The flames of the late afternoon New Orleans sun flickered around Chef Chris Blanco like a piece of meat on the grill, the blistering heat a harbinger of the record highs that would soon engulf New Orleans and the Gulf South. But Blanco, a native of Bogota, Colombia, appeared cool as he carefully constructed arepas, topping the cheese-stuffed, cornmeal-dough disks with marinated grilled steak or chicken and a bright cilantro sauce. Fried plantains provided a welcomingly sweet counterpoint to the dense, savory arepas. It was the final show of the season at the Music Box Village in the 9th Ward, a quirky art installation of musical houses that can be played like instruments, and Blanco’s popular Colombian street food pop-up, Waska, was the featured food vendor, and he was busy.

Life can take some unexpected turns. This is how Adrián Rubio – originally from Aragón province, where he studied cooking – ended up in Barcelona. Perhaps it was the strong wind known as cierzo, which blows from the Pyrenees and down through his native land to the southwest , that carried him here to open a restaurant where the recipes change every day. A chef has to be tough and creative enough to face such a powerful force. Adrián Rubio is just that kind of chef, and he decided to name his new personal project, opened in 2017, after that wind.

Tbilisi, as part of Eastern Georgia, has always been geographically, culturally and gastronomically far from the nearest shores – those of the Black Sea. Here, the closest you can get to the feeling of the sea while is strolling along the “Tbilisi Sea,” a big reservoir opened by the Soviet authorities in 1953. Located on the northern edge of the city, it boasts a public and a private beach and even a sailing club. Most restaurants in town, along with well-known Georgian dishes, usually serve just one type of fish: trout, which often comes from fish farms.

In the last few years, a handful of new restaurants, cafes and bars have popped up in the cozy, breezy neighborhood around the Byzantine church of Agioi Theodoroi in central Athens, built during the 11th century. Diagonally across from the old church stands a beautiful and newly refurbished Art Deco building from 1936. The building’s main entrance leads to an internal arcade, as is common in most non-residential buildings of central Athens. At the entrance of the arcade, as is the custom, we read the name of the arcade engraved on the white-gray marble: “Megaron Papathanasiou” (Papathanasiou Hall). If the name Papathanasiou doesn’t ring a bell, let us help. Vangelis Papathanasiou (1943-2022), or simply Vangelis, as he was mostly known abroad, was one of the most internationally acknowledged Greek musician/composers, best known for his Academy Award-winning score to Chariots of Fire (1981).

The bubbling of a miniature waterfall melds with the twitter of birds and the sounds of the cats that chase them in the Asociación México Japonesa (The Mexican Japanese Association)’s outdoor gardens. A hodgepodge of cypress trees, elephant’s foot plants, and ferns frame the koi ponds surrounded by red umbrellaed tables. Once an area strictly for members of the AMJ, the outside patio now fills with diners of all stripes enjoying an afternoon at Restaurante ICHI, the association’s highly acclaimed restaurant. It all started in July of 1956 when a group of 20 Japanese immigrants and local Mexicans interested in Japanese culture decided to form the Asociación México Japonesa on a plot of land in the Las Águilas neighborhood.

Those returning to Porto along the Luís I Bridge will notice a set of terraces to their right decorated with colored garlands, flags and string lights, as if someone forgot to take down their decorations after the June 23 São João festival, the city’s largest celebration. The garlands and flags stay up all year, though, and are the easiest way to find one of Porto’s most interesting hidden gems: the Guindalense Futebol Clube, home to some of the city’s best views. The story begins, at least officially, in 1976, when the club was founded as a place for amateur footballers and other athletes in the Guindais neighborhood.

With a main terminal of 1.44 million square meters, the new Istanbul Airport (IST) takes a lesson from its home city, paying homage to the gods of unnecessary sprawl and shopping malls. Rather than waste away under the fluorescent lights paying triple the price on duty free and forcing down disappointingly dry pide, store your bags for a few bucks and head out into the city for some unforgettable meals and sights. When circling into IST or the Asian side of the city’s Sabiha Gökçen Airport (SAW), the unending view of building upon building will tell you immediately: Istanbul is not the city to hop on a bus and see what happens.

