Though Paris is littered with brasseries boasting classic French cuisine, Marseille lacks restaurants that solely specialize in our traditional fare – a mix of Provençal garlic, tomatoes, and olive oil and the freshly caught delights of the Mediterranean. When we lamented this at a dinner party the other night, a woman chimed in, “What about Paule et Kopa?” We had never heard of it despite its central locale. She raved that the supions à la provencale (garlic, parsley squid) were the best in the city. Then continued, “but I rarely share that for fear it will lose its simple charm.”

Ergenekon Avenue, the busy, one-way street that separates the Istanbul quarters of Kurtuluş and Pangaltı, is particularly bustling at the Osmanbey metro exit. For years now, the heavy foot traffic has outgrown its narrow sidewalks, peaking into an insurmountable throng at evening rush hour. On one side is an expansive walled Levantine Catholic cemetery, while the other side of the avenue marks the beginning of Kurtuluş, with its dead-straight residential backstreets running in parallels. These have quickly become home to an array of bars, cafes, restaurants and meyhanes that have popped up within the past several years and seem to keep multiplying. But nestled into a small storefront on the crowded Ergenekon is Pangaltı Sandviç, a tiny delicatessen that has been selling sandwiches made with top-notch ingredients since 1996, long before any of these newcomers.

Tanini Agapi Mou may be one of the most ambitious wine bars in Athens’s growing wine scene. But nothing about it feels pretentious.   Plants hang from the ceiling and windows, growing wildly and draping the store in green. The furniture is simple, with tables crafted by independent producers out of highly-sustainable birchwood. The music that fills the room is a mix that spans genres, but is a pleasant background sound to the clinking of glasses. The employees don’t wear uniforms, and when they talk about the menu, their enthusiasm is real. 

In the Yayladere district of Bingöl, one of Turkey's eastern provinces, nestled in a valley in the foothills of the mountains known by the local Kurdish population as Silbûs û Tarî, lies the village of Conag. Come summer, the women of the village carry out a tradition that has been upheld in the region for some three centuries: rolling out and then drying a type of noodle known as êrişte. They come together every year in September to roll out the dough made with flour, salt and water, to be sun-dried and finally cut into square-shaped pieces to be used as the main ingredient of the traditional noodle, yogurt and wild thyme soup gêrmiya êrişte. The softer sunlight at this time of year is perfect for drying êrişte (pronounced eh-rish-te) without it cracking.

In Porto, francesinhas are everywhere. The monster-sized sandwich of white bread with steak, ham, cured cold cuts, and melted cheese smothered in a beautiful spicy sauce is a ubiquitous dish that says a lot about the city. When he first visited Porto, Anthony Bourdain asked after eating an entire francesinha with fries: "What is the rate of coronary disease in this country?" He didn't know at the time that, more than clogging the arteries, the beloved local dish warms local hearts. It also generates lively discussions. Every Porto inhabitant has their preferences: some like their francesinha with more sauce or even with a fried egg on top; others prefer different types of bread, from brioche to crusty bread roll. It is impossible, therefore, to reach a consensus on which venue serves the best francesinha in the city.

At Moltivolti, a restaurant and coworking space located in the Ballarò district of Palermo, a large wooden panel on which a map of the earth is drawn hangs on the wall. Lines of red thread spread out from each continent, connected to other countries, other cities, other coasts. The threads, hundreds of them, form a tangle, representing human migrations from one part of the planet to another, and the dreams of people who have crossed seas and borders. Above this map read the words: "My land is where my feet stand." This is the Moltivolti motto. The idea was born in 2014 on a beach in Senegal when a group of friends thought of opening a place in Palermo that was both a restaurant and a coworking space – a place that could welcome anyone from anywhere in the world.

The Gion district of Kyoto embodies the romanticism that surrounds Japan’s ancient capital. Filled with machiya (traditional long wooden houses), it harbors several “teahouses,” where geiko — the Kyoto term for geisha – entertain their high-class guests with quick-witted conversation and skilled musical performances. Yet just north of Shijo Street, the neighborhood evolves into a very different kind of entertainment area. Narrow alleyways are filled with small bars, many of which are kyabakura, hostess clubs that sell the fantasy of female attention. It’s a pocket of Kyoto where one needs confidence or an introduction to open many a door. And it’s also hiding one of the city’s best kept ramen secrets.

We were surprised to learn that Jack Dempsey’s restaurant was named after Richard “Jack” Dempsey, a straw hat wearing, cigar chomping former police reporter for the defunct States-Item newspaper, and not after the professional boxer Jack Dempsey, famously known as the Manassa Mauler. Dempsey’s, which occupies a white, converted double shotgun house across from the now deserted F. Edward Hebert Defense Complex, is a throwback to a different era of New Orleans, when neighborhood restaurants dominated the landscape, and you never had to walk too far to get a good meal.

