In a recent New Yorker profile of Turkish entrepreneur Hamdi Ulukaya, founder of Chobani, a wildly successful company that makes Greek-style yogurt in the U.S., we read with great interest about the trip writer Rebecca Mead made to Argos, in the Peloponnese, where renowned cookbook author Diane Kochilas had told Mead she’d had “the best yogurt she had ever tasted.”

Dear Culinary Backstreets, My husband and I are headed to Rio for vacation and neither of us eats meat or fish. Brazil sounds like a paradise for the carnivorous, but what’s a vegetarian to do?

When we last visited Cemal Bey, he was sitting behind a desk in a small, bare office on the second floor of a decrepit building near the Egyptian Bazaar in the city’s old quarter (he has since moved). Three large burlap sacks filled with what look like jumbo-sized yellow raisins are all that adorn the room. That and a fax machine. The window behind him frames one of Istanbul’s many transfixing cityscapes – the Golden Horn stretching out under the Galata Bridge where it meets the Bosphorus and the Marmara Sea, departing ferries churning the water white – but Cemal keeps his eye on a fax that’s coming in.

North Korean cuisine is about as mysterious as it gets. Few travelers have ever actually been to the reclusive country, and news reports are more often about high-profile rescues and the dire food security situation than its national cuisine. Thanks to 10 North Korean restaurants in Beijing and 50 others scattered around Southeast Asia, those living in the Far East have plenty of opportunity to glimpse the country’s dining scene. Shanghai is home to seven branches of the Pyongyang restaurant chain, and food is only part of the draw. With a nightly show around 7:30 p.m., the song and dance numbers put on by the double-duty waitresses supposedly allow for a rare glimpse inside the traditional culture.

Rio’s Port Zone is undergoing a major facelift, and whether that will nicely polish its tired face or look like a botched Botox job remains to be seen. The port is the heart of Rio Antigo and particularly central to Afro-Brazilian history.It’s home to Rio’s first favela (squatter settlement), called Providência, which was originally populated in 1897 by veterans of the War of Canudos who were told the government would provide housing when they returned to Rio and found those promises to be delayed and elusive. At this port, up to an estimated half million slaves walked in from Brazil’s shores to then be sold in the port’s slave market, treated in a hospital if they were sick or buried if they died after arrival in Gamboa, where a fascinating makeshift museum called the Cemitério dos Pretos Novos offers a view of the human bones a homeowner found while digging on her property.

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.

As a chill sets in and heavy clouds roll over Istanbul, turning the Bosphorus battleship gray, we say goodbye to the luscious strawberries and blood-red tomatoes in the market. Fall marks the start of hamsi season, a time when small anchovies fill the nets of fishing boats on the Black Sea coast, squirming their way – with all of the country’s anticipation – onto grills and into pans and ovens throughout Turkey. The colder and rainier it gets, the fatter and cheaper the hamsi become.

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).

Editor's note: We're sorry to report that ENOA has closed. Situated by the sea in the marina of Agios Kosmas, ENOA is part of a truly strange neighborhood. There are a couple of nightclubs, some cottages and the enormous, badly lit rowing and sailing buildings that have been left to molder after the 2004 Olympics – but mostly the feeling is of an abandoned wasteland by the sea. The entrance to ENOA, an area club, is equally unimpressive: a number of trophies cramped behind a glass display followed by a cavernous dining room that, with its harsh, unflattering neon lights, resembles a hotel from 1960s rural Greece.

Mushroom hunting has an irresistible, magical pull. Composer John Cage, an avid mushroom collector, found them an integral part of his creative process, once writing: “Much can be learned about music by devoting oneself to the mushroom.” Every fall, thousands of Catalans likewise find themselves under the mushroom’s spell, following the elusive fungus’s silent melody into the woods, a rustic wicker basket in one hand and – more and more these days – a GPS-enabled smartphone in the other.

Situated on a geographically blessed spot where the waters of the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara meet, Istanbul has long been associated with fishing and, especially, the eating of fish. In culinary terms, after all, is there anything more iconic in Istanbul than eating a freshly grilled fish sandwich sold from one of the bobbing boats down by the Golden Horn?

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’s a long drive from Athens to Perama, the westernmost terminal of the port town of Piraeus, and the payoff is, at first sight, minimal. To the left is the port’s industrial zone – a forest of blue and orange cranes that tower over the sea. To the right is a stretch of industrial wasteland: old electricity plants, derelict factories, walls with enormous graffiti celebrating Piraeus’s very successful team, Olympiacos, and then a jumble of recently built high-rise buildings on a rocky hill. First populated in the 1920s by immigrants from Asia Minor, Istanbul and the Pontus (Black Sea) region, this suburb of Piraeus now has about 25,000 residents, most of whose livelihoods depend on the dockyards that have been here since the 1930s. Perama remains a proud, working-class neighborhood, and it is no accident that the early Greek hip-hop of the ’90s and the so-called Low Bap hip-hop genre and movement started here.