There has always been a bit of a rivalry between the two main cities of Portugal, Lisbon and Porto, which is well illustrated by an old running joke among some tripeiros (the name given to the people of Porto): whenever someone asks what is the best thing about Lisbon they will reply, “The highway sign that says ‘Porto.’” But it’s a healthy rivalry for the most part – football aside. Lisboetas, Lisbon locals, in general even tend to recognize that the food might actually be better in Porto and its surroundings, especially traditional dishes. While Porto does not benefit from the same multicultural influences that helped shape Lisbon’s restaurant scene, it is home to some very talented cooks with a knack for doing so much with so little.

As the car crested a craggy hill, the first rays of golden sun peaked over the horizon, painting distant clouds the color of red wine. Tufts of gnarled olive trees and rows of grapes whizzed by the window as we approached the farm, outrunning the quickly approaching sun. We left Thessaloniki at 5:30 a.m. to beat the Greek summer’s heat, something of concern for both workers – and oregano plants, our destination’s star crop. Michalis and Anastasia, owners of Aetheleon, were prepared for the day’s harvest. With every rising degree, minuscule droplets of moisture and essential oils seep from the oregano in an attempt to cool them down. The plants’ sweat-like response can be easily smelled, the aromatic wafts upon the breeze a prelude to the frenzied buzzing of hordes of happy bees following the fragrant trail.

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.

Shanghai doesn’t fit the traditional (if often false) narrative that urban spaces consist of “good” neighborhoods and “bad” neighborhoods. Crime is not a major concern for most residents in the city, and truly derelict areas are few and far between. However, the varying levels of development and infrastructure create different zones that deeply impact residents’ lifestyles in ways that are more extreme than in other more developed countries. On a recent weekend road trip to Moganshan, a mountainous oasis of bamboo forests just a few hours from Shanghai, the starkness of the city’s “development zones” came to light as we made our way home to the tree-lined streets of the former French Concession

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.

Going to dinner at a Georgian restaurant typically means having to fast all day. The table will bulge with must-orders: tomato and cucumber salad, badrijani (eggplant stuffed with garlic and walnuts), an assortment of cheeses and wild greens, and probably pkhali (vegetable pate with walnuts) too. There will be meat, lots of meat – lamb, pork, veal and chicken that will be stewed, baked and roasted – and bread to clean the plate with. Perhaps there will be a grilled trout. And don’t forget the khachapuri, because that is just the way it is. After several hours at the table, we will make our final toasts, take one last look at the leftovers, maybe snatch a farewell nibble at a loose chive or slice of cucumber and then waddle out of the joint, with greasy grins and logy eyelids. We grunt while we plop into the taxi and groan as we struggle to climb out when we get home.

It was the first of April and an absolutely pristine Istanbul spring day, the kind where one can break a slight sweat walking up a hill then catch a cool breeze in a nearby patch of shade. Returning to the city from a lovely weekend on Büyükada, we were smitten with spring and wanted to indulge in its finest offerings. In a fit of hunger-fueled inspiration, we quickly realized what we were craving: yenidünya kebabı. This spring-only affair is a specialty from southeast Turkey’s Gaziantep where chunks of minced beef and/or lamb are skewered in between sections of newly arisen yenidünya, or loquat, diminutive orange fruits that are as tantalizingly tart as they are sweet.

Out here in Garikula, our slice of heaven an hour west of Tbilisi, spring is peaking. It started with the plum blossoms and now the apple, pear and cherry blossoms are popping, painting the countryside in patches of white and pink. Walking along a village path with our neighbor Shota, he suddenly stops, bends down and reaches into a wad of weeds and pulls. “Ah-ha,” he says showing us a little bundle of wild asparagus, skinny, green and an appetizing revelation when cooked just right. Back in Tbilisi, this asparagus appeared in the central bazaar a couple weeks ago, along with other welcomed indications that springtime has finally arrived.

