The Chinese have appreciated the finer qualities of roast duck for millennia, and in that time, they’ve refined their cooking techniques into a virtual art form. The first mention of roast duck (烤鸭, kǎoyā) dates back to the Northern and Southern dynasties (A.D. 420–589). By the Yuan Dynasty (1206-1368), the tawny bird was gracing the tables of mandarins and emperors in then-capital Nanjing, and imperial kitchen inspector Hu Sihui mentioned it in The Complete Recipes for Dishes and Beverages, published in 1330, along with a record of how the duck was cooked.

In Piraeus there is a tacit agreement among locals to keep treasured taverns and restaurants hidden, lest they be overrun by the tourists arriving on the cruise ships that dock in town. This is particularly true of Keratsini, a neighborhood on the outskirts of the port city. In 1922, Keratsini became home to Greek refugees driven out of Smyrna, the coast of the Sea of Marmara and Constantinople during fighting between Greece and the nascent Turkish state. At first, these immigrants were treated poorly and suffered poverty and hardships, but eventually they became a vital part of the Greek population.

In Shanghai, a pretty surefire way to tell whether a dining establishment deserves your attention or not is by the presence of a line in front of it. (A corollary might be that the amount of attention the place deserves is commensurate with the size of the line.) Lao Shaoxing Doujiang passes the test. This ramshackle stand in the Huangpu district serves traditional breakfast foods all night long. Until recently, the stand was run by a granny in her nineties who would ladle out bowls of hot soy milk (豆浆, dòujiāng) into the wee hours of the morning. She retired this year, but her less-than-friendly son has taken over, and the buzz remains (as does the inevitable line).

We’ve written a great deal about all thetraditionalCatalan, Basque and Spanish food around town, but what about the modern, globally influenced cooking that’s taken hold in the food capitals of the world – of which Barcelona is certainly one? La Pepita is a prime specimen, with its passionate, creative young owners and food that, while anchored in the tapas tradition, reinterprets classic dishes through the cross-pollination of other cultures’ ingredients and ideas.

When the aptly named Cleopatra Theodoulou opened her restaurant, Alexandria, in the downtown Mouseio district in 1999, she not only helped in the revival of a once posh neighborhood that had fallen on hard times – she also created a vibrant culinary link to her family’s cosmopolitan past.

At first glance, Bodega Manolo seems like the usual wine shop/tapas bar that Barcelona does so well: a solid place to replenish our wine stocks from the barrels, quench our thirst with a cold caña or satisfy our hunger pangs with a vermut and a tapa or two of oil-drenched anchovies. None of which sound too shabby. However, we know to venture through to the rear, where, at dinnertime, the brilliant white tablecloths reveal the venue’s greater ambitions.

It’s been two weeks of cycling through China’s Qinghai province, and the food selection is slim. The majority of the province sits on the vast Tibetan Plateau, well above the tree line in conditions too harsh for significant cultivation. Yaks graze on well-trampled grass as far as the eye can see, with white yurts and colorful prayer flags dotting the hillsides and each summit pass. By Chinese standards, six million inhabitants in the country’s fourth-largest province make Qinghai practically deserted. For long stretches, only nomadic yak herders can be spotted between the tiny villages. Stopping for a roadside lunch in the small, isolated towns inevitably means a bowl of either mutton or yak chopped-noodle soup (羊肉面片, yángròu miàn piàn or 毛牛肉面片, máo niúròu miàn piàn). Served up in a tomato-chili broth, it’s a tasty meal, but repeated daily, it inevitably becomes tiresome. Additional ingredients sometimes includes julienned zucchini or green peppers, depending on the remoteness of the particular town and their staggered vegetable shipments. After just one week, we’re eagerly awaiting more fruitful pastures, and Sichuan province, located just to the east on our route, is a culinary paradise.

