We’ve got a thing for small, family-run spots in Naples, particularly those that are multigenerational. If a restaurant or bakery or producer has been open for at least a century and has always stubbornly stood in the same place, continuity and quality of product are all but guaranteed. Take, for instance, Cantina del Gallo in Materdei. Established in 1898 and run by four generations of the Silvestri family, this is one of the few real outdoor taverns left in Naples. Over the years, this cozy, simple spot has attracted artists, intellectuals, musicians, travelers and many Neapolitan students looking for good food at reasonable prices.

There we are at Bodega Carlos, enjoying a homey and delicious batch of crispy fried anchovies and succulent stewed pork cheeks, when we suddenly hear birdsong. We look up, but neither canary nor nightingale can be seen flying around the high-ceilinged bodega-restaurant. But then the birdsong instantly switches to a sound we can best describe as a falling whistle, like the one that accompanies Wile E. Coyote as he falls from a cliff. Is it a bird, is it a plane, or is it a smartphone ringing with infinite improvised melodies? No, it is Carlos Estrada Roig, the owner of this friendly neighborhood bodega and an expert whistler.

We recently spoke to food historian and researcher Priscilla Mary Işın about her new book, “Bountiful Empire: A History of Ottoman Cuisine” (Reaktion Books; May 2018). She has previously published edited transcriptions of texts relating to Ottoman food culture and “Sherbet and Spice: The Complete Story of Turkish Sweets and Desserts” (2008), a social history of Ottoman sweets and puddings.

The neighborhood of San Miguel Chapultepec sits on the west end of Mexico City’s hipster corridor that runs east through Condesa and on to Roma. In the last decade, these neighborhoods have flowered with bars and restaurants fed by tourists and young people eager to impress. The corridor also had the terrible misfortune of being in the crosshairs of the 7.1 magnitude earthquake that struck the city shortly after 1 p.m. on September 19, 2017, toppling familiar buildings and sending all pretense crashing to the floor.

We had heard about Kiwi Vegan Café even before a dozen thuggish carnivores raided the little vegan restaurant in 2016, munching grilled meat, smoking cigarettes, throwing sausages and fish at customers and starting a brawl that spilled out onto the street. The incident grabbed international headlines, setting the café as a battleground of Western liberalism versus Georgian nationalist extremism. Indeed, many Georgians fear their identity is threatened by “non-traditional” values, such as homosexuality, non-Orthodox religions and electronic music culture. In a land that boasts of its longstanding virtue of tolerance we are seeing a rise in neo-fascist groups and xenophobia.

Several thousand years ago, or so the story goes in Naples, Lucifer and Jesus had a massive showdown in the rarified kingdom of heaven. After a raging session fueled by sibling rivalries, and which likely included satanic petulance and the occasional errant lightening bolt, God, as any parent of battling children can grasp, had had enough of the celestial brawling. One can almost imagine Jesus yelping, “He started it,” as Lucifer tosses a fireball in his direction. So God cast Lucifer into the depths of hell – consigning him to an eternity of fire, brimstone and heat. (In the original pagan legend, this quarrel was between Bacchus and Pluto; after Christianity swept across the region, Neapolitans changed the names of the main characters, but the story remained the same.)

Japanese cuisine is often the art of quiet subtlety, and to that end, salt is one of its greatest supporters. The freshest of fish can be highlighted with a splash of the correct salt; cold sake drunk from fragrant cedar vessels is well enhanced with salt on the rim; and even tempura is frequently not dunked in sauce but instead sprinkled with salt by serious connoisseurs of fried delicacies. Salt plays a very significant role in Japanese culture and religion. It is a sign of purification. Thus most sushi restaurants mound salt on both sides of the entrance to show the place is clean and pure. Sumo wrestlers will throw salt into the ring before a match. Japanese people frequently throw salt over the entrance to their homes to purify their households. We’ve even seen people with packets of salt in their car.

The diverse bay of the Sado River estuary, with its old port towns, cork oak groves, ancient rice fields, beaches and wildlife, is only around 45 minutes south of Lisbon, but feels a million miles away from the Portuguese capital. The history of this region – which includes the slightly gritty main city of Setúbal – goes back to Roman times, and it has had a strong connection to the ocean ever since. Fish salting has been key to Setúbal’s economy from the first century onwards, with port activities developing in the 15th century and later more industrial development, particularly fish canning, in the 19th century.

