Cecina is a food for the road. In its most common form, the salted and dried meat can last for months, which explains why it was a main source of sustenance for travelers, sailors and soldiers in colonial Mexico. Nowadays, cecina is still known as a thin cut of cured meat – almost always beef – that can be eaten completely dry, similar to beef jerky. Yet in central Mexico, specifically in the state of Morelos, cecina is normally salted (tiny cuts are made in the meat and fine salt is added) and then sun dried and air cured for two or three days (the thin sheets are usually laid out on tables or hung over wires), before being grilled over charcoal.

Though Pedro Bandeira Abril is only 29 years old, he is anything but a rookie – and good thing, too. The chef, who was cooking family meals from the age of 16, is now in charge of the two restaurants at Chapitô, Lisbon’s circus school, which have grown immensely popular with locals in this pandemic summer, thanks to their prime location and outdoor seating. Chapitô has always had one of the best terraces in the city. The school, which opened in 1986, is nestled uphill on Costa do Castelo, close to the iconic castle of São Jorge, in a building that used to be a juvenile detention center. Led by circus legend Teresa Ricou, it has long played a very important role in the performing arts.

Though France shares a border with Belgium and sits across the English Channel from the UK, the country doesn’t have as big a beer culture as its neighbors. The French consume less than half of the European average of seventy liters per person. The trends have been shifting over the past few years, however, spurned by the deluge of microbrews in the United States and elsewhere. From 246 microbrasseries in 2016, France now has a whopping 1653 since the start of 2020. Marseille’s first microbrasserie, La Plaine, set sail in 2013 (the industrial La Cagole – whose bottles sport the city’s clichéd bimbo – doesn’t count). La Minotte followed in 2015. Then, in April 2018, we got our first bona fide brewpub: Zoumaï.

At a sleek counter, diners are perusing a menu of modern Vietnamese cuisine with a Japanese twist to be paired with sake. They might begin with something light – delicate rice paper rolls filled with shogayaki, ginger-fried pork and a Japanese home cooking classic – before moving onto a modest portion of motsuni, a dish of beef intestines stewed until tender. The chef smiles across the counter as he prepares the next dish, and then asks how they like the pairing with a robust yamahai sake. Just a few paces away, a similar scene is playing out at another counter restaurant and another, with diners hopping between them. Two floors of tiny restaurants are tessellated into a modern, stylish space. However, while the set-up might look like yet just another modern food hall, the underlying concept marks a growing trend within Tokyo’s dining scene to turn to the city’s past for inspiration.

As anyone familiar with Greek folk religious traditions and habits can tell you, communication between Greeks and their saints has traditionally been quite direct – saints are addressed with respect, of course, but also in a friendly and familiar manner. I myself have witnessed several people – almost always of the older generations – have a proper “conversation” (more like a monologue) with the saint of their choice. Each saint has a particular day on which they’re celebrated; in some places, large festivals are thrown in their patron saint’s honor, with people of all ages dancing and drinking wine until the early morning hours. Throughout the year, it’s common for Greeks to make special “deals” with their saints.

Sold by roving vendors, street carts and bakeries, spread with a triangle of soft cheese or tossed to circling seagulls from the ferry, the humble simit has become a quintessential symbol of Istanbul – and of Turkey more broadly. But there’s more to this sesame-coated bread ring that it may at first appear, as demonstrated by the reactions last autumn to a piece of unexpected news from abroad. “Hang out the flags!” Turkish food-delivery giant Yemeksepeti tweeted exuberantly when the Oxford English Dictionary announced in October 2019 that the word “simit” had been officially added as an entry, saving future translators from having to employ awkwardly inadequate substitutes such as “Turkish bagel” when writing in English about the popular snack. Amid the general celebrating on social media, however, one group of Turks was decidedly not pleased.

It may be on the outskirts of Naples, in the residential suburb of Fuorigrotta, but there’s still something about Pizzeria Cafasso that attracts clients, from famous directors to your average Joe (Giovanni, in this case). Certainly one big draw is it’s proximity to the San Paolo football stadium, one of the few things in Naples that is not dedicated to San Gennaro, the protector of the city for over a thousand years. It’s believed that San Paolo, or St. Paul, who was born in what is today Turkey and died in Rome, first made landfall in Italy in this spot, which is why the stadium was dedicated to him.

With the heat wave pushing the thermometer past the 90s, Marseillais are hitting the city’s beaches and cafés, where they cool off with limonade (sparkling lemonade), citron pressé (a glass of fresh-squeezed lemon in which you add water to your liking) or citronnade. The latter is lemonade in French, but in Marseille, it often means the bracing, whole-lemon beverage sipped across the Maghreb. Normally, we go to Chez Yassine for our citronnade. When the snack bar was closed for Eid al-Adha (the “Festival of Sacrifice,” one of Islam’s two main festivals), we ended up at Saf-Saf, another Tunisian spot down the street. It was listed on the menu as fait maison (homemade) citronnade, so we were surprised when the waiter brought over a sleek bottle.

