I fell in love with the island of Kimolos the first time I set foot on it about 15 years ago, while sailing in the area. It’s small enough to get around on your own two feet and has an enchanting simplicity – I could easily picture myself retiring on the island, in a small whitewashed house with a wood-burning oven in the yard, raising a couple of goats and growing tomatoes and grapes. Part of the Cyclades, Kimolos sits right next to the larger island of Milos and small uninhabited islands like Polyegos, Agios Efstratios and Prasonisi. It has been continuously inhabited since at least the late Neolithic Age (5300-4500 B.C.), while legend has it that the island was named after its first inhabitant, Kimolos, the husband of Side, who was the daughter of Taurus.

Slices of strawberries bordered by pillowy puffs of pistachio cream. The fluted caramelized crust of custard-y canelés. Tidy layers of dark chocolate ganache, coffee buttercream and almond biscuits in an opera cake. The term “culinary arts” is at its most appropriate when considering the work of a pastry chef. Especially when the pâtisserie is hidden in the back of an art gallery. Parenthèse Enchantée is the second act for Nathalie Gnaegy. “Cooking was my weekend pastime,” she explains. Nourished by sharing food with her family and coworkers, she “progressively veered towards baked goods, more welcome at the office than a half-eaten whole tuna,” she winks. Her appreciative officemates insisted she should “bake professionally.”

It wouldn’t be an understatement to say that Turkey remains starkly divided on a range of issues, be it the controversial 2017 presidential system referendum or whether the classic scrambled egg dish menemen, which is always made with chopped green peppers and tomatoes, should also be prepared with onions. While the referendum squeaked through with 51 percent voting affirmative, the pro-onion camp narrowly edged past the naysayers by the same mark in a 2018 Twitter poll launched by popular food writer Vedat Milor, in which more than 430,000 people voted. (For the record, we prefer it soğansız). One thing that everyone can agree upon, at least those without gluten allergies, is that Ramazan pidesi, baked golden brown in the form a glorious puffy, chewy, robust disc topped with sesame seeds and/or çörek otü (nigella seeds), is delicious and something to look forward to.

Sunday, April 19, was Easter in the Orthodox Christian world, the holiest day of the year. Like most people in today’s pandemic world, Maka Shengelia, one of our walk leaders in Tbilisi, was home being a responsible citizen. But she was also spreading butter on her own freshly baked paska, Easter bread, popular in the Eastern Church. It is a tall, dome-shaped cake, inseparable from Easter’s other “edible decoration,” boiled eggs dyed a deep magenta with endro (madder root). God will forgive you for celebrating Easter without going to church, but commemorating it without red eggs and paska is another matter entirely.

During a busy evening on Main Street in Flushing, the sight of a food cart grilling skewers of meat doesn’t seem out of the ordinary on a thoroughfare filled with street vendors. After hanging around long enough, though, it becomes clear that this cart is different from similar ones up the block. The most obvious difference is its operator, Ekrem, a young man from western China’s Xinjiang region who shows an intense care for each and every skewer of his Uyghur-style barbecue. As he effortlessly and gracefully flicks the perfect amount of his secret spice blend on each bit of meat (all of which are quality cuts), he tells us that nothing in them is artificial, gesturing up the street to indicate that the others in the area do not have the same exacting standards.

One of the problems for travelers with celiac disease is that they often can’t taste local gastronomic specialties. This is particularly true in Naples, a city famed for its pizza and pastries, such as the mythical babà; pastiera, the queen of Neapolitan sweets; and the ancient sfogliatella. Until about 20 years ago, it was very difficult for someone with celiac disease to eat in Naples; the number of restaurants equipped for gluten-free cooking could be counted on one hand, and they often had to resort to processed food products sold in pharmacies.

The rustic Neapolitan tarallo, made of 'nzogna (lard), pepper and toasted almonds, is a true delicacy. It can be considered the first popular snack in Naples, a bite that combines the punch of black pepper with the sweetness of almonds, the whole united by lard. It’s a dangerous combination for the waistline, that’s for sure. Taralli are offered to celebrate a new home, shared with friends during soccer matches, enjoyed with one’s significant other on the rocky shore, given to guests at parties, taken aboard boats (it’s the very height of yuppiness to eat them accompanied by iced spumante while out at sea). Until a few years ago, taralli were sold by tarallers, roving vendors who carried a basket full of taralli on their heads.

We are in the Vasto district, a difficult to navigate maze of narrow streets that criss and cross, a market area squashed between Naples’ central station and Centro Direzionale, the business district. The district’s Via Nazionale, a street adjacent to the station, is a shrine to local gastronomic treasures, and we consider it a true paradise for lovers of good food. It’s a jewelry box of flavors, ideas, and unique and original products. The daily street market on Via Ferrara, another local artery, is one of the city’s most colorful and fascinating – mentioned several times in renowned author Elena Ferrante’s “My Brilliant Rriend.” It was here, in 2016, that Dario Troise brought to life a project 15 years, if not centuries, in the making: a panini bar that serves only cuzzetiello (which roughly translates to bread bowl sandwiches).

Behind the counter at Le Bon Pain in Queens Village, more often than not, is Ghislaine Clervoix, a woman in her 80s who has owned the place for more than 30 years. Ghislaine chats in English and Haitian Creole with her regular customers, a few of whom she’s known for decades and introduces as her “old-school friends.” Diminutive loaves of French bread are the namesake of the bakery, and plenty of customers come in to buy them fresh; the Clervoix family also bakes large quantities for supermarkets around Long Island and Queens. On a recent visit, though, the signature bread seemed like an afterthought to most customers, who were clamoring for the bakery’s patties.

While English speakers “bring home the bacon,” Spaniards “bring home the bread.” Indeed, bread plays a central role in Spanish and Catalan cuisine, acting almost as an essential ingredient in its own right, rather than simply playing the role of sidekick to other dishes. In Catalonia there are hundreds of bread varieties that are readily available, yet it is the rustic pa de pagès, “farm bread,” that is king. Take the iconic pa amb tomàquet, bread rubbed with tomato, olive oil and salt, used in sandwiches and as an accompaniment for tapas and meals. While all sorts of loaves can be used for this humble yet essential dish, afficionados consider pa de pagès to be the best.

Along Parsons Boulevard one cold night in January, a crowd of people in heavy winter coats line up for the buses that will take them to Rosedale, Hollis, and Pomonok. But behind a small storefront just steps away, Luna de Xelajú offers a transporting experience of a different kind, to somewhere much warmer. The restaurant’s front room resembles the classic New York City pizzeria counter, with pies sitting in a glass display case to be heated by the slice. They do a brisk business, and their slices are popular with a diverse crowd, but the pizzas are an afterthought for most of the place’s clientele, who come to Luna de Xelajú’s front counter for the Central American-style pan.

Bread may be fundamental to Portugal’s food culture, but over the last few years the baked goods landscape in the country has begun looking increasingly uniform, with fake neo-classic franchising playing no small part in its decline. Although many old and family-run bakeries can’t keep up with the competition – especially in the cities – there are a few initiatives kneading a small revolution. Courses, workshops and experimental research are creating a new class of future bakers who often rework old techniques. Among them is 21-year-old Diogo Amorim. Gleba, his bakery, with its contemporary look and historic techniques, attracts customers from all over Lisbon. It opened six months ago in Alcantara, a neighborhood that shows traces of many past lives, from industrial working-class to the aristocratic.