number of stories and legends that swirl around the black stuff. Coffee is far and away the most popular caffeinated drink in the city. Neapolitans are not tea drinkers. In fact, most see it as a kind of medicine, probably because when you’re sick to your stomach the doctor recommends eating white rice and drinking tea. But it’s not just about the coffee itself. In Naples, drinking coffee is a true ritual, a complex set of unwritten norms, customs and ancient habits.

We met Don Tirso in the center of Santa Ana Tlacotenco, one of 12 villages in Milpa Alta, Mexico City’s southernmost delegation, on a sunny and cool morning. The road from village to village in Milpa Alta snakes through fields and around ancient volcanoes, slowly climbing up the mountains that overlook the beast of a city to which it formally belongs. We take a truck to his property, part of a farming cooperative ceded to the campesinos (farmers) following Mexico’s decade-long revolution that ended in 1920, which focused heavily on agrarian reform. In his village, the city’s only rural area covered with forests and farms, his generation of elders is the one that mostly carries the torch of their direct connection to the Aztec past.

It’s the eve of Kurban Bayramı, and while most of Istanbul is eerily empty, the tables at Köklem Uygur Yemekleri in Çapa, a neighborhood in the Fatih district, are quickly filling up. A young couple calmly chats, using chopsticks to pick up sautéed chicken slathered in soy sauce. At a nearby table a man sits alone, his bored countenance swiftly replaced by a broad smile as a waiter arrives at his table with a steaming plate of noodles, ready to be devoured. Most of the customers are speaking a language we can’t decode. But based on how happy everyone looks, this food is bringing them some serious joy.

As the food scene in Barcelona continues to change at a rapid clip, with a constant stream of closings and openings, the city’s bodegas are an excellent example of what can be saved. These are businesses that have been updated again and again, sometimes over the course of a century, in order to preserve an essence and an identity that nobody – not now nor back then – wants to lose. La Moderna, a tapas bar and bulk-wine shop on Carrer d’Enric Granados in the Eixample Esquerra (Left Eixample) neighborhood, is a good example of this preservation model. Established in 1937, the bodega has survived just about everything, including the Spanish Civil War (1936-39).

Don’t tell it to French winemakers, but in 2015, the Chinese wine industry hit a major milestone by narrowly surpassing France in land dedicated to vineyards. With 7,990 square kilometers of grape-growing land concentrated mostly in China’s north-central and northwestern regions, the country now ranks second only to Spain and holds almost 11 percent of the world’s vineyards by land area. Most experts estimate that the vast majority of these vineyards grow grapes for the table, not wine, but the statistic follows the trend of wine’s growing popularity in the Middle Kingdom. And China is now among the top 10 wine-producing countries in the world.

The geography of Lavrion, a seaside town located in southeast Attica, about a 45-minute drive from downtown Athens, has played a big role in shaping its population. The most important factor is Lavrion’s proximity to the sea. With an abundance of fish and seafood at its doorstep, as well as a marina and port, it’s not wonder that a large portion of the town’s population are fishermen. Perhaps not as obvious, considering it’s more concealed nature, is Lavrion’s mining industry. Since before 3,000 B.C., the area was famed for its silver and lead mines. Although abandoned in the 2nd century B.C., the mines were re-opened in 1864, attracting a large number of miners who eventually settled in the town.

Bāozi (包子), or steamed buns, are a basic, on-the-go meal. Yeast is added to wheat dough, which is allowed to rise. The dough is then stuffed with a raw filling (everything plain pork to egg custard), wrapped by hand using a pinching style until closed and placed on top of boiling water in towers of giant bamboo steamers.