Editor’s note: Alfonso Cuarón’s film “Roma,” set in Mexico City between 1970 and 1971, is expected to win big at the Oscars this weekend – it’s up for ten awards. To celebrate the movie’s success, we’re republishing our 2013 review of La Casa del Pavo, where the main character, Cleo, goes to have a sandwich with her co-worker on their day off and meet up with their boyfriends. Not only is this spot one of the few from the film that is still in business, it is almost completely unchanged. The bird that holds pride of place at the Thanksgiving table has just as important a role south of the border. Turkey has actually been a fundamental part of Mexican cooking for centuries: The Aztecs had domesticated the fowl before they had even laid eyes on a chicken.

“It’s not enough,” says the waiter at O Pascoal. We had inquired if one dish would be sufficient for three people, and his reply is immediate, firm and confident. We take his advice, order another, and the two dishes are easily enough for six people (we are three). We are in Fajão, an aldeia do xisto, “schist village,” in inland, central Portugal’s Beira region – about a two-and-a-half hours’ drive from Porto, or around three hours from Lisbon – and this interaction is the perfect introduction to the almost comically hearty cuisine of this area.

Salty, sticky, and above all pungent, dambalkhacho certainly isn’t for the fainthearted. But for iron-nostrilled khinkali-lovers, the soft, moldy cheese is one of the main attractions at Asi Khinkali, a cozy cellar restaurant in Tbilisi's Marjanishvili district. Made in the mountains, dambalkhacho is challenging to find in the city, but Asi Khinkali has it on the menu both fried and hidden inside their delicious khinkali. Friends Lasha Kozhrisvhili and Paata Jorjikia opened Asi Khinkali three years ago, right at the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic. “At the start, we had a little space just for online takeaway orders and then we moved here two years ago,” explains manager, Levan Shadize.

In ancient times, the murex shell, “porphyra” in Greek, was the source of a beautiful dye so rare and costly to produce that it was only used for royalty – the royal purple. Three years ago, in Athens’ northern suburb of Melissia, a restaurant calling itself Porphyra opened, preparing high-quality seafood with a creative yet accessible flair – no foam or unrecognizable frills. We have yet to taste a dish there that was less than scrumptious and because we have been following the career of owner, Christos Cjoncari, for 20 years now, we wanted to find out how he does it. When we first met, he was in his late teens, a waiter at Kali Parea, a popular fish place in Nea Erythraia.

Entering Mandy Meydan, a Yemeni restaurant in Başakşehir, a middle-class neighborhood of gated communities in Istanbul, we encountered a dizzying cluster of cubicles, each holding diners seated on a carpeted floor and eating family style. Amid the din of laughter and clanging metal platters, we quietly called out for our Yemeni friend Abdo. He opened the door to our jalsa, or sitting room, and welcomed us in to rest on the floor. As we shifted around hulking pillows and colorful cushions to prepare for our feast, Abdo, always-smiling, asked us what we would like. Mandi from Hadramout, zurbian from Aden, or fahsa from Sana’a? The list went on. “Open the menu and look. It’s a culinary map of Yemen,” he said with a toothy grin.

Six days a week, Pan con Madre buzzes with activity, filled with the irresistible scents of rows and rows of freshly baked sourdough bread and other treats. While today this is one of Oaxaca’s most interesting and popular bakeries, the road to success for Pan con Madre has been a long journey of experimentation, risk taking and innovation. In 2015, a very inspired Jorge Rodrigo Ocampo, now 38, arrived in Oaxaca City with the idea to open a space where he could put all his bread-baking knowledge into action. During his university years he had complemented his biology studies with a part-time job as photojournalist for newspapers in Guadalajara, Querétaro, and his hometown of León, but it was baking that truly captured his imagination.

Pastory is located on Via Sammartino, in an affluent area of Palermo; however, this fresh pasta shop has its roots in revolution. It all began in 1968, a year marked by emancipatory struggles in France and beyond, which were reshaping societal norms and providing women with new avenues for participation and empowerment. Inspired by this transformative era, Serena Sabatino's grandmother, Angelina di Carluccio, made the decision to migrate from Naples to Palermo. Accompanied by her husband, Raffaele Sabatino, who had secured employment in Sicily, Angelina brought with her a wealth of knowledge about the Neapolitan art of pasta fresca all'uovo (fresh egg pasta).