Georgia’s winemaking tradition has been making headlines since scientists announced, after 8,000-year-old jars bearing images of grape clusters and a man dancing were excavated in a dig south of Tbilisi, that the country is home to the world’s oldest wine. But long before this discovery was made public, filmmaker Emily Railsback and award-winning sommelier Jeremy Quinn were traversing Georgia to research the rebirth of these ancient winemaking traditions, which were almost lost during the period of Soviet rule. Railsback chronicled their deep dive into the world of family vintners and grape sleuths in the documentary Our Blood Is Wine, an official selection of the 2018 Berlinale International Film Festival.

The peripheral neighborhoods of Barcelona – untouched by tourism and with cheaper rents – are a land of opportunity for chefs seeking an affordable place to set up shop. These areas in turn attract gourmet gold seekers in pursuit of a brilliant meal at a friendly price. In the residential streets of Sants, not too far from the city’s main train station, one restaurant shines particularly bright, with its eclectic style, influences and, of course, flavors: MinE. MinE is a combination of combinations, beginning with the owner and head chef, Martin Parodi. Born in Buenos Aires, Parodi is the son of a Japanese father and an Italian mother. He grew up in Barcelona, studied in France and then worked in a number of European countries.

In 2001, we rented a room in Vera, near the Philharmonia, and the first thing we did after dumping our bags on the bed was find some coffee for the morning. The best we could score from the little neighborhood market was a can of Pele, a fine-ground instant coffee powder that seemed less toxic than Nescafé, which was also much more expensive. There were no coffeehouses in Tbilisi back then. Pretty much the only place you could find an espresso was at the Marriott and Prospero’s, an English language bookshop and expat hangout. Otherwise, there were little joints with “café” signs serving khachapuri and Turkish-style coffee brewed in little plastic electric kettles – providing there was electricity. That was Tbilisi’s coffee culture.

Nestled in a small cove that hides it from the nearby center of Sarıyer, not far from where the Bosphorus meets the Black Sea, Rumeli Kavağı is officially part of Istanbul yet has managed to keep the structure, atmosphere and relative isolation of a real village. The only apparent sign of the surrounding megalopolis is the sight of the massive Yavuz Selim Sultan Köprüsü, the third bridge to span the Bosphorus, opened in 2016. Over a quarter of the neighborhood’s almost 4,000 inhabitants are involved in the fishing business, an integral industry in a city that partly owes its worldwide fame to a long-standing meyhane culture. Dining on grilled fresh fish and sipping on a glass of cloudy rakı, particularly while watching the lights of the city dance on the Bosphorus, is one of Istanbul’s purest pleasures.

All morning, as we zoomed down south from Naples on a motorcycle, inky clouds threatened rain. So when we arrive at Rivabianca, a mozzarella di bufala cooperative in the village of Paestum, with our clothes still dry, we exhale deeply, not realizing that we had been holding our breath. Inside the dairy’s production center, separated from the small shop by large windows and a big metal door, it looks as if the rain has already come and gone – the tile floor is covered in water. “Wait just a sec, you’ll need these to go inside,” says Rosa Maria Wedig, the owner of Rivabianca, handing us two plastic bags. Before we can make a move, she’s bending down and shoving them on our feet, using duct tape to secure them around our ankles.

A few intrepid trajinera (gondola) operators sit along the Cuemanco Dock, waiting for tourists to take through the canals. We’re in Xochimilco, the southern-most borough of Mexico City. It’s a popular weekend destination for trajinera rides, when entire extended families float along the canals, drinking micheladas (beer cocktails) and eating elotes (grilled whole corn cobs) sold off canoes. But this weekday morning is quiet. As the morning fog burns off, we set out on a green, motorized trajinera into Xochimilco’s Natural Protected Area. Before it was a preferred weekend getaway for chilangos, Xochimilco was the agricultural heart of the Aztec capital Tenochtitlan. Our destination is a chinampa, a man-made agricultural plot that “floats” on the city’s shallow lakebeds.

Dozens of urban legends swirl around the city of Naples – strange stories repeated a thousand times that, somewhere along the line, become credible. One of those urban legends concerns biscotti all’amarena, or black cherry cookies: people often say that they are made from day-old cakes. To create this typical Neapolitan sweet, bakers chop up pan di spagna (sponge cake) – the bit that is supposedly reused – and then mix it with black cherry syrup, cocoa and cinnamon. The mixture is then covered with a short-crust pastry shell and baked as a loaf, after which they’re cut into small rectangles.