If you were to ask me what my ideal lunch is, I would answer without hesitation: paccheri alla Genovese with a large piece of stewed veal shank for the first course, followed by a big ball of buffalo mozzarella (preferably from Tenuta Vannulo, an organic buffalo dairy in Capaccio) with eggplant parmigiana on the side. The backbone of this perfect meal is the Genovese, a simple yet miraculous sauce made of meat (veal, beef or pork) and a heap of onions (red or white). Even those who say they don’t like the taste of onions are forced to recant once they taste the Genovese (after hours spent simmering with the meat, the tenderized and translucent onion slivers have no trace of the astringent smell or bite of raw onions).

Up in Barcelona’s hills, in the El Coll neighborhood, where the city ends and the sky is cut by the spiky shapes of the pine trees in Collserola Park, Agreste de Fabio & Roser is sprouting up. Emphasizing sustainability and healthy eating, the restaurant is creating delicious dishes that merge Catalan and Italian traditions with contemporary flourishes. Room manager Roser Asensi and her partner, chef Fabio Gambirasi, created this project (the name means “bad weed” in Spanish) less than a year ago and people are already singing their praises. On a recent visit, we could hear words of admiration from different guests flying around the room over the course of our meal.

One day, or so the story goes, a group of tourists asked an elderly priest in Naples which churches were really worth visiting. The priest replied, “There are many churches, but have you tried the spaghetti with clams?” Even a man of God recognizes the sacred bond established between two people sharing a plate of spaghetti with clams in a Neapolitan trattoria. So we consider it our moral duty to advise you how to order your spaghetti with clams and where to eat it.

Since its name derives from the Turkish word peynir (cheese), it’s no surprise that Athens’ best peinirli (πεϊνιρλί, “with cheese”), a boat-shaped flatbread similar to pide in Turkey and khachapuri in Georgia, is usually found at old, specialized shops or eateries owned by families who originally came from Asia Minor or Pontus, the Greek name for the southern coast of the Black Sea, in the early 20th century. So when Spyros, the owner of Peinirli Ionias in Ambelokipoi, one of the most popular peinirli takeaways in downtown Athens, casually mentions that he originally hails from the Ionian island of Corfu – nowhere near Asia Minor, another name for Turkey’s Anatolia region – we are left scratching our heads. Sensing our confusion, he quickly adds that he learned the art of peinirli-making directly from the source, so to speak: his father- and mother-in-law, who both emigrated to Athens as part of the 1923 population exchange between Greece and Turkey.

The day two airliners flew into the World Trade Center, we were in Lagodekhi, an east Georgian village on the border with Azerbaijan. We had been in a total daze trying to comprehend the scope of the tragedy from a village halfway around the world where our hosts were offering solace through the bottle. Zaur, a neighbor, showed up the morning of the twelfth with a Borjomi mineral water bottle of his chacha and made breakfast toasts to the victims of New York, to peace, to bloody revenge and so on. Needless to say, we were well under the influence by lunch time and ended up arm-in-arm at a local stolovaya (canteen) with a platter of frankfurters and bread before Zaur put us in a minibus home.

We are on the eighth floor terrace of a relatively new apartment building in the Vedzisi neighborhood, nodding our heads with joker grins like gawkers at a freak show. The view is as spectacular as they come in mountainy Tbilisi, but that’s not what we’re chuckling at. There are 43 ceramic urns – kvevri – buried almost a meter and a half into a bed of sand and perlite in what was supposed to be a swimming pool for a nine-year-old boy. But in an epiphanic moment, the child’s father, 43-year-old doctor, Zura Natroshvili, decided to build a marani in the sky instead. The father of modern advertising, David Ogilvy, once said, “The best ideas come as jokes.” Dr. Natroshvili would probably agree. His friends thought he needed psychiatric help when he first shared his idea.

There’s a saying in Naples: “Anything fried is good, even the soles of shoes.” You may laugh, but we wholeheartedly agree ¬¬– frying may have a bad rap in some parts of the world, but it can add a richness and flavor to any type of food (and, perhaps, even footwear). Think of a dull, bland zucchini or eggplant; when fried right, it becomes a pleasure. We normally get our fried fix by ordering a cuoppo, a paper cone filled with crispy morsels. This symbol of Neapolitan fried street food is our typical mid-morning snack – while going about our morning errands, we munch on the small bites of fried deliciousness that are swaddled in the plain brown paper.