Surrounded by a vast garden, Almú sits just outside San Martín Tilcajete, a village about half an hour from Oaxaca City. The open-air restaurant is filled with secondhand furniture and smoke from the wood used for cooking. Almú is bordered on one side by abandoned fields and, on the other side, by a forest of copal trees. The wood from this tree, native to the Oaxacan Central Valleys region, is used to make alebrijes – brightly colored wooden sculptures of fantasy creatures, and a traditional craft for which San Martín is famous. The Mexican folk art was born back in 1936 when an artist from Mexico City, Pedro Linares, fell ill. In an unconscious state, he saw rare animals in his dreams which became inspiration for these handmade, dream-like animals.

We’re in a small café in Lisbon’s Madragoa neighborhood, and all of the disparate dishes loading down the table in front of us – small bread-like balls, a dish that resembles a small crepe, granola studded with flakes of grains, a pudding-like dessert – have one ingredient in common: cassava. “Cassava is known as the Queen of Brazil,” says Laila Ferreira Soares. “Everyone eats it, it’s always present.” Laila, a native of Brazil, along with her partner, Gregory Busson, a Frenchman, are the pair behind Uaipi, a new café/market in Lisbon with a focus on this particular ingredient.

For more than a decade, Pedro Rodriguez has earned a loyal following at La Esquina del Camarón Mexicano, currently in Jackson Heights, for his cócteles. Literally "cocktails" featuring shrimp or other seafood, Pedro's are fashioned in the style of Veracruz, a port city on the Gulf of Mexico. He's visited Veracruz just once, however, and only briefly, as an adult. Pedro's defining encounter with that city's cuisine was many years earlier, far from the coast.

After the merriment of sakura cherry blossoms has faded, bringing with it the dreary Japanese rainy season, the hot, humid days of July and August follow shortly thereafter. When summer temperatures and the humidity reach a point of sticky and awful, Japanese people tend to change their diet so as to shake off natsubate, the physical fatigue of summer. In a country where the main religion is nature-worshipping Shinto, most people practice the custom of shun: celebrating nature’s cycles and each season’s profusion of food. Loosely translated, “shun” means the height of nature’s abundance. Each of Japan’s fruits, vegetables and also animal proteins has its own shun, and in the essential and enduring wisdom of Japanese cuisine, that has influenced the preparation of Japanese food for thousands of years.

On a mid-June night, one Istanbul kitchen buzzed with Turkish, Arabic and English spoken simultaneously. All women in the kitchen were from Hatay, a province which they – like many other locals – prefer to call Antakya, and which was heavily affected by the earthquakes earlier this year. Delicacies of their hometown filled the pots and pans on the stove, and the fires burning under them increased the already high temperature in the room. Ayda Suadioğlu, a chef from Antakya, was sweating in the hot kitchen, yet she was determined to get everything ready for the night ahead. If anyone doubted whether they needed more butter or olive oil, how fine they should cut the za’atar, or whether the köfte in the oven was ready, Ayda knew the answer.

Naples has a lot of iconic eateries and shops, but one of the lesser-known city icons is the kiosk of the fresh-water-seller. Scattered throughout the city, the banks of the acquafrescai – some of which are very famous – sell various mineral waters and refreshments. These kiosks were born to provide relief in the summer months, and for that reason they are widespread in other southern Italian cities, particularly in the Sicilian cities of Palermo, Catania and Syracuse, where the coolness of a granita, a semi-frozen dessert made from sugar, water and various flavorings, counters the oppressive heat.

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.

I first met Socorro Irinea Valera Flores years ago, when Oaxaca was not yet under the spotlight of the culinary industry. As part of a high school project in which I had to map Oaxaca’s most “heartwarming” spots for food and drinks, I visited the iconic Aguas Casilda, a nearly 100-year-old storefront that has been selling aguas frescas (fruit-flavored water) to at least three generations of Oaxacan families. The idea of fruit-flavored water might sound strange to foreigners, and unremarkable to most Mexicans (the beverages are common throughout the country, albeit with a more reduced variety). But in Oaxaca, aguas frescas – essentially a mix of fresh fruit pulp, plain water, and some sugar if needed – are synonymous with freshness and excitement, given the selection of different flavors made from the myriad of fruits that grow locally.