With almost year-round sunny weather the norm in Athens, most venues have some sort of outdoor seating. Even during the coldest months of January and February, many people still choose to sit outside – if weather permits – with heaters beaming down on them. The options are seemingly endless – you can teeter on the sidewalk, hide away in a courtyard or relax in a luscious garden, with each setting providing a different vibe. Though it’s difficult to name the best spots, here are some of our favorite restaurants and bars with outdoor seating that we gravitate towards in the summer months (and particularly this summer, as the pandemic has forced us all outside). We tried to pick something for every kind of occasion, whether you’re looking for a terrace with a view, a hidden downtown oasis or an escape to the leafy suburbs.

In Kadıköy Kooperatifi, located on a residential street in Moda, a peaceful, almost sacred atmosphere reigns supreme. It’s a modest and sober place – quite different from the retail experience we’re accustomed to nowadays – but by no means dull. For months we had heard bits and pieces about the shop – a cooperative selling goods sourced directly from small producers across Turkey – before we finally decided to see it for ourselves, right before the pandemic hit Turkey. What we found was a small space that, despite the peace and quiet, was more bakkal – the corner store that plays an integral role in neighborhood life – than exclusive organic shop.

Sandwiched between Cours Julien and La Plaine, Rue Saint-Michel is stuffed with a smorgasbord of epicurean shops. Each window display is an edible advertisement: wheels of cheese at Art de la Fromagerie and mushroom-stuffed raviolis at Pâtes Fraiches et Raviolis Cédric Bianco tempting passersby behind the glass. The signless number 26 is more nondescript. From across the street, the mural of handymen above the storefront makes it seem like a hardware store. The jars of pickled vegetables beside the door say otherwise. Go inside, and you’ll find one of Marseille’s best épiceries.

We met Tega at a friend’s dinner table shortly after moving to Tbilisi in 2002. Tall, debonair, with dark puppy eyes and an ever-present Colgate smile, Tega made it a point from that first meeting to take us under his wing and introduce us to the best Tbilisi had to offer. That was how we first ended up at Salobie, near the ancient capital of Mtskheta. “This place is famous for its beans,” he said. “And its name is Beans!” he chortled (lobio means “beans” in Georgian, and salobie is “house of beans”). The restaurant felt like something between a museum and a summer mountain resort. We were in the original dining room, built next to a giant 300-year-old wooden house from Racha.

In the midst of lockdown, it sometimes felt as if we would never eat in a restaurant again. While we dreamed of visiting our favorite spots, greeting the owners warmly and sitting down for a long, satisfying meal, we never let ourselves imagine a future in which new restaurants opened, especially bold and exciting places like Kafeneion SI TI SI. Yet chef Alexandros (Alex) Tsiotinis let himself dream – the idea for this modern kafeneio (a traditional kafeneio being an all-day venue serving coffee, booze and mezes) was, in fact, born during lockdown. The owners of Senios, a meze restaurant located downtown, came to him with a proposal to join forces. Alex accepted and quickly began crafting a menu featuring his own takes on typical kafeneio mezes.

The linguistic variations in Spain’s 17 autonomous communities are as diverse as the local culinary specialties. In Barcelona, we can find examples of both. Take La Esquinica (“The Little Corner”), an iconic tapas bar with a fantastic terrace in Nou Barris, a neighborhood with a large immigrant population. Here, many of the tapas’ names (as well as the name of the bar itself) end in -ica or -ico, a traditional suffix used in the Teruel province of the Aragon region that functions as a diminutive and has become emblematic of the area. Jose María Utrillas, who hails from Aragon, established the bar in 1972, on the corner of Montsant and Cadí, although his brother-in-law Paco managed the placed. But in 1997, after their building was plagued with structural issues, they moved the bar to its current location.

If you ask a Marseillais where to cavort on the coast, most will respond, without hesitation, “the Calanques”: turquoise coves tucked between towering limestone cliffs that can only be reached by foot, boat or paddle. Spanning Marseille and Cassis, this national park gets all the glory – and tourist campaigns – for its jaw-dropping grandeur. But, north of the city, you’ll find more intimate calanques that also merit a visit: the Côte Bleue. Unlike the barely inhabited Calanques National Park, the “Blue Coast” is dotted with fishing villages anchored in blue coves, each one appearing to have been carved into the limestone hills. Some of the secluded ports are connected by hiking trails that weave between beach pines and the Mediterranean.