What is it that’s so dizzyingly addictive about okonomiyaki? It might be the interactive DIY nature of building your own meal and serving it up from a Japanese teppan grill. Perhaps it’s the communal feeling of sitting around with a beer or two and cooking together. However, most likely is the fact that it’s so darn delicious and satisfying. It’s Japanese soul food that has somehow not quite reached the shores of many foreign countries. Okonomiyaki is a flavorful pancake chock full of whatever ingredients appeal, cooked on a Japanese grill (okono means “cook whatever you like” and yaki means grill). In all parts of Japan it's the secret second cousin to ramen in the family of fast food and cheap student eats.

Portugal may be known for its abundance of wines, but beer also has a centuries-old history here, with production rooted in local traditions. It’s a story that has quietly been forgotten, but it seems like now is the right moment for a revival. Portugal’s beer landscape has since the 1940s been dominated by the Sagres-Super Bock duopoly, whose common lagers are nothing to write home about. Created out of a merger between previously competing associations, these two new brands (grouped under Central de Cervejas e Unicer) had a huge impact on Portuguese beer habits. The new industrial focus on a simple and standard product effectively wiped out hyper-local hops culture.

Portugal may be known for its abundance of wines, but beer also has a centuries-old history here, with production rooted in local traditions. It’s a story that has quietly been forgotten, but it seems like now is the right moment for a revival. Portugal’s beer landscape has since the 1940s been dominated by the Sagres-Super Bock duopoly, whose common lagers are nothing to write home about. Created out of a merger between previously competing associations, these two new brands (grouped under Central de Cervejas e Unicer) had a huge impact on Portuguese beer habits. The new industrial focus on a simple and standard product effectively wiped out hyper-local hops culture.

(Editor's Note: In honor of the immigrants and refugees who have made their new home a better place for us all, this week we are running some of our favorite archived stories about those who have left a culinary mark on their adopted land.) On a recent sunny afternoon at the tiny Al Ahdab market, a wedge of light slashed through the front windows illuminating posters for condensed milk in Arabic script and one of an energy drink called Hell. The shop is easy to miss, tucked under the slope of Sarı Musa Sokak, which dips quickly from Millet Caddesi – the arterial avenue home to Istanbul’s Little Syria. By the front door was a rack of Cow Brand ghee, in large tin cans stacked like motor oil at a gas station.

We frequently venture to Istanbul's Aksaray district, where a small cluster of Georgian restaurants lie in close proximity to a bus station bringing people to and from the Caucasus. Giorgi serves up decadent, buttery khacaphuri and other Georgian classics, temporarily transporting one to Tbilisi.

(Editor's Note: In honor of the immigrants and refugees who have made their new home a better place for us all, this week we are running some of our favorite archived stories about those who have left a culinary mark on their adopted land.) "Despite the fact the Armenian quarter of Athens had been created out of the rubbish heap there was more charm and character to this little village than one usually finds in a modern city… In the midst of the most terrible poverty and suffering there nevertheless emanated a glow which was holy; the surprise of finding a cow or a sheep in the same room with a mother and a child gave way instantly to a feeling of reverence." This is Henry Miller’s description of Neos Kosmos in his 1941 travelogue, The Colossus of Maroussi. Known then as Dourgouti, Neos Kosmos (Greek for “New World”) was one of the shantytowns that had sprung up near the center of Athens housing the thousands of Anatolian Christians who had fled from Asia Minor after the Greco-Turkish War (1919-1922).

We can't get enough of the Syrian shawarma, humus and falafel at Salem Kabbaz's El Cocinero de Damasco in Barcelona. Born in 1945, Kabbaz came to Barcelona in 1980 and has worked in restaurants in the city ever since.

(Editor's Note: In honor of the immigrants and refugees who have made their new home a better place for us all, this week we are running some of our favorite archived stories about those who have left a culinary mark on their adopted land.) In Berlin, there is no shortage of meatless options, and vegetarians can even rejoice in a seitan-based döner kebab that is given the proper spit roast. What did surprise us is that the ubiquity of vegetarian diets in the city has greatly impacted one version of a meat-centric Turkish street food classic.

(Editor's Note: In honor of the immigrants and refugees who have made their new home a better place for us all, this week we are running some of our favorite archived stories about those who have left a culinary mark on their adopted land.) Although we’re always hitting the pavement in search of the next good place to eat, sometimes places come to us. Such was the case with Tacos Árabes La Periquita, or “The Little Parrot,” an unassuming taquería in San Rafael that serves a relative rarity in Mexico City: “Arab tacos.”

The ill anti-immigrant and -refugee wind blowing out of the White House in Washington, DC, does not represent the America we know, nor does it speak to our experience exploring the world’s culinary backstreets. The cities and countries where we work – the United States included – have always been havens for those looking for a better, safer place. All have come with their food, making their new home a truly better place for us all and becoming an indispensible part of its fabric in the process. When the government goes low, we go in search of more stories of immigrants and refugees who have left a culinary mark on their adopted land and whose tales have always been essential elements in what we do here at CB. In their honor, this week we are running some of our favorites of these kinds of stories from the CB archive (like that of Mr. Tomasian, pictured above, an Armenian kebab maker in Athens).

Tamales sold streetside by the basket are among our favorite treats in Queens. The countless kinds of ethnic cuisine found in the borough and the people that lovingly cook it are what make it great.

(Editor's Note: The ill anti-immigrant and -refugee wind blowing out of the White House in Washington, DC, does not represent the America we know, nor does it speak to our experience exploring the world’s culinary backstreets. The cities and countries where we work – the United States included – have always been havens for those looking for a better, safer place. All have come with their food, making their new home a truly better place for us all and becoming an indispensible part of its fabric in the process. In their honor, this week we are running some of our favorite archived stories of immigrants and refugees who have left a culinary mark on their adopted land.) If you walk the length of Roosevelt Avenue from 69th Street to 111th Street in the early morning, you may encounter up to two dozen tamale ladies, usually at the major intersections that correspond to the 7 train’s stops.

Like many of Mexico’s best taquerías, Tacos Manolo greets its patrons from a block away with its alluring smell. But it isn’t the well-known odor of fired achiote on a swirling spit of al pastor or the equally recognizable heavy scent of bistek searing on a griddle. No, the aroma wafting down this particular block of Calle Luz Saviñon is a mystery to the uninitiated – a unique, unplaceable perfume that allures as much as it confuses. It is the smell of onions and unknown meats and mystery sauces bubbling together, fusing into something greater and more delicious than the sum of its parts. It is the smell of the eponymous Taco Manolo, a one-of-a-kind dish that has brought the restaurant fame and accolades.

Ènek poured a rosy-colored splash of wine into our glasses, avidly explaining how this particular Aladasturi grape vine was meticulously cultivated in its native west Georgia. In a tasting ritual uncommon in Georgia, we swirled it, sniffed it and savored the flavor as it caressed our tongues. Here in the “cradle of wine,” the land where viticulture is believed to have originated 8,000 years ago, wine is customarily poured into a water glass and “tasted” in one long drag, until drained. But in this cozy cellar in the heart of Tbilisi’s historic Sololaki neighborhood, seven winemakers have come together to offer an alternative convention to winemaking and consumption. They call it Vino Underground, but we call it wine heaven.

The dumpling station of a popular spot on our Street Eats Night Markets tour in Shanghai, where we investigate two markets for the best after-hours snacks.