Like many of our favorite Lisbon restaurants, Modesta da Pampulha has very humble beginnings. Originally opened in 1920, the eatery started off as a shop selling charcoal and bulk wine with a simple tavern on the side, evolving over the years to become a temple of homestyle Portuguese comfort food. During the week, office workers from the Pampulha area – between the busy Lapa and Alcântara neighborhoods – along with staff from the nearby Ministry of Education and taxi drivers from a stand just in front of Modesta da Pampulha, gather for lunch in the small restaurant to eat the freshly-made daily specials or charcoal-grilled fish and meat.

When the late 19th-century Portuguese artist and cartoonist Rafael Bordalo Pinheiro wanted to create a vehicle through which to mock and criticize the country’s powerful elite, he settled upon the character Zé Povinho, an unsophisticated country laborer who served as a stand-in for the average citizen. While some Portuguese people took umbrage with their country’s everyman being depicted as a simple peasant, time has softened this criticism, and Zé Povinho has become something of a national icon. “Little by little, we started to see him with a certain tenderness, as a symbol of the Portuguese identity, a reminder of where we came from,” says Andrea Salomé, a restaurant owner in Porto.

Outside of Kristal Ocakbaşı, a small grill joint tucked away on a side street in the Pangaltı neighborhood, Obama sat greeting the regulars who streamed in to watch a soccer game while feasting on kebab. “What’s the news, Obama?” asked one man with shoulder-length white hair. “Selam aleykum, Obama,” said another. One woman patted him on the head and baby talked to him, calling him by the affectionate nickname “Obiş.” Though we’d never heard such fond regard for the American president, Obama – the tanker-sized street dog of Eşref Efendi Sokak – took it in stride, yawning lazily. It was just another Monday night among his adoring constituents.

We arrived at Taberna Santo António after lunch, looking for a bit of warmth in the middle of winter. It wasn’t a shot in the dark – we already knew that we would be enveloped by a comforting hospitality at this classic Porto spot. The sun was shining, so we sat on the terrace with Pedro Brás, whose parents own Taberna Santo António. “We’ve been here for 30 years in March,” he said. And while nowadays the surrounding landscape is inviting – just around the corner is the Parque das Virtudes, where crowds congregate in the late afternoon to listen to music, chat and drink beer as the sun sets over the Douro River – that was not always the case.

Dust, sweat, rain, and severe sun – these were only a few of the many discomforts that travelers of yore suffered as they made the long journey in horse-drawn carriages from their home provinces to Barcelona. In those days – around a century or two ago – the city was protected by fortified walls; it was outside of those walls, in an area known as Hostafrancs, part of the Santa Maria de Sants village (today the neighborhood of Sants), that many travelers and merchants found a convenient refuge – a place to recover from the journey. Taverna La Parra was one of the several inns that dotted the area.

We boarded a train in Turkey’s kebab capital of Adana and headed an hour west to the calm, palm tree-lined coastal city of Mersin with one thing on our minds: tantuni. While available at a number of recommendable establishments in Istanbul and other Turkish cities, tantuni in Mersin exists on a different plane of existence, with its prized status as the city’s flagship food. Tantuni is frequently billed as the Turkish equivalent of a taco, and while this comparison is not altogether unwarranted, we think it is primarily invoked by those with a particularly fierce longing for Mexican food. We believe tantuni should be evaluated on its own merits, which stand proud and tall.

In France, the poissoneries (fish markets) are often decorated in a palette of blue to evoke the sea while boucheries and charcuteries are blood red. Rouge, the color of meat, pops up on tile walls, around deli counters and on awnings above shop windows so that customers can spot their meat purveyors from afar. That was the case at Maison Payany, an artisan charcutier in Marseille’s 6th arrondissement, until its new owner gave it a fresh coat of pink. Marie Caffarel took over Maison Payany in the spring of 2019. Despite the unorthodox paint job, in many ways she has upheld the traditions of this neighborhood institution, which prior to her arrival had been run by three generations of Payany men since 1932.

At Culinary Backstreets, we tend to opt for tradition over trendy, street over chic. We delve into a city’s blind spots when it comes to local favorites. Taking that approach makes it too easy to dismiss new spots out of hand. So, if it weren’t for our friend Liz hounding us for months about a newish “falafel place” near her house, we almost certainly would not have thought about visiting it. But that’s the great thing about friends – they take us out of our routine and generally bring us to unexpected places, as was the case with Kebab Nation.

