In the heat of the summer, there’s nothing quite like settling into a breezy spot close to vast blue of the Tagus River with some friends and a few snacks. But due to the city’s hills and its construction projects, it’s not always easy to find a nice place for a picnic close to the river. One consistently good spot, though, is Tapada das Necessidades, previously a royal park. It’s also conveniently close to the Alcântara neighborhood, home to some of our favorite food and wine shops. While we aren’t currently permitted to drink in public places – a new Covid-19 measure – we can still picnic with amazing produce while overlooking the river and the 25th April Bridge.

In post-Covid times, Neapolitans have been spending more time outdoors, lounging on the grass, letting the children play and, of course, having a bite to eat. And it’s possible to do all this in the city, without having to go “out of town.” Obviously grilling, lighting fires and complex preparations are prohibited. So for now we have to settle for a simpler marenna, which is the Neapolitan word for “snack” – sandwiches and prepared dishes, mostly. Here are three of my favorite parks in the city to picnic at as well as nearby rotisseries where you can stock up on typically Neapolitan flavors.

Editor’s note: As summer heats up, we’re looking to get outside. So we asked our contributors to write about their favorite spots to eat outdoors as well as nearby shops to fill a picnic basket for Picnic Week 2020. The greatest picnic in my life was at an elevation of 6,100 feet in the Tushetian village of Omalo for Mariamoba, Assumption Day, 2001. Sheep were escorted three times around the local chapel before being slaughtered in a ritualistic “sacrifice,” then butchered into chunks and boiled in a cauldron for khashlama, a type of stew, and ground into khinkali meat. Toast after toast of wine and chacha brought from the Kakheti lowlands made for the greatest bacchanalia in the name of the Virgin Mary, ever. In the morning, bodies littered the meadow, fetal and sprawled, where their last stumbling steps dropped them on their way home like sacks of boneless flesh.

Editor’s note: Farideh Aziz Meswadeh is a Palestinian entrepreneur who lives in Turkey. She studied information technology at the Higher Institute for Applied Sciences and Technology in Damascus, but eventually found her true passion in the kitchen. After graduating from the Livelihoods Innovation through Food Entrepreneurship (LIFE) Project, a training program that teaches refugees in Turkey the basics of entrepreneurship and helps them make connections in the Turkish food sector, she now handles administrative tasks and public relations for her mother’s catering business, Mama’s Kitchen. Since the pandemic has led to an uptick in home cooking, we asked Farideh to share one of her favorite dishes. Here is her recipe for maqluba, which is famous in Palestine and made of rice, fried eggplant and usually chicken.

Fanis Theodoropoulos grew up regularly visiting his father’s deli on Evripidou, the so-called “spice street” in the vibrant Central Market area. His father Dimitris, or “Barba-Mitsos,” as they called him, ran the tiny shop until 2002, when Fanis took over. Although they now offer a wide selection of meats and cheeses, sourced from artisanal producers all over the country, the hole-in-the-wall shop mainly sold air-dried cured meats like pastourma and soutzouki, as well as salami from Lefkada island until the 1980s. With these cured meats as a foundation, Fanis has built a small empire of delis – most recently an expansive “workshop” in the Monastiraki neighborhood – that draw from long-held culinary traditions.

When épiceries first set up shop in France in the Middle Ages, they predominantly sold spices – les épices, as their name implies. In the 19th century, they added foodstuffs on their shelves, evolving into magasins d’alimentation générale. Some of these general stores are North African-owned corner shops. Open 24/7, they play an indispensable, yet oft-unsung role in the social fabric of a neighborhood (similar to NYC’s bodegas and Lisbon’s minimercados.) Others are épiceries fines, offering gourmet goods and seasoned advice on how to cook with them. Unlike impersonal supermarkets that sell pre-sliced salami suffocating in plastic, these intimate shops spark a conversation on the difference between coppa and bresaola. Épicerie l’Idéal fits somewhere in between, both a community fixture and culinary wonderland.

In February, Nora Galleros and her partners at Kape’t Torta were concerned about crowds. Recently the bakery had added a line of pandesal, Filipino “salt bread” – actually, it’s sort of sweet – that often is bought in batches to share with family and friends. Expecting that their new ube cheese pandesal, colored by purple yam and filled with mild cheddar, would be a big seller, Nora and her partners insisted that customers place their orders before arrival. They didn’t want customers to have to line up outside the bakery, huddling together in the cold. Poor weather is now a minor worry. The pandemic that swept into Queens exacted a terrible toll on many families – among them, the family of Nora’s partner Jeanette Uy, who in April lost her husband to Covid-19.