At the dusty eastern edge of the Taklamakan Desert, the ancient city of Dunhuang marked the intersection of the northern and southern parts of the Silk Road. Meaning “Bright Beacon,” Dunhuang was a historical refuge for weary travelers peddling their wares along the trade route, and this confluence of cultures influenced the ancient city’s cuisine. Merchants brought spices and cooking techniques from the West that combined with Chinese imperial culinary traditions and local ingredients.

It is puzzling that Istanbul, a city of some 15 million people with an increasingly lavish lifestyle, a world-famous cuisine and a booming tourism industry, has so little sparkle when it comes to fine dining. We’re surprised that the Prime Minister himself has not jumped into the culinary scrum by demanding no fewer than three Michelin stars from every restaurant. The city still has yet to answer with one.

Dining at Buddhist temples in China can be a disappointing experience. Too often, these halls of worship have been turned into tourist traps that solicit enough donations to keep the monks in expensive trainers, meat-based meals and high-end smart phones. Independent Buddhist restaurants, like Wu Guan Tang (五观堂), are a breath of fresh air, maintaining the tenets of the religion while offering quality vegetarian food in a peaceful environment.

In 1922, reporting for the Toronto Daily Star from the borderlands of the Thrace region, Ernest Hemingway wrote of a “Silent, Ghastly Procession” of Christian refugees fleeing the advance of “the Turk.” The literature and art of the Christian Anatolians exiled in this period – from the films of Angelopoulos to the genre of Rembetiko music itself – is considerable and no doubt strengthens the identity of this diaspora today.

Perhaps nothing epitomizes Rio de Janeiro’s hedonistic approach to cuisine more than a popular deep-fried finger food: the pastel. A bite into one of these fresh, crispy stuffed dough pockets – which range from a palm-sized crescent moon to a rectangle as big as a dinner plate – releases a blow of hot steam that envelops the diner’s face in an aromatic cloud carrying the fragrance of the decadent fillings inside.

When Julián Fernández and Carmen Erdocia moved to Barcelona in 1996, they bought an old fútbol salon in the Eixample that was named Táctica, or “tactics,” in a reference to Spanish football. Julián and Carmen began serving pintxos such as tortilla de bacalao (Spanish omelet with codfish) to hungry futboleros. Eventually, the venue became so popular that they decided to convert Táctica into a Basque restaurant specializing in pintxos. The name was easy: Taktika Berri means “new tactics” in Basque.

Piraeus holds the distinction of being Greece’s biggest port, as well as the largest passenger port in Europe. Although it is a mere 20-minute train ride from downtown Athens, most Athenians think of Piraeus with a reverence reserved for a foreign country. There is just something almost mythic about this ancient port, which has been in existence since the 5th century B.C. – the famous opening line of Plato’s Republic is, after all, “I went down to the Piraeus yesterday.” In the modern period, the greater Piraeus area – home to a population of about half a million in Piraeus proper, along with a number of suburbs – has witnessed dizzying highs and lows, especially over the past century. The area has been a major destination for immigrants from elsewhere in Greece, including the islands and the Peloponnese. One of the biggest population expansions came after 1922, when vast numbers of Greek refugees fleeing Asia Minor (modern-day Turkey) migrated to the area and established new working-class neighborhoods, including Nikaia, Keratsini, Drapetsona and Korydallos.

Most people who visit Barcelona are sure to spend at least some time at one of the city’s beaches. Yet few are aware that when seeking respite from the bustling urban streets, heading up into the forested hills above the city can be just as pleasant. Vallvidrera, a village at the entrance to Collserola National Park that offers gorgeous views of the surrounding forests and the city below, is just the place for such an excursion. Starting in the early 19th century and up until the 1980s, Vallvidrera served as a vacation destination for wealthy Barcelonans who wanted to escape the summertime heat of the city. The abundance of mansions here, many built in the Modernist style, is a testament to this bygone era. Nowadays, although Vallvidrera is a year-round community that is technically part of Barcelona proper, it’s still a destination for local urbanites and their families wanting to get out of the city and relax, particularly on weekends.