Born right before the Covid-19 storm, Taberna Noroeste opened its doors in February 2020, mere weeks before the pandemic hit Spain and strict confinement forced them to close. It was a turn of events that spelled disaster for many established restaurants and food businesses, let alone one that was brand new. Yet this project from the chefs Javier San Vicente and David López has grown healthy and strong, despite the hardship, and emerged with a unique culinary identity, now known across the city for elevating the popular cuisines of Galicia and Castilla y León (Castile and León, in western Spain) while incorporating Catalan touches.

Everything at NAM 43, from the exposed wood beams that extend across the space to the Neapolitan tuff, an ancient stone, embedded in the walls, reflects a philosophy of recycling. (Except the food, of course, which is fresh every day.) In fact, it was one of the basic principles that inspired 50-year-old Raffaele Montesano to take over the space, an old antique shop, in early 2016 and turn it into a bistro, one that would enhance classic Neapolitan offerings with gourmet touches. “I love minimalist furniture,” Raffaele tells us. “The tables came from a school canteen in Emilia-Romagna [a region in northern Italy] and were won at an auction.”

Greek stifado is a special dish: It requires time to prepare but the result is succulent, rewarding and stomach-warming, like stews ought to be. Tender, juicy chunks of meat are patiently cooked at low heat amid a sea of small pearl onions in a rich red wine sauce flavored with warming spices and herbs, like allspice, cinnamon, cloves, bay leaves and rosemary, that I tend to associate more with the winter season. By the end, the onions go glossy and caramelized in this delicious sauce and the pieces of meat are fork tender. The word stifado derives from the ancient Greek word tyfos (τύφος), which means steam. This is the root for the Latin word estufare, from which the Italian stufato (or Venetian stufado), the Italian word for stew, was born.

With December about to lift its wintry head and amble into Istanbul on the heels of a rainy November, there’s no cure for chilly weather and pandemic brain quite like the classic, cozy offerings at any beloved esnaf lokantası (tradesman’s restaurant). From sautéed beef over roasted eggplant purée to white beans in tomato sauce to moussaka and stuffed peppers, there’s a reason the most established of these establishments have a steady stream of loyal customers: reliably good food at a reliably good price. The esnaf lokantası is the bread and butter of Turkish dining, and any worthy Istanbullu will know their neighborhood’s favorite haunt. The problem with Beşiktaş, a formerly working-class district that has become a hub for Istanbul’s student life, is that scores of longstanding eateries have been shuttered.

Although reputed for its meat, La Femme du Boucher is nothing like your classic steakhouse. Plants dangle from the ceiling and sprout on shelves, making the covered patio feel like an outdoor garden, and a heap of roasted vegetables gets equal footing with our huge hunk of boudin, or blood sausage. We have chef Laëtitia Visse, the woman behind “The Butcher’s Wife,” to thank for this departure from the clubby, gentleman vibe. The young chef’s first restaurant reflects her simple desire: to serve up great food and good times. The generous plates and convivial space help see to that.

On a quiet street in the Campo de Ourique neighborhood, a green awning hangs out front of Pigmeu, giving the restaurant a bit of a French look. But inside, the nose-to-tail menu couldn’t be more Portuguese: As one might guess from the restaurant’s name (it’s a play on the words pig and meu, “mine” in Portuguese), the dishes feature pork and offal as well as seasonal vegetables. Miguel Azevedo Peres is the mastermind and talent behind Pigmeu, which he opened in December 2014. Since his first kitchen job in 2007, Miguel has cooked at various restaurants in Lisbon, including Estrela da Bica, and for a time had the concession for the café at Museu do Chiado. But it was a desire to focus on sustainable meat consumption that led him to go in an entirely different direction with Pigmeu.

When it comes to food, Onofrio Ioakimidis takes his inspiration from both the north and the south. His love for cooking blossomed in Thessaloniki – he was born and raised in the northern Greek city, which is second only to Athens in terms of size and legendary for its cuisine. But his grande amore with the culinary arts really began with his grandmother Constanza. Originally from the southern Italian city of Naples, Constanza fled Italy during the difficult years of Mussolini and moved to Greece. Fate brought her to Thessaloniki and into the arms of Grigoris, who soon became her husband. Onofrio recalls a childhood spent in nonna’s kitchen, at first playing with flour and dough, and then eventually learning how to make pasta.