A grim sense of irony checked my delight at discovering one of my favorite restaurants had begun offering a lunch menu. Arossa Shibuya, a small, cozy restaurant that prides itself on excellent Australian meat and wine, stopped daytime service over a year ago, long before the coronavirus crisis. But as a sign of the times, they have resurrected their offering, beefing up the course and the price, likely as a bid to reel in more revenue. Watching the global pandemic unfold from Tokyo has jarred uneasily with a surreal sense of continuity across the city. Whereas several countries were under strict lockdown, Tokyoites were requested to show “self-restraint” and avoid the three Cs: crowds, closed spaces and close-contact settings.

One communal dish in the middle of the table attracting various fingertips and forks – it’s an image common to numerous countries. From tagine in Morocco to wot in Ethiopia, mezes in the Mediterranean and the Middle East to banchan in Korea, sharing plates is a defining feature of many culinary cultures. In Spain, the quintessential shared-plate experience is tapas, with paella a close second. And what’s not to love about eating this way? It brings us together, it’s more indulgent, as it gives everyone the chance to try everything, and it reduces food waste. Furthermore, research has found that eaters who consumed food together from a common plate or bowl are more cooperative and less competitive, making it easier for them to agree on controversial issues.

Amidst the uncertainty and turmoil caused by the coronavirus crisis, it’s easy for the days to blend together. Yet for many Oaxacans, the weekends are still distinct, mainly because of the pleasurable fin de semana (weekend) meals that allow family and friends to gather, reset and reenergize for the coming week. There is nothing more soothing than informal comfort food, which is often on the menu for these meals. “Although such food is not complicated to cook, on a Friday evening or a slow Sunday afternoon all you want is to chill and forget about cooking,” says Miguel Mijangos, head chef and co-owner of Ancestral, a traditional Oaxacan restaurant located in the picturesque neighborhood of Xochimilco.

The officials from the Ministry of Health came late in the evening on a Friday night and entered Tbilisi’s popular gastro-entertainment complexes Fabrika and Ghvinis Karkhana-Wine Factory #1. They knew there would be a lot of people here celebrating life again after two and a half months in lockdown. They also understood that even with tables spaced two meters apart, as required, it is difficult to control social distancing after people have had a few drinks. For authorities looking to tally up some fines, it was like shooting ducks in a wine barrel. A total of 16 establishments were fined 10,000 lari ($3,273) in what restaurant owners have described as “raids” two weekends ago for violating Covid-19 regulations. Among the six places at Ghvinis Karkhana that were penalized was Number 8 BBQ House for not having a list of employee temperatures and violating social distancing rules.

Despite Greece’s small size, the country has many different regional cuisines, with Greek island cuisine – particularly that of the Cyclades, which is rooted in simplicity and seasonality – being one of my favorites. The small, dry islands developed a kind of cucina povera, or “peasant cooking,” that was influenced in part by the Venetians, who governed the islands for over 300 years, and based on the few basic ingredients they could grow without much water, or without water at all: tomatoes, eggplants, watermelons, zucchinis, figs and grapes, all of which tend to be smaller in size but full of flavor.

Screens, social distancing, masks, constant cleaning, diminished room capacity, “Covid-free” stamps… gloves? Are gloves still in the protocol or is hand sanitizer enough? What exactly are the municipality’s formal requirements for opening or expanding a terrace? Why are restaurants across the board forced to operate at 40 percent capacity for indoor seating when the alternative – requiring a certain amount of space between tables – would allow places with larger rooms to do more business? These are the questions that surface in our conversations with Barcelona’s restaurant owners as they try to get back on their feet. Josep María Solé, co-owner of the iconic La Cova Fumada in La Barceloneta, recounts having to ask a client at the door to put on their mask before coming inside – otherwise, they risk a fine from the City Council.

My love affair with the Deserter’s Bazaar began in 2001 when I first wandered into the marketplace like a pie-eyed flower child on his very first acid trip. The air seethed with leaded exhaust, stinky cheese, stale body odor and the incessant honking of jalopies. Streets and sidewalks disappeared under tables and blankets displaying everything from village produce and contraband alcohol to Dostoevsky novels and wooden utensils. Shoulder-to-shoulder, people bumped and shuffled and haggled while sweaty men with cigarettes hanging from their lips parted the mass with iron push carts. I returned to Georgia the next year and, as luck would have it, shacked up with a friend a block away from the market, which became my playground. Six somewhat square blocks selling anything you could put a tag on.

Perched at the northern tip of Marseille, the fishing port of L’Estaque has drawn diverse groups throughout the decades. In the last half of the 19th century, bourgeois Marseillais would tram from the city center to eat bouillabaisse and swim on its shores. When the industrial era launched in 1820, L’Estaque housed workers from the nearby factories where traditional Provençal terra cotta tiles were made. From the late 19th century to the early 20th century, the diverse landscape and the incredible light lured painters from the north like Braques and Cézanne, who compared the sloping village to a “playing card” with its “red roofs against a blue sea.” But since the 1930s, people have flocked to L’Estaque for another reason: the fried snacks.